Stranger

by Zoë Archer

  Taking a breath, he strode up the slope, all the time watching Arthur, yet conscious of Gemma behind him. The king did not seem to notice him, his eyes focused on a distant point somewhere to the east. Catullus’s heart kicked against his ribs. Not from the exertion of climbing a steep hill, but because he was walking toward King Arthur.

  Catullus had experienced some exceptional moments in his life as a Blade. Cutting free a feathered serpent from an enchanted net deep in the Central American jungle. Battling brigands and a golem in a Buddhist monastery high atop a mountain in the Gobi Desert. Yet nothing quite equaled climbing an ancient tor in order to speak with the most renowned, exalted figure in all of British lore.

  The closer Catullus stepped to Arthur, the more he realized how unbelievably huge Arthur was. Twice Catullus’s own over-six-foot height, proportioned on a gigantic scale. Which made sense, considering Arthur’s enormity in the minds and imagination of England. Likewise, Arthur’s diverse armor proved that he was not the historical man—if such a man ever existed—but the mythological construct created by over a millennium of legends.

  What Catullus would give in order to study him in depth! Just as Gemma’s mind rioted with possibility at hearing Arthur’s stories, Catullus wanted to unlock the mysteries of the king’s mind, to examine the various otherworldly metals of his armor. So much potential.

  Suddenly, Arthur turned his forceful gaze on Catullus.

  Catullus’s steps froze, and all scholarly thoughts fled. Twenty feet separated him from Arthur.

  The king’s eyes blazed as he took Catullus’s measure. From the toes of Catullus’s admittedly less-than-pristine boots to the top of his head. Warlords crumbled beneath such scrutiny. Catullus made himself stand tall beneath this thorough perusal. He needed to show respect, but also his own strength. When Arthur’s gaze snared on the shotgun, Catullus slowly, deliberately slung the weapon across his back, then held up his empty hands.

  How did one address a legendary king?

  Possibly, one should kneel. But, having had ancestors suffer the yoke of slavery, Catullus could not allow himself to kneel before anyone, even King Arthur.

  Respectful speech, however, that he could do.

  “Greetings, Your Majesty,” Catullus said with a cautious bow. “You are welcomed back to a grateful nation.”

  Arthur stared at him for a long time, still frowning. He said nothing. His arm lifted. Trails of mist gathered, collecting in his open hand. They flowed and twined, beginning to take solid form. A strong scent of lake water. Light shone off a surface, even more brilliantly than the armor’s reflection. A long, metallic shape—blade, hilt, pommel, guard. The blade itself was the length of a full-grown man.

  A sword materializing. The sword. Excalibur. With which Arthur had forged a nation, slaying enemies and any who tried to undermine the glory of England.

  Which meant—

  Catullus whirled and sped down the hill. “Run!”

  Gemma—looking very tiny and fragile compared to Arthur—stared for half a second, then turned to gather her skirts and flee. Astrid did the same. Everyone, including Lesperance in wolf form, bolted.

  As he ran, taking the ground in long strides, a slash of heat grazed Catullus’s back. He chanced a look behind him to see that Excalibur had not fully materialized, and Arthur swung the half-formed sword.

  Catullus dove forward as the ground shook. Clods of dirt rained down on him. He struggled to his feet, then felt two small hands pulling him up. Gemma. She’d turned back to help him.

  The angry words at her foolishness died as they both stared at the trench in the earth hewn by the partially manifested Excalibur.

  Arthur, ferocious and scowling, raised the materializing sword again as he bore down on Gemma and Catullus.

  Seizing hold of Gemma’s wrist, Catullus ran as fast as he was able. Beside him, Gemma did not stumble, keeping up while they partly ran, partly slid down the rest of Glastonbury Tor. A mad plunge over the terraced slope.

  Astrid and Lesperance dashed ahead. Her curses about wearing skirts drifted back as Catullus and Gemma followed, racing over fields. The ground continued to shudder from Arthur’s pursuit. He shook the earth with his tread.

  Even as he ran, Catullus angrily felt the futility of their retreat. Between Arthur’s enormous stride and the might of Excalibur, the king would destroy them utterly in moments. One couldn’t hide from Arthur, not this Arthur, formed of legend and fable.

  There had to be some way to safeguard Gemma. A dense stand of trees marked the edge of a field, and Catullus turned toward its shelter. “Get to the trees!” he bellowed at Astrid and Lesperance. The two veered off toward the woods.

  He might be able to secure Gemma in the thick underbrush, then provide enough of a distraction to Arthur to lead him off. It wouldn’t take long before Excalibur split Catullus into halves like a muffin, but it should give Gemma enough time to get herself to better shelter.

  “Don’t … think it.” Gemma’s words came out a gasp as she ran, but beneath her spine of steel didn’t waiver.

  Catullus scowled. “Don’t … bloody … argue.”

  “So … you … can sacrifice … yourself?”

  Almost at the edge of the trees. “Just—”

  “Wait! He’s stopping!”

  They skidded to a halt just at the limit of the woods. Arthur had, indeed, stopped his pursuit. Instead, he swung around and tilted his head, as if trying to hear something.

  He threw a glance over his shoulder, toward where Catullus and Gemma stood, then, after a brief hesitation, turned away. With ground-eating steps, he strode away to the east.

  Holy God, that had been close. Terrifying, and incredible.

  Catullus and Gemma watched Arthur go, both fighting to regain their breath. Foliage behind them rustled, and Astrid and Lesperance emerged from the woods.

  Gemma gasped quietly. Lesperance had shifted into his bear form—his most physically powerful—and made a huge dark shape beside Astrid. Gemma hadn’t seen this form yet. Although she knew that Lesperance could transform into a grizzly bear, knowing and seeing were very different experiences.

  Yet she quickly collected herself. “I’m not complaining, but why did he stop?” She glanced in the direction which Arthur marched.

  “Seemed as though he was being summoned,” Catullus mused.

  “The Heirs,” said Gemma.

  “Very likely.” Astrid looked grim. “Bloody hell … did you see him?”

  “A myopic earthworm could see him,” answered Catullus.

  Lesperance grunted, causing Gemma to jump a little. Even Catullus found Lesperance in this permutation to be intimidating.

  “He swung at you without cause.” Gemma looked incensed at the idea. “Didn’t even speak. Just—” She mimed Arthur waving his sword.

  Catullus mulled over this. “That, too, must be the influence of the Heirs. If they perceive Blades as a threat to the prosperity of England, Arthur would feel the same way.”

  “And attack you,” Gemma concluded, grim.

  This was bad news for all Blades. None of them were safe with an armed, angry giant stomping across England.

  Catullus turned to Lesperance. “I need you to get to Southampton, tell the Blades what’s happening.”

  Another grunt; then Lesperance shifted quickly into a hawk and perched on Astrid’s offered arm. Gemma stared in open fascination at the metamorphosis.

  “One hell of a night,” she murmured.

  Catullus gave Lesperance directions to Southampton, since the Canadian had never been there before. As Catullus did so, he pulled a notepad from one of his many pockets and began scribbling a message. “The Blades might not trust you, but say to them, ‘North is eternal, South is forever, West is endless, East is infinite.’” He tore the note from the pad. “And this should explain everything, just in case. Find a man called Bennett Day and give him the note.” Catullus moved to secure the message to Lesperance’s leg, but Astrid stopped him, taki
ng the paper in her hand.

  “Give us a moment.”

  Astrid’s eyes shone, revealing the raw pain of separation. No one knew when or how she and Lesperance would see each other again. The last time they had been apart for more than a few hours, she had been abducted by the Heirs and barely escaped torture and death.

  With a nod, Catullus turned away. He and Gemma walked several yards, and they both scrupulously tried not to eavesdrop when Lesperance, in human form, spoke to Astrid in a low, urgent voice that resonated with need. Nor did Catullus and Gemma listen to Astrid’s impassioned response. Then there was silence, which Catullus concluded had to be Astrid and Lesperance kissing.

  He refused to look and corroborate that theory. Instead, feeling the agony his old friend must be experiencing, he reached down and took hold of Gemma’s hand as if to confirm that she stood next to him, and would not be leaving his side for some time. The feel of her skin against his sped his heart, heated his blood. Unable to stop himself, he raised her hand to his lips. She made a soft hum of pleasure.

  The skin of her hand felt so soft, supple as a zephyr. He wondered what her skin would taste like.

  Now was not the time to be entertaining such thoughts.

  Reluctantly, he lowered her hand from his mouth, but kept her fingers interlaced with his, feeling her strength, her living self, whole and safe. The thought of her being hurt shook him even more than the fact that he’d been chased and nearly cleaved in two by King Arthur.

  “That was an unwise thing to do,” he said, careful to keep his voice level, rather than growl, which was what he felt like doing. “Coming back for me.”

  She looked both exasperated and affectionate. “But sacrificing yourself on my behalf was the height of brilliance.” When he started to object, she gripped his hand tighter. “Who’s to say what’s wise and what’s foolish, where the heart’s concerned?” She tilted her head toward where Astrid and Lesperance were taking their farewells.

  Catullus nodded, understanding, amazed that this forthright American woman possessed so great an insight. He reckoned himself to be at least ten years older than her—but she could lead him down paths he’d never ventured before.

  Together, they looked out at the dark, peaceful fields. The moon shone down placidly, and faint sounds of life began to stir farther beyond, in Glastonbury. Whatever magic thrall had been cast during Arthur’s summoning, it was nearly gone now, a veil drawn back.

  “I still cannot believe it.” Catullus heard the amazement in his own voice. “That was truly King Arthur. I never thought to look upon him with my own eyes.”

  “Incredible,” Gemma agreed. Wonder lit her face. “A legend, made real.”

  “Glad it was you,” he said before he could stop himself.

  She looked at him, questioning.

  “I’m glad that … of anyone … it was you … sharing it with … with me.” An awkward necklace of words strung together, and he hated how fragmentary and ungainly he became whenever he tried to express something meaningful to her.

  Yet, she seemed to understand. Even in the moonlight, she blushed rosily. Then lost her blush as she darkened. “But, God, that sword. Swinging at you. That was the worst sight I’ve ever seen.” She scowled. “It made me so damned angry. I had to do something, had to help you.”

  Simple words from her, but they shook him deeply. Blades made friends with one another, and always watched each other’s backs in the field. All too often, the dark news would reach headquarters that a Blade didn’t survive their mission, and a heavy pall fell. But there was a certain fatalism to it. Each and every Blade knew that when they or their comrades set off on another mission, the odds were strong that they might not return. Astrid’s grief over Michael’s death hit her harder—he was her husband. Five years she’d hidden herself away. Only the force of Lesperance had been able to pry her from her self-imposed exile. Yet her devastating pain remained the exception to how Blades faced loss.

  Gemma’s unrestrained concern for him filled Catullus with a kind of agonizing warmth, like long-frozen limbs thawing before a fire. No one had ever felt that way about him before. He was awed, humbled, and, if he wanted to be honest with himself, pleased beyond measure. He didn’t want to cause her any pain, but, by God, it felt good to have someone—especially Gemma—care about him.

  He wanted to write sonnets. Instead, words struggled to form, and the best he could offer was a rasped, “Thank you.” He grimaced at his own verbal ineptitude.

  But Gemma stepped in front of him, placed one warm, slim hand on his face, and smiled, as if she understood exactly what he had wanted to say but could not verbalize. “You’re most welcome.”

  They both turned at the sound of flapping wings. They saw Lesperance, back in his hawk form, take to the air. The note was secured to his leg. Astrid followed with her eyes, turning her body like a compass needle finding true north, as he wheeled overhead, then headed southeast. She watched him, her face a stone mask, for a long time. Until the night sky swallowed him.

  Only when Astrid faced Catullus did he see the silver tracks of tears staining her face. Otherwise, stoicism hardened her to marble.

  His heart ached for her. She’d held Michael as he had died, which had been terrible. But now she was forced to part from Lesperance—and the love she had for him was fierce, deeply rooted in the fibers of her soul. If anything happened to either of them, they would be far apart. The apprehension could devastate. And if the worst news ever came … Astrid might survive if Lesperance was hurt or, God forbid, killed, but she would be ruined beyond repair, only a shell.

  And if anything happened to Astrid, Catullus had not a shred of doubt that Lesperance would hunt down and slaughter anyone remotely connected to her death. Including Catullus.

  “You’ll see him again.” Gemma did not patronize, but spoke simply, and with conviction. For that alone, Catullus felt her penetrate further the protective mechanisms surrounding his heart.

  Astrid dragged her sleeve across her face, wiping away the signs of her heartbreak. She straightened her shoulders.

  “Let’s go,” she growled. “We’ve a king to catch.”

  Life had indeed returned to normal in Glastonbury. The dinner hour concluded. People walked the streets, men congregated in taprooms, and a stable was open to provide three horses for Catullus, Gemma, and Astrid.

  “Though I don’t know where you plan on going,” the stablemaster noted, cinching a saddle. “The moon’s out, but the hour is growing late.”

  “Going to see an old friend,” Catullus answered. Which was something like the truth.

  The stablemaster shrugged at the peculiar ways of strangers, but continued to get their horses ready, casting a wary glance at the short-muzzled shotgun slung over Catullus’s shoulder. Yes, in civilized England, men didn’t walk the streets armed. But civilized England no longer existed, whether its citizens knew it or not.

  Catullus paced over to a sheltered spot in the stable yard, where Gemma and Astrid waited quietly.

  “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

  Astrid only nodded, nearly ossified from her separation from Lesperance.

  As usual, Gemma overflowed with questions, a ready contrast to Astrid’s taciturnity. “What are we planning on doing? Talking with Arthur nearly cost you your head. If we can’t speak with him, how do we know what he or the Heirs mean to accomplish? Can Arthur be stopped from … whatever it is he plans on doing?”

  Catullus held up his hands, but couldn’t fight his smile. He adored her relentless pursuit of knowledge. “Slowly, Madame Query.”

  She pressed her lips together in an attempt to curb her barrage of questions. He struggled against the impulse to cover her mouth with his own, stopping her questions with a much more pleasant activity.

  “We need to stay as near to Arthur as we can manage without him becoming aware of us.” Catullus ran through scenarios and solutions in his mind, seeking answers. “He sees us as his enemies—doubtless he is infl
uenced by the will of the Heirs. Whether the Heirs know that Arthur has been summoned, we do not know. Nor do we know where Arthur is headed. The best we can do is keep close to him, track his movements.” A large trench already marred the base of Glastonbury Tor from a partially manifested Excalibur. The amount of destruction the completely embodied sword could accomplish chilled Catullus’s blood.

  “And then?” Gemma pressed.

  “And then …” He stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for, and polishing, his spectacles. “We see what happens next.”

  Gemma frowned. “You Blades of the Rose are supposed to be prepared, to have plans.”

  Even Astrid chuckled at this, though it sounded more like a rusty hinge than a laugh.

  “Plans,” she snorted.

  “My dearest lady,” Catullus said, “Blades are reckless fools who traverse the globe seeking more and more exotic ways of killing ourselves. Surely you understood that by now?” When Gemma only scowled at him, he amended, “In truth, we can plan and strategize all we like, but experience in the field has taught us elasticity. Whatever we prepare for almost never comes to pass, and something entirely unexpected often arises.”

  “Couldn’t you—”

  A crash and shout cut off Gemma’s suggestion.

  They swung around to see the stablemaster yelling, waving his arms and pulling at his hair. At first glance, Catullus thought the man suffered some kind of fit. Looking closer Catullus saw tiny creatures resembling human children clinging to the stablemaster’s clothes and gripping the man’s hair and beard. The creatures had burnished bronze skin, and though some wore minuscule caps fashioned of leaves, almost all were naked. Their ears came to little points, their features sharp.

  Pixies. Dozens of them.

  They shrieked with glee, golden eyes glittering, as they pinched and tormented the stablemaster.

  Horses’ frightened whinnying drew Catullus’s attention. More pixies, clambering through the horses’ manes, swinging from their tails. The stable itself crawled with pixies as they cavorted amongst the tack and threw handfuls of dung at one another.