The Spirit of Nimue (The Return to Camelot #3)

by Donna Hosie

  “Can you see it?” I whispered.

  “No,” replied Talan, but his voice was low and wary. “We should not have come this far in.”

  “What is that noise, Sir Talan?” asked Gawain.

  “It is the warning sound of retreat, Sir Gawain,” replied Talan darkly. “Quiet now, for it may hear us. We must go back.”

  There was a strange sound: an intermittent splashing. The heavy pressure in my head was still there, but it would painfully pulse and then there would be nothing. Then came a loud groan. It was up ahead, but its direction was nearer the sky, not at our level. A rain of leaves showered us, as something long and thick flew through the night sky.

  “Arm yourselves,” said Talan slowly. “Aim for the flesh behind the knees or the base of the throat.”

  There was a crash to our left. Another groan, and then a sound that was like twenty pairs of wet lips being smacked together.

  “But Sir Talan, how can this be?” cried Gawain. “The giants of Albion do not dwell within the borders of Camelot.”

  There was another groan, deeper-pitched than before. Then there was a flurry of pounding beats, like a gorilla thumping its chest.

  “We need to get away – now. Bedivere is back...”

  A huge muddy hand, the size of a garage door, suddenly swiped through the air. Both Talan and Guinevere ducked, but Gawain was caught by a trailing pinkie finger that was the size of my leg.

  “Watch out,” I screamed, as I threw myself backwards. I landed awkwardly, knocking all of the breath from my lungs.

  Talan and Guinevere scrambled to their feet; both had drawn swords. I pulled out Angharad, and saw the flash of initials that were stamped into the silver, as a cloud briefly exposed the moon above us. The giant groaned again, and I was drenched in slime as the monster drooled above us. It picked up Gawain and held him fast in a clenched fist.

  “The neck, Sir Gawain,” shouted Talan. “Go for the neck.”

  But Gawain’s sword was lying on the forest floor. He had dropped it.

  “Flee, Lady Natasha. Flee, Lady Guinevere,” yelled Talan. “I will bring down the beast.”

  “And take the glory for yourself?” cried Guinevere. “No, sir. I will fight.”

  The giant continued to stomp around us. It was easily the height of a three-storey house.

  Tristram, Gareth, David and Lucan crashed through the trees.

  “The neck, Sir Gawain,” shouted Lucan.

  “He can’t get the neck, he hasn’t got a sword,” I cried back, looking up. With the moon covered once more, the only light we had was a single torch that David was waving in the air. It was spitting sparks down onto the ground, and a couple of patches of thick bracken had already caught fire. This just made the giant groan even more. His bare feet, the size of Arthur’s car, stomped on the ground, trying to put out the flames.

  I couldn’t see the giant’s head or shoulders, but its swollen, filthy body was completely naked. Looking at the front was not an option, so I grabbed Guinevere by the hand and dragged her behind the drooling monster. In too many ways that sight was even worse.

  The knights were now attacking the giant’s feet, stabbing with their swords as they tried to dodge each cumbersome lurch forward. Gareth had thrown his sword up to his younger brother, presumably to pierce the throat, but Gawain was losing consciousness as the giant slowly squeezed the life out of his body.

  “They are working the beast into a frenzy,” screamed Guinevere. “Yet their swords are like feathers to its hide.”

  “We have to get the knees, Guinevere. Talan said that was the only way to bring it down.”

  “We have not the height, Lady Natasha.”

  “Not separately, but together we might.”

  Suddenly there was another figure at my side.

  “Bedivere,” I cried, “go back.”

  “Knights, get the giant of Albion closer to that oak tree,” he said, pointing with his sword, which was now in his right hand. “Divert its attention whilst I support Natasha on my shoulders. Sir Lucan, you do the same with Lady Guinevere. The oak is strong and will not fall easily under the giant’s thrashing. Aim true for the wrinkled skin behind the knees. Once down, we will finish it off.”

  The knights started picking up flaming bits of moss with the tips of their swords. Jabbing away, they backed the giant towards the oak tree that Bedivere had pointed to.

  Bedivere bent his knees with his back flush against the thick trunk. I stood on his thighs and dug my fingers into the crusty bark as I climbed onto his shoulders. Guinevere quickly copied my actions and clambered up Lucan.

  “On my word, my love,” shouted Bedivere. He was unsteady, but I was now high enough to grab hold of a low-lying branch for support.

  I raised Angharad above my head. Both of my hands were wrapped tightly around the hilt. The giant of Albion was groaning and swinging his arms with Gawain still trapped between its huge fingers. The knight’s head was flopping from side to side and his eyes were now closed.

  “NOW,” bellowed Bedivere, and like trapeze artists, Guinevere and I jumped into the air and plunged our swords into the soft fleshy mounds of skin behind the giant’s kneecaps. I let go and landed with a roll, but Guinevere was left hanging there by her sword.

  The giant roared, arching his back as his hands flew skywards. Gawain was released and the knight fell with a heavy thud. As the giant staggered back, I screamed at Bedivere to move before he was crushed. The moon appeared once more, and in the silvery light I caught sight of the screaming monster.

  It had thick black hair which was tangled and wild. Half of it was wrapped around a branch that had been lodged in the curly mass. The giant had short pointed teeth, and its eyes were too close together, just a fraction on either side of its flattened nose.

  It roared again, and this time lurched forward, trying to grab the swords from behind its knees. Guinevere let go and fell to the ground. Lucan threw himself on top of her as the giant stamped its feet in a desperate bid to dislodge the swords, which were buried up to their hilts in muddy skin.

  Momentum caught the giant and it groaned as it fell down, face first. Gareth had pulled his brother away, and as the clouds passed over the moon once more, I could see that Gawain was alive and panting in Gareth’s arms.

  Tristram, Talan and David plunged their swords into the giant’s neck. Spurts of black blood, streaked with silver, soaked into the ground where it smoked.

  I crawled over to Bedivere.

  “You’ve still got it, babe,” I said, wiping his hair away from his face. “That was amazing.”

  “I wonder what Lord Rupert would make of this fight,” panted Bedivere. “He is so eager for my seat at the Round Table, that I have no doubt he would relegate my part to that of an inanimate chair, only good for sitting on.”

  I wrapped my legs around his waist and leant my body to Bedivere’s right.

  “I think you make a very good chair.”

  I had a lot of kissing to catch up on.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Curse of the Blood Oath

  Fearing that there were more monsters lurking in the shadows, confused by the darkness that had covered Logres for so long, the knights decided that we should keep riding until we found a better place to stop and set up camp for the night. Plus, dead naked giants had skunk-like tendencies, and I was covered in enough giant gloop for a lifetime.

  Bedivere insisted on riding with me again, but he was exhausted, and his head kept dropping forward towards his chest as Gwenddydd showed me the way with a canopy of stars - seen only by me - once more. The stiffness in my arms spread to my shoulders and neck as I held Bedivere close.

  Gareth and Gawain clearly knew the area well because they suggested we stop at an outpost before it came into view. So much for my wanting to protect them by not revealing where we were heading. I think most of them had already guessed.

  Bedivere was pulled from the horse by Tristram and Lucan, and he was asleep within minut
es. I placed my cloak under his head and tucked his olive green one around his body. Taliesin insisted on lying down next to him, and the old man gave up his cloak to give Bedivere more cover.

  There wasn’t a part of my body that wasn’t aching: my leg from the arrow wound; my arm from Mordred’s blade; even the scar from Archibald’s attack was tingling – and of course, the horse riding had done nothing positive for my butt cheeks.

  Guinevere was boiling the contents of a small black cauldron over a crackling fire. I went and sat down next to her. The clouds had passed us by and the moon was high in the sky, surrounded by a ghostly silver nimbus.

  “People will walk on that one day,” I said, gazing up.

  “But it is so small,” replied Guinevere. “Do they not fall off?”

  “It isn’t that small, not when you get close to it.”

  Talan was cleaning his sword with a damp cloth, but the giant’s blood was proving hard to remove. I had given up trying and Angharad was now with Gareth, who was spitting and polishing the blade with manic urgency.

  “Have you walked in the heavens, Lady Natasha?” asked Talan.

  “No,” I replied. “I wouldn’t want to either. Arthur probably would though. He wanted to be a spaceman when he was little.”

  And instead he became a king, I thought.

  “I would love to ride in the heavens,” sighed Talan. He put his sword between his legs, resting the hilt against his bent knees. “One day I will sail all the seas and swim with mermaids and climb the highest peaks and sing to the world.”

  “Perchance you could assist me in settling the steeds before you leave for adventures far, Sir Talan,” called Tristram. “There are eight horses that need attending.”

  “A knight’s toil is never done,” said Talan. He got to his feet. “Rest, fair ladies, for it is still a day’s hard riding before our quarry is reached.”

  Do they know? I asked Gwenddydd.

  They are Knights of the Round Table. Of course they know.

  But you’re still keeping Merlin away?

  I can keep my brother distanced from your mind, but if he chooses to meld with another, then I am powerless to stop it. However, the preparations for the anointing of Mila at the sacred falls should keep him busy.

  Guinevere handed me a wooden bowl. “This will help you have a dreamless sleep, Lady Natasha.”

  I took it gratefully.

  It didn’t work.

  I was crouching behind the boulder again. Hiding. It was shaped like a Christmas tree. How did I not notice that the first time? Arthur was there, and so were our cousins, Amy and Robert. We were all too tall now to be hiding, and there was a lot of jostling for position. Arthur poked me in the back; he was laughing. I told him to shut up, he was going to give us away. He poked me again – and again. It was sharp. He was poking me with Excalibur. A river of gold was flowing down his arm, soaking into his blue t-shirt.

  I pushed him away. Pushed him hard. I was surprised by my own strength. I had the power of two people inside me.

  Arthur’s arms started to flail; he looked like Kermit. I shouted, because he was terrified of the Muppets. Then I tried to grab him, but I only managed to snatch Excalibur from his hands, before he fell into the water with a heavy splash.

  I screamed his name. Knights suddenly appeared, all wearing chain mail and silver helmets with visors pulled down. I couldn’t see their faces as they all jumped into the water to save Arthur.

  But I could see hands with long fingers pulling him further underneath the water. The knights were all thrashing about, drowning as their water-clogged armour weighed them down. The Christmas tree boulder started rocking. A loud crack then split the earth and everyone started falling...

  “Arthur,” I cried, as hands started pulling me. I tried to fight them off, slapping and kicking as I went to reach Arthur’s fingers.

  “A dreamless sleep you said, Lady Guinevere,” said the angry voice of Taliesin. “What did you give the poor child?”

  “An infusion of lime leaves and chamomile,” replied Guinevere indignantly. “A potion I could make in my sleep.”

  I opened my eyes and saw Taliesin sniffing the bowl. Gareth and Lucan were holding my arms and legs. David was groaning on the ground, clutching his jaw; Tristram was standing well back.

  But Bedivere was still fast asleep.

  “There is something else in this,” said Taliesin suspiciously. “I have mixed herbs and brews for three and forty winters, Lady Guinevere. My nose has no equal.”

  “You can say that again, old man,” snapped Guinevere. “I have never seen so much hair from an appendage. You are fortunate that no lord has attempted to remove your nose in order to use it as a hat.”

  Lucan had buried his face into my hair; I could feel him shaking with silent laughter. Taliesin looked outraged.

  “There is borage in this sleeping draught, Lady Guinevere. A foolish addition if ever there was one.”

  “I added an infusion of borage for courage, physician. You may heal from the ways written down through winters past, but time waits for no man – or woman. The old ways are just old. Time moves forward, and so must those who heal.”

  “Change is folly,” replied Taliesin. “As is this quest. Why, we have been gone not a moon’s showing, and already we have been attacked by a giant of Albion. What is next? Dragons? Chimeras? Saxons?”

  “Sir Talan’s singing?” said Lucan, still laughing.

  “Sir Lucan’s chest hair?” retorted Talan.

  “Lady Natasha’s boot?” suggested Tristram. “But wait, that has already come to pass, has it not, Sir David?”

  The tense atmosphere was immediately diffused. The argument between Guinevere and Taliesin had distracted everyone from the fact that I had clearly had another vision. A vision of Arthur being taken by Nimue.

  You pushed him away.

  I wouldn’t hurt him - ever. I would die for my brother.

  But I didn’t sleep again, and as we set off early the following morning, I kept my ears strained for the sound of wind chimes.

  Just one more day to go and Nimue would be gone forever.

  But I had the unsettling feeling I had merely alerted her to our plan.

  Bedivere had even more colour in his face, and when we stopped to let the horses rest after hours of riding, he and Gareth took their swords and went away to give Bedivere some practice in using his right hand.

  “You should take Sir Gareth’s place, Sir Lucan,” said Gawain. “My brother will not push Sir Bedivere hard.”

  “What say you, Lady Natasha?” asked Lucan. “I do not wish to displease my dear sister and have to face her wrath should I hurt my dear brother.”

  “Bedivere could kick all of your asses,” I replied.

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “A wager,” called Talan. “I will forfeit my book of songs that Sir Lucan is victorious over Sir Bedivere.”

  “I will take that wager, Sir Talan,” replied Tristram. “If only to burn the accursed object.”

  Moments later, much to Gareth’s horror, Lucan had replaced him, and he and Bedivere were now duelling with flashing swords that sang into the countryside with every metallic clash.

  I sat biting my nails, nervously bordering the line between wanting Bedivere to slam dunk Lucan, and wishing Lucan would win quickly to get it over with.

  A prickle ran through my arm, from the elbow to the wrist. Three times in quick succession. I scratched it, just as Bedivere twirled his sword in his hand to increase his grip.

  “Is your arm ailing you, Lady Natasha?” asked Guinevere. She pulled up my sleeve and gasped.

  The blackened scar, that had been sliced into my skin by Mordred, was turning a silvery blue. It was blistering with an extra layer of thin transparent skin.

  “What is that?” asked Tristram.

  Bedivere and Lucan had fighting eyes only for each other. They ignored the other knights as they crowded around me and Guinevere. The sound of clashing swords
intensified.

  “It is Sir Mordred’s mark,” said Gareth. “Lady Natasha swore a blood oath – she saved my life with it.”

  “What words bound the oath?” asked Taliesin. “I have seen blood oaths before, yet not one appeared like this.”

  “I can’t really remember,” I replied, scratching my arm. The itching was infuriating.

  “Lady Natasha had to forsake rescue by any other, whether a knight or not,” said Guinevere. She had my arm in her hands and was moving it up and down, looking at it from all directions. “Sir Mordred was taking her to Merlin, but the sorcerer had no intention of honouring whatever it was Sir Mordred was promised in exchange. His fire came down on us all, and Lady Natasha was taken away by the flames.”

  “But what occurred before that?” asked Taliesin.

  “Mordred made me swear the oath like Guinevere said,” I replied. “Then he cut my skin and placed his hand over it, which was wrapped in the blue flame. The cut immediately healed, but it was black, like burnt blood.”

  “You made a blood oath bound by the blue flame?” asked Tristram. He swapped nervous looks with Taliesin, and then turned to Gareth.

  “You should have told us, Sir Gareth.”

  Gareth flushed with a pink blotchy rash. Guinevere immediately turned on Tristram.

  “Do not lay any blame at Sir Gareth’s door, Sir Tristram. He was dying. You did not see what torture the Gorians and Sir Mordred had inflicted upon his person. He could barely breathe. He would not have remembered the blood oath. If you wish to condemn someone, then condemn me. I lay witness to the cursing of Lady Natasha’s blood. It is I who should have said.”

  “Forgive me, Lady Guinevere,” said Tristram quickly, dropping his head. “It was not my intention to apportion blame to anyone but Sir Mordred. If Lady Natasha had not acted as she did, then our brotherhood of knights would be mourning the loss of one who is dear to us.” Tristram turned to me. “Forgive my rash tongue, Lady Natasha.”

  The clashing of swords had stopped. Bedivere and Lucan were now walking towards us, slowly. Bedivere was unsteady, and staggered several feet to his right before Lucan corrected him.