Nimue had earlier explained that the phrase “major working” referred to a powerful magical object or spell intended to last hundreds of years. That called for more than simply willing the object into being, as one did with a standard conjuration.
“The potion you drank from the Grail is a major working; that spell must be active in every descendant any of you ever have, no matter how remote,” she’d said. “That’s why it took at least twenty-four hours for the spell to finish transforming the first of you into Magekind. In the future, your descendants will become Majae or Magi almost immediately.”
Now the witch caught Gwen’s hand and drew her to her side. She gestured, spilling a glittering golden path out to the stone platform in the middle of the pool. As it solidified, Nimue strode out along the narrow bridge, Gwen at her heels. “I’m going to need your help,” she explained as they walked. “I must bind the sword to Arthur. Since he’s not here, you and your Truebond must serve as my conduit. Concentrate on your link with him; it will take more effort with us in the Mageverse. Maintain the connection so I can use it as the basis of a bond between him and the sword.” She began to paint the stone circle with a stream of saffron light that flowed from her tapered fingertips.
“So this is going to be more than just a sword?”
The witch smiled. “Yes, Excalibur will definitely be more than ‘just’ a sword.”
Nimue breathed a word, and the spell circle rolled upward, forming a hemisphere over their heads. Its curve shimmered with the same glowing symbols that made up the circle, revolving slowly in brilliant waves as the crystal cavern’s walls reflected the unearthly glow. Gwen had no idea what the symbols meant, and she didn’t dare interrupt Nimue to ask.
The witch began to chant in a low, resonant voice, energy pouring from her fingertips to form the rough outline of a sword. The insubstantial weapon began to suck magic from the globe, two funnels of golden light pouring into it at point and pommel. Magic prickled over Gwen’s skin, the crawling sensation skittering over her like the claws of countless insects.
The sword gradually grew more substantial, solidifying as it drank the circle’s magic. Gwen had to fight not to fidget, knowing their time was growing short. Arthur was on his way to Camlann in a desperate effort to reach the town before Mordred and his army.
Unfortunately, if the dream was to be believed, Mordred would have five men to every one of Arthur’s. Gwen feared that every moment spent conjuring the sword could be the one when the king lost his life. Waiting under such circumstances was the worst torture she’d ever suffered.
Still chanting, Nimue beckoned Gwen closer. As the queen obeyed, she met the witch’s gaze. Points of light filled the woman’s black irises until it was like looking up into the night sky.
It unnerved the hell out of Gwen, but she stubbornly refused to let her fear overcome her.
Then Nimue’s long, cool fingers touched her forehead, and it felt as if a dragon had sunk flaming claws into her soul and jerked with brutal, wrenching force. It was all Gwen could do not to scream.
Her knees buckled, but she caught herself, fighting the urge to hit Nimue with a power blast that would have knocked the witch on her backside. Instead, Gwen concentrated on maintaining the connection to Arthur, letting Nimue draw on that link as she labored on the sword.
“Gwen?” Her husband’s voice reverberated through the Truebond. “What happened? You’re in pain. . . .”
“Nothing.” Ignoring the flow of blood trickling from her nose, she told him, “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t feel like nothing. That hurt even me, as far away as I am.”
“Don’t you have a battle to fight? Keep your mind on your job before Mordred kills you.”
“I asked you what you’re doing.” He had that implacable note in his mental voice she knew too well. “Answer me.”
“I’m fine, dammit. I’m just working on a spell.”
“A spell to do what?”
“Nothing that concerns you. Shouldn’t you be killing people?”
“Shouldn’t you be doing needlework?”
That was the problem with pissing Arthur off; he made you pay for it. “Arthur, I’m fine. Go. Away!”
With a frustrated growl, he finally retreated. Gwen heaved a mental sigh of relief. She was lucky she’d been able to lie to him at all, given the Truebond. Fortunately, Arthur’s own shields had been firmly in place, barely permitting mental speech. He must have been doing something he didn’t want her to see, either.
Most likely he really had been killing somebody.
That, or fighting for his life. Arthur needed that sword.
Gwen went back to pouring power into Nimue—and paid for it as the pain built, ripping at her consciousness until it seemed her very soul was being dragged out by the roots.
When the brutal pull finally ceased, Gwen went down like a felled doe. Lying on her back in the wide stone circle, she panted as she watched the globe’s glowing symbols fade around her. Finally the circle vanished completely.
“Are you all right?” Nimue asked in a strained voice, moving into Gwen’s field of view. She was breathing hard, as if she’d been running for her life. “That was . . . a rough one.”
Gwen stared up at the woman, blinking in shock. Nimue appeared to have aged decades since they’d stepped into the circle. Her skin had taken on a sickly gray-green hue as it lay in deep hollows over the knife-edged contours of her face, and her dark hair hung limp with sweat.
But Nimue held the precious sword, solid now and glowing brilliantly enough to make Gwen’s eyes water. The power it radiated seemed to crawl over her skin like the feet of countless insects.
“Let me have it.” Gwen struggled to her feet, though it took so much effort, she suspected she looked every bit as haggard as Nimue.
Without a word—the witch might not have been capable of speech—Nimue handed over the blade.
Balancing the great weapon on her palms, Gwen studied it with awe. It was almost two hand spans longer than most swords, though it felt far lighter, as though made of something other than steel.
It was also the most beautiful weapon Gwen had ever seen. Its blade was intricately engraved with the same magical symbols as the spell globe. The pommel of its cross-guard hilt featured a brilliant yellow gem the size of a baby’s fist. Two matching smaller stones were inset in its quillons. Magic radiated from all three stones, winding along the blade in a blazing golden braid. The overwhelming sense of power lifted the hair on Gwen’s neck.
The brilliant glow faded a moment later, leaving the sword looking like nothing more than a sword. Gwen wasn’t fooled. “It’s incredible, Nimue. I have never seen such a weapon.” But as she glanced up at the witch, she frowned in worry. “Are you going to be all right?”
“I will be fine. It’s a good thing we did the spell here. I doubt I could have survived trying to work it on your world.” Nimue rolled her head on her shoulders as if to loosen the knots that had gathered there. Closing her eyes, she seemed to concentrate, as if drawing in power. Her back straightened as her shoulders squared, but she still looked gray and drawn.
“Its name is Excalibur, which means ‘cut steel,’” the witch continued, once she’d recovered enough for speech. “Which is exactly what it will do, when swung with a Magus’s strength.” Her lips twitched in a grim smile. “I assure you, Mordred will not break this weapon.”
“I can certainly believe that.” Gwen gave the great blade a respectful glance, then smiled at the witch. “Thank you for what you’ve done for us, Nimue. I know it cost you.”
“Just get the sword to him, Gwen.” The witch sounded so exhausted, she was slurring her words. “Save him.”
Gwen frowned, remembering snatches of that horrifying dream. “But how do I get there in time?”
“Concentrate on the Truebond and focus your will on reaching him. A gate will answer your need. Like so . . .” Turning, she gestured sharply. A shimmering point appeared in the air
, blooming into a gate. “I must get back to Merlin. The situation on Nippon grows dangerous.”
“What if we need you?” Gwen bit her lip, remembering the wretched odds in her dream.
“You can handle it,” Nimue added with a glance over her shoulder. “And if you can’t, you’re not who we thought you were.” Then she was gone.
Well, it seemed Gwen was on her own. Except she didn’t have to be, did she?
Taking a deep breath, she gripped the precious sword and pictured her own chamber. The magical point appeared in the air, expanding in the blink of an eye. With a sigh of relief, the queen stepped through into her own familiar chambers.
Familiar—and yet not. She felt the sharp decrease in magic as she passed from one world to the next. Determined to ignore the weakness, she banged the chamber door open, strode onto the balustrade, and shouted, “Ladies of the Round Table, we ride!”
• • •
For the first time in her life, Guinevere Pendragon wore armor. The chain mail hauberk should have been heavy, but thanks to the spell she’d used to conjure it, it might as well have been thin silk as its skirt swung around her thighs. In one hand she held Arthur’s new sword, its length blazing with such power, it made her very bones seem to buzz.
She strode along the line of her women, acutely aware of their eyes watching her. Gwen had watched Arthur pace the courtyard as he inspected his troops in just this way. She wondered if his heart ever pounded as hers did now.
The eleven other ladies of the Round Table also wore conjured armor, though they looked uncomfortable in it. Not to mention nervous as cats surrounded by a pack of wolfhounds.
That was probably to the good. Arthur often said that only a fool felt no fear going into battle. With proper training, he said, the fear left you, until all you knew was the mechanics of battle, of using sword and shield to attack and block.
Unfortunately, Gwen wasn’t sure she or her women were well trained enough in the use of combat magic. Particularly not compared to the decades of training that knights had.
But she also knew none of her ladies would let their comparatively thin instruction stop them. Despite whatever fear they felt, their resolve to save the king and his knights was palpable.
Arthur was going to be furious. He’d probably fuck her up the arse again. At least, she profoundly hoped so; that would mean he was alive to do it.
“This is not going to be easy,” Gwen told them, pivoting to pace in the other direction. “But remember that the enemy is mortal—only human. We’re not.” She flashed them all a hard glance cribbed straight from Arthur. “Show them no mercy. I can assure you, they’ll show us none. Mordred has spent months spinning tales of how evil and demonic we are.” She smiled grimly. “Fortunately.”
“Fortunately?” Diera asked, her tone incredulous, just as Gwen had known someone would.
“Yes.” The queen bared her teeth in Leodegraunce’s favorite grin of pure bloodlust. “It’ll make them that much easier to panic. If we play our cards right, it won’t take much to send them running home to mummy.”
She didn’t add that if they played their cards wrong, the bastards would rip them all apart. The ladies knew that as well as she did.
• • •
In twenty years of fighting, Arthur had never seen odds quite this bad. By his rough estimate, Mordred’s forces outnumbered his by at least five to one. He had no more than three thousand men against a good fifteen thousand rebels.
They battled in the light of a full moon—Mordred and his rebels against Arthur, a handful of loyal lords, and their forces. The king had sent his knights to play bodyguard to his loyalist lords, knowing that given the odds, the humans wouldn’t otherwise have a chance.
“You should’ve let the witches come,” Lancelot shouted over the howls and curses of battling men.
“And bring my wife into this?” Arthur bellowed, as he sent his opponent’s head spinning with a single powerful sword stroke. “Not bloody likely!”
Lance swept his shield around to block an enemy fighter’s sword attack, then drove his own blade through the man’s chain mail hauberk as if it were thin wool. “Which won’t stop her from dying if you’re killed. It’s going to take magic to keep us all alive. Use your bloody Truebond and call her!”
Lancelot had a point, loath though the king was to admit it.
But just as he started to open the Truebond, a nearby axe-wielding foe hacked off someone’s arm. As the victim shrieked, Arthur watched the limb spin, spraying blood across his face, to land at his feet. No, dammit. She has nightmares enough. I need to protect her from this, keep her safe . . .
The wind shifted, bringing the scent of death and blood and shit to Arthur’s nose. And something else, a smell he recognized.
He whirled, to see Mordred’s narrow, hate-filled gaze blazing at him over the arc of his sword swing.
Right at Arthur’s neck.
• • •
Her husband had closed their Truebond down to a bare whisper, but Gwen’s ferocious concentration locked on to that ghostly voice with all her strength of will.
She only hoped it would be enough to guide them in.
As Nimue had instructed her, Gwen poured magic into a point in the air, watching in sweating anxiety as it expanded into a wavering doorway.
Morgana, mounted on a bay gelding next to her own white mare, shot the queen an excited grin. “You’re doing it!”
The gate wavered a moment, seeming to fight her control before it finally stabilized, revealing a landscape that was all too familiar.
Gwen’s heart sank. She’d been right. It was her dream brought to life—a hellish landscape of men locked in battle to the death, killing and dying in a writhing tangle of blood and steel. Behind her, one of the watching witches breathed an appalled, low-voiced curse.
Gwen ignored her. Unless they moved quickly, Arthur was dead.
If he’s not already.
THIRTEEN
Digging her heels into her mare’s side, Gwen clucked to urge the horse forward. But before they passed through the gate, the beast’s head flew up as if she’d struck something nose first. Rearing, she bugled and twisted aside so violently, it was all the queen could do to keep her seat. She dragged at the reins and jerked the mare’s head around, determined to force her through despite her resistance.
Gwen had to get to Arthur. Excalibur blazed in the scabbard hung across her back, its buzzing magic a silent goad.
“Wait!” Morgana said urgently. “There’s something wrong with the gate. It looked like your mare ran into some kind of barrier.”
“We’ll see,” Gwen murmured grimly, and thumped her booted heels against the horse’s ribs. This time, however, there was no mistaking the impact of Snowcap’s nose with whatever blocked the gate. The outraged mare started to buck, but the queen gestured, settling her with a calming spell. Biting her lower lip, Gwen examined the gate in frustrated anger. “I don’t understand this! I conjured a gate not an hour ago, and it worked fine. What’s gone wrong?” And why now, when she could least afford delay?
But as she stared through the doorway, she saw it appear to slide aside. A man’s wide-eyed, horrified face suddenly stared back at her through the opening just before the gate rolled off into the crowd like a child’s ball. Nimue’s gates had never had such a problem. “Why is it doing that? What’s going on?” They had to get through that gate before Arthur fell, or all was lost.
“Maybe there are too many people around it,” Morgana suggested. “Perhaps they’re interfering with it somehow, something like stones in the path of the river.”
Hands tight on Snowcap’s reins, Gwen nodded thoughtfully. “That does make sense.”
“What if you try it somewhere closer to the edge of the battlefield, where the crowd isn’t as thick?” Diera suggested. “You’d run into less interference that way, and maybe we could get through.”
“Good idea,” Gwen said, even as she realized that would also put them f
arther away from Arthur.
Unfortunately, they weren’t well blessed with alternatives.
She let the gate collapse and tried again farther from Arthur’s current position. Again the gate shivered and slid, but this time she noticed that there did seem to be some kind of resistance that fought her spell.
Allowing that gate to collapse, Gwen tried a third time, forcing herself to be patient, despite the voice in the back of her head chanting Hurry, hurry hurry hurry hurryhurryhurryHURRY!
• • •
Arthur thrust up his shield, blocking Mordred’s sword blow with a thunderous THOCK of impact. The king swung his own weapon with lethal force, but his son’s shield deflected it at an angle, sending the blade glancing away. Arthur brought the blade back into line as he blocked Mordred’s next attack with an inhumanly fast sweep of his shield.
“I laid the . . . snare for you, and you stepped . . . right into it!” Mordred bellowed over the din of battle as he blocked Arthur’s sword strokes. “Did Isolde manage to kill Tristan before she sent you running to Camlann?”
“Do you really think that pitiful creature could murder a Knight of the Round Table? Tristan slew her!” A fresh bolt of rage shot through Arthur, and he cursed himself as his bastard’s plot became blatantly clear. Mordred had sent Isolde to assassinate her husband, thinking Arthur would question her and she’d “confess” the details of the plan to destroy Camlann. When they rode to defend the town, Mordred’s army would wipe them out through sheer numbers. And Arthur should have seen it coming, just from the nighttime attack alone. What intelligent commander would take the field in the damned dark?
“Ahhhh, too bad.” Mordred smirked. “Either way, it worked. All that’s left is shoving you into a hole and shoveling in the dirt.”
“Don’t start digging just yet, boy. Each of my knights is worth ten of yours.” Unfortunately, they were too far away to do him any good, scattered over the battlefield protecting his loyal lords.
The only Table knight Arthur had kept with him was Lancelot, who had his hands full keeping the rebels from swarming the king. The champion’s sword swung like a scythe in the moonlight, all stunning strength and an utter lack of mercy.
Wicked Games Page 19
