In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy)

by Sarah Zettel

  “Let us go then. I would see if there are any partridge we can catch unawares today.” Risa nodded to Innis and again to the guards who saluted her from either side of the gate. She tucked her skirt into her belt, set her gaze on the meadow past the earthen outer wall and followed the boy through it.

  The dogs loped happily forward through the knee-high grasses towing Innis behind them.

  “Let them loose, Innis.” Risa unslung her bow and tested the string. “Let us see what they find.”

  “Yes, my lady.” With some difficulty, Innis hauled the dogs to him so he could unfasten their leashes from their collars. With yelps of pure joy, all three sprang into the grass, free to run where they pleased. As she nocked an arrow into the string, Risa found it in her heart to envy them.

  In the next heartbeat, a great flurry of wings sounded from the burgeoning grass. Three brown partridge shot up toward the sky. Risa drew her string back to her nose and sighted along the arrow’s shaft. She loosed and was rewarded by the sight of one of the birds plummeting back to earth and landing with a loud thud.

  “That one is for Vernus,” she whispered. “And the next is for Aelfric, and the next for Daffydd, and the next for Shanus, and the one after that is for me.”

  “If my lady is thinking of counting her disappointments with arrows, we will be out here all the rest of the year,” said Aeldra, puffing up behind her.

  “What would you have me do then?” Risa watched Innis crouch over the bird and pull out the arrow.

  “It is not for me to say, of course, my lady,” said Aeldra with the false modesty that irritated Risa so easily. “But there are ways to ensure your father must say yes to your suitor.”

  Risa rolled her eyes and sighed. “And don’t think I haven’t considered them Aeldra. But I would have to face my mother also and I’m not yet certain I could.”

  All at once, one of the hounds bayed at the edge of the woods. Something flashed white and immediately there was a great crashing of underbrush and bracken as the creature, whatever it had been, fled into the forest. All three hounds barked and howled. They dove forward into the trees. Risa ran after them.

  What is it? A deer? No, it is too white for that …

  She broke the tree line and was engulfed in the sun-dappled twilight of the forest. She saw the dogs’ brown backs plunging on ahead of her and again glimpsed the fleeting white form.

  The dogs ran into a thicket of fern fiddleheads and Risa lost sight of them. The wind blew through the forest, rustling the greening underbrush and confusing her further.

  “Orestes! Orion! Orpheus! Here, boys!” she called dashing forward. Somewhere behind her she heard Aeldra calling her name. Risa ignored her. She wanted to find her dogs. She wanted to see that mysterious white quarry they had flushed.

  All at once, she broke into a sun-soaked meadow. The sudden light dazzled her and Risa stumbled to a halt, blinking hard.

  When her gaze cleared, she looked around to take her bearings, but then found herself gawping in surprise.

  In the center of the clearing stood a broad, gnarled stump. On it lay a flat board covered with red and white figurines of extraordinary delicacy. Not one of them was taller than Risa’s hand was long.

  To one side, on a fallen tree, sat a gigantic man all of a sparkling green color, as if he’d been fashioned out of a monstrous emerald. One of his hands could have engulfed Risa’s waist. The crown of his head brushed the leaves of the oak tree he sat under. Skin, hair, eyes, all shone greener than the sea. His plaited beard might have been grown from dewy meadow grass. His jerkin, mail and hose were so green the fresh leaves paled next to them. Beside him on the ground lay a battle axe of the same brilliant color.

  Risa was rooted to the spot, unable to move or think. The great, green giant smiled so broadly she could see that his teeth were indeed emeralds that flashed in the sun.

  “It’s called chess,” the giant’s voice boomed all around Risa’s head. “And a merry game it is too.” His eyes glittered as if he had caught two stars in them. “Would you learn this game of nations and of power, pretty maiden? Step forward, then.”

  Risa found her feet moving. Without any thought or help from her, they carried her body into the sunlit meadow until she stood over the board. Now she saw the figurines were people, men and women all standing on a board inlaid with neat squares of ebony and ivory.

  “Now, then.” The giant winked at her. “Which side for you, pretty one? The red?” He pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow. “I think not, though the red king knows you passing well.” He plucked a scarlet figurine from its place and Risa saw a man with a lean, lined face and hooded eyes who wore long robes like a nobleman, or a monk.

  “The white is your side, and the white queen is your protector, I think.” Another figurine lay nestled in the hallow of his enormous palm, although Risa didn’t see him put down the first. This one was a woman, perfectly formed, with a circlet on her long hair. Her eyes were wide and her face was wise, somehow. “And with her, the white king, but not before the white knight.” Another figurine appeared in his palm. This was a man on a horse, holding his spear aloft and his shield before him. Risa could not see his face, but she clearly saw the five-pointed star carved on the shield.

  “Will these three keep you from the red king and the red castle?” The giant shook his head gravely. His palm was empty.

  “You do not speak, pretty one. Perhaps chess is not the game for you?” The sparkling green smile grew fierce. Risa felt her heart fluttering against her ribcage, but still she could not move. “Perhaps you prefer riddles? Excellent!” The giant slapped the stump and all the figurines rattled on their board. “Now, answer me this and be quick, pretty one,” he leaned over her, blocking the sun with his great, green head. “What is it every woman wants?”

  The scene in front of her began to fade and blur, as if her eyes had filled with tears. The giant laughed again, accompanied by the shrill giggling of his minute companion. “Answer! Answer!” he ordered. “Answer, my pretty one!”

  A noise. From the forest. A sharp, high barking. Drawing closer. The dogs. The dogs had found her.

  Risa found her tongue could move.

  “Sweet Mother Mary, save me!” she screamed.

  And she was alone.

  All the strength fled from Risa’s body and she fell backwards onto the forest floor.

  For a long moment, she lay there blinking stupidly at the leaves above her. She heard the barking coming closer. All at once her hounds swarmed over her, whining, nosing and licking. They put their heavy feet on her stomach, squeezing out what little breath she had.

  “Off, off,” she grunted. She managed to heave herself upright.

  “Lady Risa!” Aeldra’s voice drifted through the trees. “My lady, where are you?”

  Risa got to her feet. Her gaze swam, but steadied. The clearing was empty save for herself and the nosing, wagging dogs.

  It was nothing. A dream. I have been too long out in the sun. I fainted, perhaps, or sat down to rest and dreamed.

  But then her gaze drifted across the rotting tree stump and she saw on it two figurines, one red, one white. Her heart in her mouth, she crossed to look at them. The red one was a tall woman, the very essence of beauty and perfection. She wore chains around her neck and bracelets on her arms. Her robes fell in heavy folds over her feet.

  The white figure was a hag. It stooped to half the red lady’s height. It was a grizzled, toothy horror gaping up at Risa with a pig’s glaring eyes.

  “My lady!” A crashing and thrashing sounded through the brush behind her. Heavy-footed and out of breath, Aeldra waded through the grass. “Where have you been? I …” she stepped up beside Risa and saw the figurines.

  “What are these?” Aeldra reached out one hand toward the red lady.

  “No!” Risa smacked her hand away. “Leave them. They are cursed. I’m sure of it.” She took Aeldra’s arm with one hand and the hems of her skirts with another. “Let us leave
here, Aeldra, and find Innis. I would be back at home.”

  Risa set off between the trees. She very carefully did not look back.

  Harrik, Hullward’s son stepped into the council tent. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he surveyed the gathering. There were a dozen men, all Saxons, like himself, most battle scarred, also like himself. They squatted or lounged on piles of furs around the smoking central fire.

  Dogs, Harrik thought. Dogs at the feet if their master. He lifted his gaze.

  Wulfweard, called Wolfget by those who knew his vicious nature, sat in a slatted chair. He alone of the gathering was armed. A naked sword lay across his thighs. The symbol was hardly needed. The menace in Wolfget’s hooded blue eyes shone plain enough.

  “Be welcome to this assembly, my Lord Harrik,” said a musical voice.

  Harrik started. A woman, clothed in a gown of smoky red circled the fire toward him. “Let me offer you the guest cup and bid you know my Lord Wulfweard wishes you to sit at his right hand.”

  Harrik struggled to keep himself from gawking like a boy. Wolfget had never before taken a wife, let alone one so blindingly lovely. Her golden hair hung to her waist and was plaited with a thread of silver. Her face was smooth and round with hazel eyes set wide above a slim, straight nose. Her breasts and hips swelled amply beneath the dark red of the gown which hung from her shoulders as if to call attention to their perfect roundness.

  Harrik mastered himself and took the wooden cup from her soft, clean hand.

  “My thanks.” He took a swallow of the mead.

  Wolfget was flanked by two empty chairs. Harrik took his place in the right-hand seat as invited. The woman took the left.

  Wolfget swept his cold gaze across the assembly.

  “Brothers.” His voice was hard. “It is ten years since the defeat at Mount Badon scattered our strength. Since then, Uther’s upstart bastard has held us as his vassals, claiming our lands, our sons, our very bodies as his own. We have submitted in silence, knowing ourselves to be weak and divided.” He laid a thick hand on the sword’s hilt.

  “Wounded to the death as we were, we were wise to do so. But now, our wounds are closed. Our sons grow tall and strong. Our brothers eye the rusted swords and axes hanging on our walls with restless anticipation. Now is the time to force Arthur the Bastard to pay for what he has stolen.”

  An angry rumble of assent rose from the assembly. Wolfget smiled and Harrik felt a chill cross his skin. He cast a glance toward the woman. All her attention was fixed on Wolfget in an attitude of rapt adoration. Harrik’s chill deepened. In the flickering firelight he could see the stump of the ear Wolfget had lost at Badon. Harrik himself was missing two fingers from the same battle. The ghosts of them twitched in memory of the blow.

  Kolbyr, who’d seen both his brothers ridden down by Arthur’s captains, got heavily to his feet. “My heart is with you, my Lord Wulfweard, and I would sooner die in battlefield mud than a vassal’s bed, but how can we wage such a war? The Bastard sits secure in Camelot with a hundred captains who will leap into action at the flick of his little finger.”

  “Truth, truth,” said Ehrin, whose jaw had been so broken his words slurred in his mouth. “Strong of purpose we may be, but we are not so strong of arms and warriors.”

  “Our course is simple,” said Wolfget. “Does the Bastard think us divided? Divided we will appear. In our separate lands we will strike here, there, take this town and that. He will respond with men and arms, as he must to preserve the peace that so boldly bears his name. We will harry those men, wear them down, kill all we can and withdraw. Soon, the Bastard’s forces will be weakened by so many small cuts, they will not be able to defend themselves when we are ready to give the death blow.”

  Harrik frowned. This was not the brash, heated Wolfget he knew from the wars. This stranger was a calm-hearted strategist. With a beautiful woman at his shoulder. Harrik glanced at her again. Had he been a young man, he would have stood up and made some fearless speech about rushing into battle, not for Wolfget’s sake, but for hers.

  Which was a point to be considered closely.

  “Harrik you sit as silent as stone.” Wolfget’s soft voice broke Harrik’s reverie. “What are your deep thoughts?”

  “My thoughts are of Badon,” he said, looking into the depths of the guest cup. “My thoughts are of lands, and of my son, hostage in Camelot to my word. And he is not alone there.” Let me see your eyes, ‘brothers’, how many of your sons does Arthur hold? “I am thinking of the thousand thousand ways Arthur is entrenched on this island. I am thinking of the kings who are his neighbors and who pay him tribute.” He gave them all a grim smile. “I am thinking we could have more easily bested the all the Roman legions than this king.”

  To Harrik’s surprise, Wolfget nodded. “Your words are sound, Harrik and they should be weighed carefully. But think of this. Does the Bastard have neighbors and friends? Yes. But so do we. The terms of Arthur’s peace have been hard on many, and many would be glad to see it broken. We have our secret friends in every town and fortress. Do arms and men flow from Arthur? They will flow into our hands.”

  Harrik looked around and saw how the eyes of the men on the floor shone with eagerness. He knew then how it would be. There would be hours of talk, some close questioning of Wolfget, perhaps even a few words of wisdom spoken. But in the end, they would all pledge their lives on Wolfget’s naked sword.

  Feeling like an old man, Harrik got stiffly to his feet. It would be better if he stayed, of course, if he lied and flattered and foreswore himself. But he could not. He would not.

  “What ails you, my Lord Harrik?” asked the woman softly.

  “Old wounds, my lady.” Harrik bowed to her. “This assembly will do as it will. We have been brothers in arms before this. I have been proud to say so. But I myself must consider carefully whether the peace that came when we laid down those arms has not benefited our people as it has the Britons.”

  He left the tent amid a stony silence. Out in the open air he called for his horse and his sword. The animal was brought to him by a sour-faced man with Wolfget’s blazon on his tunic. Harrik mounted and urged the horse into an easy canter until he was well out of earshot of the assembly encampment.

  When he judged he had gone far enough, he pulled up on the reins. The horse halted and Harrik climbed down. Looking sharply about him, he led the animal into the thick of the forest. There, he tethered the horse loosely to an elm tree. He did not want the animal trapped if he did not come back. He tightened the laces on his scabbard so his sword would not jingle. Then, one careful step at a time, he made his way through bracken and fern back to the camp.

  He had been uneasy when Wolfget sent his messenger with the invitation to this secret council. He had grown more uneasy each time he contemplated it. It was folly, this idea that the handful of Saxons who remained on the Isle of Britain could defeat Arthur. Worse, it was suicide.

  But is it enough for what I do now? Harrik glimpsed the fabric of the tents and the sparkle of studded leather through the trees. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground. Trying not to rustle the carpet of leaves beneath him, he crawled forward on his hands and knees. Is it truly enough to turn spy on your own people?

  Apparently, it was, because he lay prostrate on the ground with fern leaves tickling his brow and nose, watching the camp carefully.

  And we’ll see who stays and goes, and when and how. If I am wrong about how it will go, so much the better. But if I am right …

  He composed himself to patience. To keep his mind from the incessant itch of the ferns, he set about studying the sentries, thinking how he would have posted and armed them in Wolfget’s place.

  Men came and went. Servants brought wine and meat into the tent. The guests came out to relieve themselves or check on their horses. The sentries paced, or lounged about. The lounging became more frequent as the time wore on. Harrik shook his head minutely. Wolfget was not well served.

  The tent’s flap lifte
d again. This time, it was the woman who came out. In the full daylight she was even more shatteringly lovely than he had thought. His heart and loins both began to ache with an urgency he had thought himself past.

  The woman looked about her. Evidently, she saw nothing that displeased her. She raised one hand and spoke a word Harrik could not understand. In the next breath, he heard the flapping of heavy wings. A raven glided down from the trees and came to rest on the woman’s waiting wrist.

  She brought her wrist down until the bird’s eyes were level with her own. She contemplated the raven for a long time, and it stared back unwinking, which a beast should not have been able to do. At last, the woman opened her mouth.

  The raven thrust beak, head, and neck well down her throat.

  Harrik jerked backward, forgetting the need for silence. The woman and the bird stood still, its head in her mouth, like some foul statuary. He realized the muscles of her throat swelled and contracted. Not swallowing, but pushing something out.

  Harrik’s own throat clamped down around his breath.

  The raven pulled its head free of the beauty’s mouth. She smiled broadly and lifted her wrist again. The bird spread its shining wings and flew away.

  She watched her pet vanish into the sky, turned, and went back inside the tent.

  Harrik, struggling to keep his breathing under control, crawled back into the woods on his hands and knees. He moved as far and as fast as he could, but finally, he had to stop and vomit at the roots of a birch tree.

  What manner of secret friends have you, Wolfget? He raised his head and wiped a shaking hand across his mouth. What alliances have you made for us?