Their king gave the signal and the gate squeaked ominously as the oaken doors opened. Fionna left her post and descended the stairs, making her way to where a groom held Zephyr’s reins.
The sight of her set Lancelot’s heart on fire like a young lad. Part of him still couldn’t believe that Fionna was going to be his wife. He kept expecting to wake up from a dream. But here she was.
Joy. Bliss.
He tried to channel Percival’s endless optimism, but all he could think of was that now that she had bound herself to him, he had something to lose. And there were about two thousand things that stood between all their happiness—two thousand Uí Tuírtri blades.
“Ye look like ye ate something sour,” Fionna remarked, leading Zephyr to stand beside Cheval.
“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” Lancelot said, trying to memorize every feature of her transformed, elfin face.
“Ye forget, Lance. I’m immortal now.” She swung into the saddle as the last word left her mouth.
“Only half immortal,” Lancelot muttered.
“I’ll be careful,” she said. “Promise.”
“Good.” He mounted his own horse and then leaned in close. “Because I want to take that new faerie body of yours for a ride it won’t ever forget.”
He was rewarded with the sight of Fionna blushing up to her hairline as he kicked Cheval into a trot.
The farther they rode from the keep, the thicker the snow fell. The plan was simple. Sneak in while clearing a silent path through the clannsmen in their way. Find O’Lynn and kill him, before demanding the rest of the clann surrender. Cut off the snake’s head and the body will die.
Lancelot shivered and pulled his cloak tighter about him as a gust of freezing wind, swirling with fat snowflakes, hit him. The gust’s icy fingers trailed down the collar of his armor. He tried to think of the wind as Fionna. Fionna caressing his skin, warming him, her soft touch drifting down his chest, down farther to the line of dark hair beneath his navel . . . His cock stirred painfully against his armor and he tried, unsuccessfully, to adjust himself. Never mind. Bad idea. The snow was just snow.
The creak of leather and the soft snorts of horses were stolen away by the storm. Lancelot and his soldiers were nearly upon the first sentries when men emerged from the snow. But Percival and Galahad’s arrows were quicker than the men’s cries, taking the soldiers in the throat before they could raise the alarm.
Tents appeared in the distance, and the soldiers fanned out to sneak inside and dispatch the inhabitants. Brutal work, to kill a man in his bed. And as Arthur said, lacking in honor. But Caerleon’s warriors needed to ensure their avenue of retreat wasn’t cut off, if the alarm was roused. The cruelty would save more lives in the long run.
A cookfire appeared out of the snowstorm, and two dark forms huddled close. Lancelot wasted no time in spearing the nearest man through.
He gurgled a cry, and the other man shouted before Lancelot spurred Cheval forward and stabbed him through.
The world around them silenced in a deafening hush. Lancelot’s breath was loud in his ears.
The dark forms of soldiers nearby froze where they stood. All tilted ears to the wind, waiting to hear if another had picked up the cry. But there was no sound.
Lancelot blew out a soft, shaky breath, adjusting his grip on his sword.
Close. Too close.
They had only entered the main ring of village buildings.
He nudged Cheval with his heels, motioning forward with his hand.
Then the snow began to lessen.
And, as they made their way closer, the snow stopped. The air hung heavy against him, like an inhaled breath. All around, the warriors of Caerleon halted too, suddenly exposed in the night air.
Lancelot turned to Fionna, who he could now make out a dozen yards away. He motioned to the sky in an inquiring way.
She shook her head, her jaw set. She hadn’t stopped the storm. Which meant that someone else had.
An arrow zinged through the air, catching a soldier next to him in the shoulder. The man toppled backwards off his horse.
“Charge!” Lancelot cried out, slapping Cheval’s rump with the flat of his blade. The stallion leaped beneath him, as another arrow whizzed by his head. The arrow’s shaft and fletching were so close, he could feel the arrow’s movement in the air.
Uí Tuírtri warriors poured out of buildings with guttural cries of rage. The men and women were unarmored, without the normal bristling assortment of weapons each warrior held. Caerleon had taken them by surprise. Still, the warriors were fierce.
A woman ran screaming at him with an axe held high above her. Lancelot swung his sword, slicing her across the chest. Cheval barreled into another warrior before him, and Lancelot felt the man go down beneath his horse’s hooves.
The village center loomed before them as more warriors poured out of houses and buildings, blocking their path.
“To me!” Lancelot shouted above the melee, spurring Cheval forward, toward the enemy. Galahad and Percival, together with a dozen of their best soldiers, funneled into the wide main street, forming a cavalry charge into the thick of invading warriors.
A calming battle focus settled over Lancelot, and his vision narrowed. In this heightened state, he easily parried two fast blows from a warrior with bared teeth, dispatching the man with a powerful blow.
Lancelot’s task was clear. Punch a hole through these men, allowing Arthur and Fionna to ride in their wake into the center of town. To attend to their mission.
To find and to kill O’Lynn.
THE FIGHTING WAS thick. Little by little Arthur’s warriors gained ground, hacking and slicing their way through men and women and beasts.
Excalibur’s hilt was slick in Arthur’s hand from the snow and sweat and blood. But as many soldiers as they felled, it seemed as though more took their place.
This was the part of their plan that had been a risk––a terrible, terrible risk. Two thousand Uí Tuírtri warriors slept in this camp. Caerleon had invaded O’Lynn’s war camp with less than a thousand-armed men. If the entire force was roused from sleep and then surrounded them . . . Caerleon would be destroyed. Their plan depended on finding and killing O’Lynn quickly. Then demoralizing the rest of his men. But the time ticked by, time filled with clashing blades and ringing metal and screams of dying men. Time they could ill afford.
Fear began to bubble up in Arthur. “Fionna!” he shouted, taking advantage of a moment within the onslaught to find his fae warrior. “We must move forward! To the inn!”
She nodded before twisting her body out of the way of a dagger thrown at her by a snarling woman. Fionna spurred Zephyr and charged the woman, reaching down and dispatching her with a skillful blow of her blade. She tried to close her eyes to focus on her magic. But another warrior came at her and she was forced to rein Zephyr back, dancing out of the way of his blow. She needed time and space to perform whatever magic she attempted.
Arthur roared his fury and dug his heels into Llamrei’s side. Together, her hooves and his blade cut a path forward, until they flanked Fionna just yards from the steps of the inn.
“There are too many,” Arthur yelled over the maelstrom of weapons and warriors. “We must find O’Lynn.”
“He must be in there.” Fionna gestured toward the inn with her head and then swung off Zephyr.
Arthur slid off Llamrei’s back and then caught her hand. “And if he isn’t?”
“He is,” she said, her breast heaving. A glow wreathed around her in the darkness, as if she were a celestial body reflecting the light of the moon. “Cover me.” She closed her eyes and, within a couple thunderous heartbeats, the ground beneath their feet began to shift. Boulders jutted up from the ground in a semi-circle, forming a defensive perimeter.
Llamrei reared, screaming, her eyes wild, and Arthur had to leap up to catch her reins.
Enemy warriors shouted in fear, scrambling out of the way, their eyes growing owlish with fear of Fion
na’s powerful magic.
Her eyelashes fluttered open when she finished. The land around the inn was now protected by craggy rocks as tall as a man’s chest. Warriors would be able to crawl over them, but the stones would slow them down.
Fionna swiveled toward him, her jaw set. “O’Lynn.”
“O’Lynn!” Arthur’s eyes widened as the front door of the inn exploded outward, kicked by a powerful blow. O’Lynn emerged from the opening. The man wore full Dál nAraidi armor, the leather oiled and gleaming, and a dark helm atop his head. One hand gripped a huge battle axe, his eyes glowing like malevolent embers from inside his headgear.
“Speak of the wretched man and he appears,” Fionna spat.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say about yer kin. We’re family now, Fionnabhair.” O’Lynn reached inside the door and jerked something toward him. A chain.
A cry went out as a woman stumbled into him, falling to her knees on the splintered remains of the inn’s door. Aideen. O’Lynn shoved a fist into her hair and then jerked her back to her feet. Aideen yelped in pain and Fionna stepped forward, hissing.
Fury rose within Arthur. He could taste Fionna’s matching anger on the air—like the energy before a storm. Fionna was about to do something stupid, or reckless, or both. Though, he couldn’t blame her. If his mother or Fionna were paraded before him in a similar fashion, he might behave the same despite his training as a warrior. Still . . .
“Hold Fionna,” Arthur said quietly as O’Lynn pulled Aideen back against his body, laying the blade of the huge axe against her exposed throat. The young woman’s eyes brimmed with tears as they widened, as if silently pleading.
“I’m afraid ye’ve made a miscalculation, Pendragon,” O’Lynn gloated. “For yer force is surrounded, and if ye don’t surrender, I’ll spill the blood of this woman before ye without a second thought. How’d ye like to see yer sister die, Fionna?”
Arthur feared Fionna’s rage would boil over into a tempest unlike any they had ever seen, so he hurried on. “You won’t do that, O’Lynn.”
“Why not?” he sneered.
“Because then you would lose your only bargaining chip, leaving you defenseless.”
“I’m hardly defenseless, ye pompous Welsh bastard! I was slitting heads with this axe when yer mother was still wiping yer arse!”
“Yet we found you inside that inn, rather than on the battlefield with your men.”
O’Lynn’s eyes glittered dangerously.
Arthur continued. “Let’s end this without further bloodshed. Single combat. For the future of Caerleon.”
The axe blade lowered slightly, and Aideen took in a shuddering breath. “Aye. Single combat. Ye and me.”
“No,” Fionna said. “Ye and me.”
Part of Arthur railed against it, but he knew that he could not deprive Fionna of her vengeance. She was as good as, or a better fighter, than he.
“Ye would have yer bitch fight for ye? The gelding of Caerleon, eh?” O’Lynn scoffed.
“Fionna is many things,” Arthur said, his voice ringing clear and true. “She is my wife. She is a warrior. A princess of Tara, heir to Clann Allán, queen of Caerleon and overqueen of Gwent. She is the most powerful sorceress in a millennia. The fae-born daughter of the goddess Danu. But of all things, she is a free woman, beholden to no man, not even a king. She makes her own choices. And it will give me great pleasure to watch her spear you through like a mewling pig.”
O’Lynn growled at that while tossing Aideen hard to the inn’s threshold. Then he opened his arms before him and held his great axe out as he took a step forward. “Daughter of Danu or no, I’ll enjoy killing ye more than ye can know,” he spat at Fionna.
“The feeling is mutual,” Fionna replied, also stepping forward, her twin swords bared.
Arthur held his breath—unable to move in the pregnant moment before the two warriors charged each other. Before the clash began.
But he could never have predicted what happened next. Aideen Allán, rising like a vengeful wraith with a wicked blade in one hand. Where she had been hiding it, Arthur didn’t know. But he recognized the skill she wielded as she leaped onto O’Lynn’s back, her arms clinging to his neck. As she drove the dagger deep into his exposed windpipe—all the way to the hilt.
O’Lynn froze, seemingly unable to comprehend what was happening. Aideen pulled the dagger out and drove the blade in again, this time angling the point up, into the man’s chin.
Arthur closed his eyes against the violence of it, the lethal precision of those blows.
Fionna had no such compunctions. A gasp of delight escaped from her and she ran forward, scrambling over the boulder separating them from O’Lynn and Aideen.
Aideen then crumbled to the ground and Fionna grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the way of O’Lynn’s blade.
The man dropped to his knees. With a thunk, his axe fell to the ground as his hands flew to his throat. As if he could hold in his lifeblood with only his fingertips.
Fionna darted forward and seized his helmet, wrenching it off his head before retreating to where her sister stood. Face bared, O’Lynn’s wound was even more horrendous, his face draining of blood. Always his eyes remained on the two women who stood before him, brimming with hate.
“A wedding gift,” Aideen said. Her shoulders were squared, her back straight. “Courtesy of Clann Allán.”
O’Lynn fell face first to the ground—dead.
Aideen’s hand flew to her mouth as she let out a sob. Matching tears coursed down Fionna’s cheeks as she pulled her sister into a tight embrace, murmuring into her hair, rocking her gently.
Arthur turned to where the battle still raged outside the ring of protective boulders. It was time to end this war. He summited a boulder and faced the soldiers.
“Men of Clann Uí Tuírtri!” he bellowed. “Your chieftain is dead! Lay down your weapons and you will be permitted to leave these shores and return to your homes! Keep fighting and Caerleon will show no mercy! Every last warrior will be slaughtered!”
Arthur would never execute men who had surrendered, but he thought O’Lynn’s warriors could use the added incentive.
In the distance, Arthur watched as a man raised his hands in the middle of a fight with Galahad, dropping his sword. The muffled sound of the weapon hitting the dirt was repeated all around the village and camp as enemy fighters began to drop their weapons.
Relief flooded Arthur. By the gods, they had done it. They had won.
The earth beneath their feet rumbled once again and he lost his balance. As he hit the ground, the boulders around them slowly began to sink into the earth. Arthur whipped his head Fionna’s direction with a raised eyebrow. But her face was stricken.
“It’s not me,” she said.
The sea of fighters parted as a woman in a black dress and flapping violet cloak strode toward them. Morgana. Her pale purple eyes were baleful as she spoke, her voice echoing over the hushed silence. “I’m sorry brother, but we’re not done here. Not even close.”
THE AIR CRACKLED between us. I sensed more than saw the moment before Morgana struck. The bolt of lightning shot from her hand, streaking toward me like a viper.
I dodged out of the way, rolling to my feet while summoning the elements to me. I welcomed each one into the void within me. The sky above Morgana darkened right before ripping open. Then a hailstorm erupted, dumping sheets of solid ice upon the Queen of Darkness. The hail was so thick, I couldn’t see if the ice stones had smothered her or not.
Until another bolt of lightning struck my side out of nowhere. I fell to my hip, hitting the ground hard. My teeth clamped together as pain exploded through me. I struggled to my feet, ignoring how my very skin felt raw, ignoring the throbbing that I hoped didn’t signal a serious wound. But I had no time to consider. My eyes focused on where Morgana’s crow form flapped into the air.
I blew a jet of air at her, tumbling the crow out of the sky.
She turned back into a female, mer
e heartbeats before her fae form collided with compacted grass and dirt. Afraid to lose my momentary advantage, I summoned earth and water to me, liquefying the ground beneath her into a pool of quicksand. Morgana shrieked as she began sinking into the muck, her knees, then her thighs, as the mud lapped at her fine gown.
Panic flashed in her eyes while she struggled to free herself, her hands now mired in the sludge. I prepared and released my own lightning strike, but my bolt missed her as an invisible force jerked her up, pulling her body out of the quicksand. Morgana’s eyes widened—it wasn’t her doing this.
I whipped my head to peer over my shoulder as I spun on my heels, and my eyes narrowed when two more faeries approached from an alley between the houses. A brunette in a scarlet dress and her fair sister in gold. Elaine and Morgause.
Morgana pulled swirls of magic to her, spinning her dress into a new form, ridding herself of the heavy, sticky mud.
I shot a gout of flame at her during her wardrobe change. But Elaine deflected my attack with green fire of her own. The combined flames, an eerie blend of red and green, crashed against a nearby building and whooshed up the thatch roof.
I sent water at the blaze while pulling the air from around the building. The situation would only get worse if the village started to burn too.
“Fionna!” Arthur shouted. He and my knights were pressed against the inn, watching the magical combat with fear tightening their faces into frowns and scowls.
A chill scraped down my spine in a violent strike as the air around me shifted to a rapidly plunging cold. A bitter cold that threatened to freeze the blood in my veins. My breath puffed from me in quick foggy bursts as I struggled to summon fire to warm myself. Limbs stiff, I returned focus toward the alley and grit my chattering teeth. It appeared the sisters had taken advantage of my distraction.
I was one, and they were three. I needed to do something quickly to end this fight before they wore me down. Or before I made a mistake. My magic was new to me while they had cast spells since childhood. I might be more powerful, but they were more skilled.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 58
