The Book of Mordred

by Vivian Vande Velde

  "No!" Romola cried. But the man named Sylvanus was already behind her, and he pinned her arms back. She tried to kick and wriggle her way free, but the man was so much stronger.

  "Now, now, my dear," the wizard said. "It will all be over soon. Well, eventually."

  The ominous effect he wanted to create was disturbed by the clatter of feet on the stairs and the sound of panting. Distracted and annoyed, Halbert thundered, "What in the name of all the powers of Hell is it now?"

  Bayard held his sword at the ready, but when the door opened, it was one of the other knights from the castle. "What?" Bayard snapped at him.

  "Sir, someone is at the castle gate."

  "It's the middle of the night."

  "Yes, sir, it is."

  Bayard paused to take a calming breath before answering, "So tell whoever it is to go away."

  "It is Sir Lancelot Dulac, sir, and he will not go away."

  Nimue was already facing Mordred, so she saw the flicker of surprise. An instant later, when Bayard and Halbert turned, it was gone.

  Still facing the prisoners, Bayard told his man, "Tell him to come back in the morning."

  "Wait," said Halbert. "When has Lancelot ever stopped by here for a friendly visit?" He looked from Mordred in the cage to Nimue, and Nimue hoped her face told as little as Mordred's. Slowly, as if to convince himself also, Halbert said, "Word could not have reached Camelot yet. Could not. It has to be a coincidence."

  "Coincidence or not," Bayard said, "we do not want the man here."

  Halbert continued to scrutinize the prisoners.

  Mordred smiled enigmatically.

  The wizard's hand was at his chest, stroking the ruby pendant under his shirt.

  Nimue, who didn't dare wish that Lancelot would demand entrance because that might endanger his life, held her breath.

  "I think," Halbert said to his nephew, but hesitantly, "I think you had better talk to Sir Lancelot yourself and try to find out how much he knows."

  CHAPTER 9

  As soon as Bayard was gone, Halbert said to the remaining knights and guards, "I believe we were about to try an experiment of sorts with the girl."

  "Sir Dunsten," Nimue said.

  Mordred, for once taken totally by surprise, swore.

  Halbert's eyes shifted from one to the other, weighing, evaluating. "Thank you," he said, but cautiously. "That was unexpectedly reasonable of you."

  "Little good it will do you," Nimue said. She was making this up as she went along, and dared a wish that her gamble wouldn't cost Dunsten his life. Everything hinged on the fact that the first thing Halbert had demanded from his position of power had been—not the name of the messenger—but Merlin's ring. She said, "Mordred overrated you when he called you a second-rate wizard. Merlin would not have rated you so high."

  Halbert grinned. "But Merlin is dead."

  "No, he is not."

  Halbert shrugged. "Entombed or entrapped someplace safe, out of the way for both of us."

  Nimue couldn't help but smile. "Safer than you think," she told him.

  Halbert held up his hand. The ring caught a reflection of the torches and sparkled. "But his power, how safe is that?"

  "Safer," Nimue repeated, "than you think." It was as close as she would come to warning him.

  The wizard grinned at what must seem to him desperate bluster. It was a grin such as the real Wystan would never have worn; there was condescension there, and cruelty—and it looked ludicrous, though deadly, on his chubby, childish face. Halbert lifted his other hand too, and now held both above his head. "By all the powers of darkness," he intoned, "in the name of Lucifer, whom God himself could not contain—"

  There was a sudden flash of light that engirdled the wizard: no thunder, but a crackling that Nimue recognized as some distant relation to what Merlin called static electricity. One of the prisoners cried out, perhaps misunderstanding, perhaps only frightened by the sudden brightness that overcame every shadow in that torch-lit room. Nimue squinted, and saw Halbert's smile frozen. She had to blink several times, but the next image she caught was of the wizard clawing at his hand that bore Merlins ring. "Get it off!" he screamed. "Get it off!"

  One of the guards stepped forward warily.

  "Get the ring off!" The wizard dropped to his knees, then fell writhing to the floor.

  The guard cringed, but put his own hand through the dazzling outline that surrounded the wizard. And jumped back with a howl of pain.

  Nimue turned her face, but could still smell the singed flesh.

  "Somebody help me!" Halbert cried. "Damn you! I can heal any injuries! I can reward you beyond your dreams!"

  But most of those who were not looking at him in fascinated horror were eyeing the guard who knelt bent over what was left of his hand; and the rest were gazing at the door, looking ready to bolt.

  Nimue found that she could see the far wall through Halbert even as he continued to threaten and beg. And he was quickly fading.

  "Somebody do something!" But by then the wizards voice was just about all that was left. "Do something," it repeated, or echoed, "do something, do something..."

  And then the light was gone.

  As was the crackling energy in the air.

  And the wizard.

  There was a dull clunk! as Merlins ring hit the dirt floor. Nimue thought she might have heard a tiny squeak of pleading that lifted and carried itself away on little bat wings, but it was lost before she could be sure it had ever been there.

  One of the guards swore, and pushed her aside on his way out the door. Most of the others followed, though three remained, not counting the injured man. One of these looked too stupefied by the events to be of any concern. Of the others, Nimue chose the one closer to her and ran at him full speed. The collision sent him staggering backwards.

  Ever-quick Romola put her foot out and he toppled, falling against the prisoners' cage.

  "Witches!" the man snarled. His balance recovered, he took a step toward Romola, who was closer.

  But Mordred grabbed him through the bars and slammed him back against the cold metal.

  "Don't move," Nimue warned, though that hardly seemed necessary, as Mordred had already whipped away the man's dagger from his belt and was holding it to his throat. "Twitch, and I'll roast your innards." That was pure fiction: She'd had nothing to do with what had happened to the wizard. It had been the ring, defending itself. But the expressions on the surrounding faces showed little doubt of her ability. "Now..."—she pointed at the one guard who remained, beyond the one incapacitated by injury and the other by fear—"who has the key?"

  The man looked around, desperate to believe she could be addressing someone—anyone—else. "Sylvanus," he finally whispered, "my Lady. One of the ones who ran away."

  "There must be more than one."

  "In the guard area, my Lady."

  "In the guard area?" she repeated, letting all her anger, her exasperation, show.

  "My Lady, I swear it's true."

  "I want you to get it."

  Several of the prisoners started to talk at once, offering advice, though it was Romola's voice that cut through. "It would be safer if I—"

  Nimue held up a warning hand, and the silence was instant and total. There was too much danger of someone passing by the top of the stairs, of glancing down and seeing Romola. Very quietly, very calmly, she asked the guard, "Do you think my magic cannot go around corners?"

  He shook his head vigorously.

  "If you go and get the key—quickly—and bring it back, you will not be harmed," she assured him. "Do not let me suspect your sincerity. Do you understand?"

  "My Lady," he whispered.

  "Do you understand what I'm saying?" she repeated, for it was urgent that he believe.

  Wordlessly he nodded.

  And, indeed, he was back before Nimue would have thought humanly possible. But then it took him twice as long as it should have to unlock the door, because his hand kept shaking.

&
nbsp; "In!" Romola commanded the third guard, the one who—since this whole thing began—had not moved except to shiver. The cooper's nephew yanked up the man with the burnt hand and fairly threw him in also.

  "Come," Nimue said to Reynard's half-wit boy who had worked himself back into a corner and showed no sign of moving. The others had practically knocked each other down in their haste to get out. "The worst is over now." She sincerely hoped she was right. "You are safe."

  The youth finally came out, and Nimue turned to find Mordred had swept up one of the dropped swords, and now he had it pointed at the chest of the man who had gone for the key.

  "Wait! I promised if he cooperated we wouldn't kill him." Even as she said it, she knew why, of all the guards, Mordred would have cause to kill this man: He was the guard who had helped Bayard hold Mordred under water.

  "Never," Mordred told her, "do that again." When he was angry, he didn't get loud, but instead would lower his voice and speak from the back of his throat. "Don't you ever make promises I am supposed to keep."

  Nimue nodded.

  Mordred slowly lowered the sword, and the knight hurried into the cage unbidden, to be locked safely away.

  "Let's go," the wainwright said, "before anybody of 'em others comes back."

  "Wait." Nimue frantically searched the floor.

  "I have it." Mordred held out Merlin's ring in his palm. "It rolled after it fell."

  She breathed a sigh of relief. How could she have let it out of her sight, out of her thoughts, even for a moment? She reached, and Mordred subtly changed position: He didn't exactly close the hand, but suddenly his long fingers were curved more protectively, more possessively, around the ring.

  "Is that how you did it?" he asked. "With this?"

  Nimue spoke very evenly. "The ring has defenses of its own."

  "But it doesn't harm you," he pointed out.

  Nimue sighed. She had repeatedly misinterpreted and misjudged Mordred, but it hurt to see that he didn't understand her, either. "People persist in seeing me as a rival to Merlin, a competitor." She shook her head. "Merlin was sick. He was worn out and dying. He had me put him under a spell until such time as Arthur and Britain would need him. He gave me the ring—not for the ring to protect me, but for me to protect the ring. Not," she added, "that it needs much protecting."

  "So you're the only one who can use it?"

  "Yes." She said it for Merlin's sake, who was defenseless and couldn't be revived without it.

  Mordred didn't believe her. She could see that. Nobody would who considered the matter: Why would the ring need to be protected if she was the only one who could use it? She had realized he might not believe, and might be angry at her deception. What she hadn't counted on was that he didn't believe—and he was hurt by her lack of trust.

  "I see," he said. His eyes, that unlikely shade of gray, looked away. For once—rumpled, damp, and bedraggled—he was the one who looked in need of protecting. He seemed to suddenly notice his hand, half closed around the ring, and he held it out to her, flat-palmed.

  Nimue quickly snatched the ring away without looking at him, lest he change his mind.

  "I would have given it to you anyway," he said as she slipped the band back on her thumb.

  Because she had hurt him, after time and again he had proved true, she admitted, "Halbert died because of the way he obtained the ring—by force." She sent a wish flying that her betrayal wouldn't cause harm later on. "If the ring had been freely given, or found, that would have made all the difference."

  As you found it, she might have said.

  Mordred stepped back, and gave her a formal salute with his sword. He addressed the men who had been the wizard's prisoners. "I would suggest that you stay together. I doubt anyone is going to be willing to take you on after what they have witnessed happening to the wizard. If Lancelot is still at the gates, you might want to get the drawbridge down to let him in." He looked them over.

  As did Nimue.

  Untrained, badly armed peasants. Besides the sword Mordred had taken, there were two more from the other two guards, plus the one dagger, and a club one of the guards who had fled the room had dropped. It took years of training to master a sword. Nimue guessed anybody from this group who tried to use one would likely be more hazard to himself and his friends than to any enemy.

  "Or stay here," Mordred advised earnestly. "But whatever you do, stay together." He turned, then suddenly turned back, pausing only long enough to sweep up Romolas hand and give it a kiss, and then he was running up the stairs.

  "Be careful," Nimue called, but she couldn't tell if he'd heard.

  Dolph came and stood by his wife and gave a snort of disapproval. "Where's he off to, then?" He took her hand that Mordred had kissed and held it, an uncharacteristically possessive gesture. "And why's he wearing my clothes?"

  Nimue only bothered with the first part. "To kill Bayard, I imagine. Come, let us go."

  Sluggishly, the group began to move toward the door.

  Young Wystan, looking like Evan, grabbed her arm. "Look at my face," he said. "Tell me. Do there be any change?"

  "What?" she asked, distracted, her mind arguing with itself: that the safest place for these people might, in fact, be here.

  "He sez"—Wystan indicated the wainwright who pretended to be preoccupied with the abandoned dagger—"that I be growing old. Like wizard."

  "Oh Wystan!" Nimue took a closer look, saw nothing more than fatigue and worry. "Even if you were, he couldn't tell that in this light." That, obviously, was poor reassurance. Wystan surely needed to hear better than that. She added, "We're all a bit haggard. We have been up all night, and we have all been very afraid. Truly, I don't see anything else." She nodded toward the wainwright, happy for the excuse to look away from Wystan. "He's been in a great deal of pam—his hand was broken almost a week ago, and he's taking his pain and frustration out on you. I have to go now. The drawbridge needs lowering if Sir Lancelot is to get in. You'll be fine."

  He let go of her arm but didn't answer.

  The cobbler's apprentice, who had chosen the abandoned club as a weapon, tossed Wystan a long, sharpened stick that had been propped against one of the walls. Dolph and the cooper's nephew had picked up the swords that had belonged to the guards. The wainwright, with at least a couple broken fingers on either hand, wasn't going to be of much use, but he chose the dagger. Romola took the poker that was by the fireplace, and Nimue wouldn't take any weapon. The only other unarmed person was Reynard's Boy. He clung to Nimue and in any case nobody trusted him with anything sharp.

  In fact, seeing the improper way most of the weapons were held, and the way the men were swinging them about, Nimue felt a cold dread that they would probably be of more help to Bayard than to Mordred.

  CHAPTER 10

  If the former prisoners were counting on a fight, the men of Castle Ridgemont didn't seem willing to oblige them. Nimue and her companions made it outside without seeing anyone, which was odd even for this hour somewhere between night and morning. It wasn't until they rounded a corner on the way to the drawbridge that they surprised two fully armed knights headed the same way but coming from a different direction.

  Dolph lifted his sword, brandishing it much as a housewife might wave a flail to beat a rug.

  The two knights took one look at Nimue, then turned and ran.

  "Behind every successful man, there stands a strong woman," Dolph observed, with a wink for Nimue, to show he had no delusions why they had run.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, she couldn't help but smile. In another moment, the sound of nearby fighting turned the smile to a grimace.

  "Hush," one of them said to Boy, who was humming loudly. Then, "What is it?"

  Unsure of her voice, she pointed to the left, and up one level. "Sword fight," she managed to squeak. She could hear the distinctive clash of metal on metal. Mordred, she thought, don't get yourself killed now. Lancelot was the most competent knight of Camelot. Why didn't
Mordred leave the fighting to him? "Look." She pointed. "The bridge is down that way. If anyone is guarding it..." She looked at Dolph's sword and hesitated.

  Dolph grinned. "Don't worry. If worst comes to worst, I'll call out, 'Nimue, get this guard!' and they won't even stop to check if you're really there."

  She wanted to hug him, but there wasn't time. She ran in the direction from which she could still hear the metallic clangs. She was dimly aware of shadows that scurried out of her way, but she didn't stop for them.

  Mordred and Bayard were fighting on the bastion that overlooked the drawbridge—moving much too fast for her to dare try to intervene with magic. She could hear Sir Lancelot from below, yelling at whoever manned the bridge, demanding entrance.

  Nimue stifled a cry for Mordred to look out: He knew what he was doing, and she could prove a fatal distraction.

  He ducked the blow, missed an opening that could have ended the fight, but forced Bayard to take a backwards step.

  "My Lord, look out!" one of the Ridgemont guards called as Bayard came dangerously close to an open embrasure—a fall to certain death.

  That was Mordred's bad luck, but when Nimue heard the sound of running behind her, she whirled around. "Don't move," she warned the knights who were rushing to Bayard's aid.

  Their eyes glinted in the starlight as they looked, each to check the others' reactions. One by one their swords lowered.

  "Get back. I said back!" She used what Merlin had called his best John Barrymore voice. Whoever John Barrymore was, it worked.

  There was a loud screech and thud: the drawbridge. Somehow the inexperienced youths of St. George had accomplished their task. Lancelot wouldn't join the fight, now that Bayard and Mordred had engaged in single combat, but she hoped Lancelot could keep the fight fair. Once he actually got up here.

  Mordred seemed to be holding his own: Bayard was more experienced and had the advantage of strength, but Mordred was quicker and in better physical condition, so he would have more stamina. Their swords locked for a moment; Nimue could see that Bayard said something, although the dawn breeze carried away the words. Mordred didn't answer the gibe; he slid his sword down and around while he jumped to the side.