by Frank Miller
“I’m glad you’re up. They don’t really like me here. ‘Man blood’ and all.”
“They shouldn’t call you that. My mother never allowed it.”
Arthur nodded. “I’m just too human, I suppose. No wings or antlers. I can’t say I blame the poor wretches, what they’ve been through. Oh, and you should be prepared.”
Nimue frowned. “For what?”
“You’ll see.”
She stood up and swept the dirt and straw from her ragged trousers. Together they walked down a long, narrow tunnel that led into a wide, bowl-shaped cavern, partially open to the sky, through which the forest had invaded: fallen trees, gnarled roots, and mossy boulders created a sloping bridge to the outside world.
Nimue marveled at the Fey community that had arisen here as the refugees tried to create a semblance of normal life. The cavern had been divided into tribal areas. Territories were staked throughout the caves. Tusks huddled together, fashioning their unique bone weapons, while high up in the walls, Storm Crafters hung their air beds, and Snakes threw up their unnerving skin tents to avoid contact altogether.
A pall of misery hung over the caves. More than once she had to watch her step for the sick, the old, and the wounded. They crowded the floors, eyes weak and fearful. The caves were a hive of activity as Fey Kind hauled water and baskets of gathered roots and raided vegetables, hung clothes, tended the wounded, and moved the sick to more isolated areas for fear of outbreaks. Even still Nimue could see that provisions were scarce. The cave had an unmistakable edge of tension. She saw a shoving match across the way between Tusks and Snakes. It was broken up quickly, but without enough to eat, tribal and territory minds would eventually take over. It was only a matter of time. She could see that.
Unlike their elders, the Fey children played together, and their laughter was a most welcome sound.
As Nimue and Arthur passed toward the center of the caves, a murmur arose. Nimue felt many eyes upon her. It made her nervous. She didn’t know these clans or their customs. She had no idea what sort of welcome, if any, to expect.
“Why are they all staring?” Nimue whispered to Arthur.
“The Wolf-Blood Witch has arrived.”
A small Faun girl with tiny antler buds growing from her high forehead ran up to Nimue and touched her leg before retreating to the safety of her family shelter. A few more children of all different Fey clans swarmed around her, pushed to hold her hand or touch her, reach for her, pull at her torn sleeves. Some adults joined the children, encircling Nimue, a dozen at first, then dozens more, then a hundred, surrounding her in a worshipful circle of thankful survivors. Nimue’s chest tightened with fear. Part of her wanted to run as the refugees pulled her away from Arthur to put necklaces over her head or to offer her scraps or charms of whatever eager gifts they could. Nimue said over and over, “Thank you, thank you, you’re so kind.” She turned back to look for Arthur but could not see him in the crowd that had formed around her.
SEVENTEEN
THE BLIND JUGGLER WAS A gloomy, smoke-filled tavern with a warped floor that reeked of sour wine. The glowing logs in the central hearth cast a dim yellow glow in the eyes of the men who muttered over their cups, looking for vulnerable travelers to rob of their purses. The women were just as dangerous, skilled at lifting coins as they whispered illicit promises into the ears of lonely strangers.
Merlin was one of those strangers and had chosen a corner table that allowed him to both see and be seen, for he was both hunter and prey this evening. The brutes at the other tables did not concern him. Merlin was trying to lure out more elusive game.
Harrow’s Pond was a backwater on the edge of one of the many Wildlands—untamed and violent wildernesses harboring dangers both natural and otherwise—that divided the kingdoms of England, Aquitania, and Francia, making the task of uniting the region the rocks upon which all ambitious kings had crashed. Riders were known to push their horses the extra day’s ride to avoid a night’s stay, for Harrow’s was a thieves’ paradise. Its very construction, tightly packed and tilting structures built against a hill to prevent it from sinking into the wetlands, created a rat’s burrow of winding alleys, narrow stairways, dead ends, and dark lanes.
It was also the dominion of Rugen the Leper King, Shadow Lord of the Damned. But gaining audience with such deadly company was a delicate dance, even for Merlin the Magician.
A boy with half an ear dropped a hunk of maslin on the table along with a jug of wine and a cup. Merlin flipped the boy a silver piece, and he snatched it like a baby shark. Merlin poured himself a full cup. It might be a long evening. He took a long swallow, set down the cup, and froze.
He turned slowly to a veiled woman, dressed all in black, seated in the chair next to him. “Gods, why must you sneak up on me like that?”
“I am the Widow” was her reply.
“Were you followed?”
She tilted her head, curious.
“Foolish question,” Merlin said.
“You told us the Sword of Power was destroyed.”
His burned skin tingled. “That was my belief. But the omens tell a different story.”
“The Shadow Lords consider this a final betrayal. You’ve lost what little trust remained between us.”
“Be that as it may, the sword has been found. And soon the War of the Sword will be rejoined. ‘Whosoever wields the Sword of Power shall be the one true king.’ Those who believe the prophecy will draw their battle lines. The Ice King’s fleets will gather in the north, the Red Paladins to the south, Shadow Lords to the east, and soon King Uther will send his armies. Now shall we spend our energies on internecine struggles or on the true threat at hand?”
“What’re you eating? Tables are for supper only.” The half-eared boy had returned.
“How is the rabbit?” Merlin asked, hoping it was actually rabbit.
“Sublime,” the boy answered with admirable sarcasm.
“I’ll have it. And another cup for my companion,” Merlin said, gesturing to the Widow.
“What companion?” The boy looked at Merlin sideways.
“You’re more distracted than usual,” the Widow observed.
“Never mind,” he said to the boy, forgetting that to the boy’s eyes the seat beside him was still empty. Merlin turned back to the Widow. “I called you here as a friend, not as an emissary for the Lords.”
“I tell you this as a friend. If they cast you out, it does not end there. You know too much and have too many enemies. They will hunt you down. And I fear who may rise in your absence.”
“Your concern warms my heart.”
“This business with the sword has also given new life to the rumors. They say either you are a liar or you truly have lost your magic. Well.” The Widow folded her pale hands on the table. “Have you?”
I am playing with fire, Merlin mused. He chose discretion. “Are we getting personal now? Shall I ask about your dear husband?”
The Widow tensed expectantly. “Have you heard something? Has someone seen his ship?”
Stop playing games, Merlin. The Widow was forever waiting for her husband to return from sea. Her sorrow was so powerful it had kept her alive far longer than any human lifespan and had bestowed upon her the gift to bridge worlds and earn her place as the Shadow Lord of the Dying. The final three lines of Feadun the Bard’s famous “Candletree’s Lament” said it best. Candletree breathes his final breath as his brave squire hovers over him:
What say you, dear Candletree?
“A gray veil rises,” he whispered.
“For it is the Widow’s face I see.”
Merlin saw no need to continue to antagonize one of Death’s sisters. “I have heard no news. I can only wish for his safe return.”
The Widow adjusted her veil. Smoothed her lace sleeves.
He continued. “Your vision, what does it show you regarding the sword? Where will it land?”
The Widow was quiet as she peered into the future. “The sword is finding
its way to you, Merlin, but which end—the point or the pommel—is another question.”
“Then I must be ready for either.”
“And?”
“The sword was forged in the Fey Fires, and to the Fey Fires it shall return. I shall melt it back to its origins.”
“You intend to destroy it? And what of the prophecy?”
“They were the hopeful words of a gentler time. I am wiser now. There is no one true king. The sword is cursed and will corrupt all who wield it.”
“As always, you choose the most difficult path.”
“Few on earth know the sword the way I know it. This is the only way.”
“But the forges of the Fey burned out a thousand years ago.”
“I am aware. Fey Fire is now a rare, coveted treasure, possessed by only the most discriminating collectors.”
“Oh dear, tell me you’re not planning to steal from him?”
“I am.”
“Without your magic?”
“Rumors. Either way, I still have my wits. And my charm.”
“I fear you overestimate both.”
“Will you help me? Old friend?”
The Widow sighed. “I presume this is why you asked me to bring the necklace?” She slid something to Merlin beneath a black silk.
Merlin took it and hid it quickly inside his robes. “I hate to ask you to part with it.”
“I have no need for jewelry.” The Widow sighed. “Is that all?”
“I would also like to borrow your horse.”
The tavern doors of the Blind Juggler flew open, followed by Merlin. He tried to keep his footing, but the brawny innkeeper had him by the belt and threw him—sprawling—into a pile of manure. The moon was high and bright.
“I should piss on you, you sodding dog!” The innkeeper gave Merlin an extra boot to the chest as the mage tried to climb to his knees. Then he turned on his heel and stormed back into the tavern.
“The only reason I relieved myself on your floor is because that sour wine you serve is so bloody watered you have to drink a gallon of it to acquire an adequate drunk!” Merlin threw a ball of manure at the door as it slammed shut. “And, by the way, your ‘Mrs.’ Innkeeper gets quite over-friendly with the clientele!”
Merlin staggered to his feet, muttering. He weaved along the twisting main road of Harrow’s Pond, coins jingling in his purse, half singing and half arguing to unseen companions. He was only a few hundred feet from the Juggler when the shadows began to move along the walls after him.
Merlin took a swig from his wineskin, then cocked an eyebrow as four shambling figures, lepers judging by their boiling, peeling hands and black rags, approached him on all sides. Merlin stood still as the circle closed in around him. A dozen more appeared like wraiths, as though rising from the cracks in the street, while others clawed out of basements and ditches.
Once Merlin was thoroughly surrounded, he threw his wineskin defiantly on the ground and growled, “You know who I am. Now take me to your king.”
At this, the mob threw itself upon him and Merlin succumbed to their reaching, scratching hands. Within moments he had vanished inside the ragged swarm. It moved like a single organism, carrying Merlin away into secret tunnels beneath Harrow’s Pond, into ancient and abandoned Roman sewers, and into an infernal darkness.
EIGHTEEN
A FEATHERED ARROW WHISTLED THROUGH the cold forest and struck a rabbit in the haunches, spinning it like a top. A young Faun boy shouldered his bow and hurried to retrieve the animal. His footsteps made no sound on the brittle leaves.
Morgan and Nimue followed behind in hooded cloaks, protection against the chill and against prying eyes. The high gray clouds were flat and unmoving, as though waiting for something. They gave the day an unwelcome suspense.
The Faun boy raised the dead rabbit. Morgan held up five fingers, indicating that the day’s hunt had barely begun. He stuffed the rabbit in a sling around his back and set off once more.
“That’s a lot of work for one boy,” Nimue offered.
“We dare not travel in greater numbers. The rector in Cinder’s Gate has been giving me funny looks, and he’s recently taken to wearing red robes. It’s a miracle we haven’t been discovered already.” Morgan knelt down to examine a root in the ground, decided it had no value, and left it.
“It’s incredibly brave what you’ve done,” Nimue said.
“I suppose. Mind you, I’m no Wolf-Blood Witch,” Morgan teased.
“All I’ve done is run and . . . and fight . . . just to live. I’m no one, I assure you. I hate to disappoint them, but I’m no one,” Nimue said, but she felt a rush of warmth at Morgan’s words. She found that she was hungrier for encouragement than she’d realized.
Morgan shook Nimue’s shoulder. “You’re the only one who’s stood up to them, who’s fought back. These people need to know that. They deserve a little hope, even if it’s fleeting.”
“Fleeting?” Nimue repeated.
Morgan nodded sadly. “We can’t sustain this. Every day brings a new family, new survivors. And now the cold. If the paladins don’t kill them, the winter surely will. Up to now I’ve convinced them not to raid the farms, because once that happens, the game is up, but they won’t listen to me for long. And gods, how they argue. Thank the gods for the Green Knight. They respect him.”
“Who is he?” Nimue asked, curious.
Morgan chuckled. “I couldn’t tell you. He doesn’t really speak to ‘Man Bloods.’ Doesn’t trust our kind.”
“But you’re helping them. That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s a divided world, Nimue.”
“But you think this Merlin can help?”
Morgan nodded. “Perhaps. If you’re willing to be strong. If you’re willing to challenge him.”
Nimue felt a pit in her stomach and was desperate to change the subject. “How did you get involved in any of this? You’re not”—Nimue saw Morgan’s eyes darken ever so briefly—“by that I mean—you owe them—you owe us nothing.”
“My bundles were light.” Morgan noted Nimue’s confusion and continued, “The vegetables I would buy from the local farms were half the weight. The farmers railed on about thieves. This went on for a week. And then I was out gathering herbs for my little ‘recipes’—call them potions, if you like; I know it sounds foolish. Sometimes they take me quite far off the road, and that’s where I found a family of Tusks, huddled inside a dead oak tree. One of them—an old woman, the grandmother—had been pulled from a burning cross, half-cooked, poor wretched thing. They had carried her for days. She’s buried not far from here. And then the floodgates opened. Two families the next day—Snakes, I think you call them. When the Moon Wings arrived, we were able to set up a signal watch in the trees. Scouts were sent to divert survivors from the King’s Road. And one sleepless month later we find ourselves here. And you? How did you rope Arthur into all this? He’s not exactly known for his selfless behavior. He must fancy you.”
Nimue opened her mouth but found no words.
Morgan chuckled. “Oh no, look how red you’re getting! We must teach you not to blush. You’ll give all your cards away.”
“I’m not, that’s—that’s absurd.” Nimue tried walking faster.
“There’s no shame in it if you fancy him. He’s a beautiful boy, my brother, if unreliable. Here today, gone tomorrow.” There was something about Morgan, the way her words seemed to always carry two meanings, that made Nimue think of Pym. Nimue always enjoyed toying with Pym, who wore her feelings so openly. She loved to whisper the foulest thoughts into Pym’s ear during lessons, because Pym could never stifle an emotion. Pym’s purity always made Nimue feel braver, made her take greater risks, like at the tavern, the day they’d met Arthur. Had she not challenged Bors, had they gone home when the sun was up, would it have made a difference? Would more of her clan have survived? Nimue’s chest ached for her friend.
“I owe him my life,” Nimue admitted.
“You give him too
much credit.”
Nimue felt a heat rise around her ears. “Were you there? He showed true friendship and could have left me to the wolves a dozen times.”
“Owe him what you like. But ask yourself why he took you south, closer to danger, rather than north? Hmm?”
“We’ve been running. We barely had a chance to give it much thought.”
“You never gave it much thought. But Arthur did. He brought you here to abandon you,” Morgan said matter-of-factly. It stung.
“He wouldn’t do that,” Nimue said with little confidence. In truth, the thought of Arthur leaving made her legs weak. It touched a deep and remnant pain of childhood.
“Do you think he wants your problems? His feet never touch the ground. Be grateful he got you this far.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Morgan turned on Nimue fiercely. “Because you’re too important to tie your heart to any man. You don’t owe him anything. It was Arthur’s privilege to serve you, and you need to believe that if you want to survive.”
Nimue frowned. “I don’t—”
“You’re not some Fey girl anymore. You are the Wolf-Blood Witch. You wield the Devil’s Tooth. Some will worship you, Nimue, and some will fear you, and some will do everything they can to burn you on the cross. But unless you claim this fate, it will eat you alive. You need to know who your true friends are.”
“And how do I know that?”
“Look around you. When the paladins come for me, no bards will sing my story. I’ve thrown in my lot with you and there is no turning back.”
“And does that make you my friend?”
“More than friends. Blood sisters. My survival is now tied to yours, Nimue. I will lie and steal and kill for you. But the one thing I won’t do is stand by and watch you give up your power to any man.” Morgan took her knife and dragged the blade over the edge of her palm, opening a cut of dark blood. She made a fist and got her fingers wet. Then, with the same hand, she clasped Nimue’s neck and cheek, smearing the flesh red. “I pledge my life to you. Let me be your soldier. And your student. Teach me.” Morgan’s bloody thumb dragged across Nimue’s lips.
