Cursed

by Frank Miller

  Drowning. I’m drowning.

  Merlin focused his mind despite the bedlam around him. He calmed his movements, which slowed his sinking. His hands searched and searched until they found the wet end of the rope and grabbed hold. The rope was taut. Merlin pulled himself forward, arms burning. The rope pulled back. He kicked his legs, gradually finding traction. He fought off dozens of grasping hands, climbing over the drowning bodies and using them as a platform to escape. Thank you, Rugen, Merlin thought, smiling to himself.

  He began the muddy climb, the mud-slick rope slowly slipping through his fingers. His boots dug into the slime as he clawed for the distant glow of the dull gray sky, while hundreds of lepers filled the tunnel, squeezing and squirming after him like a rat plague.

  Merlin spilled into the light, and waiting for him there, tied around the neck with the other end of the rope, was a black horse with eyes as white as milk, a gift from the Widow. Merlin leaped onto the horse, grabbed the reins, and dug his heels into her ribs. The horse reared and kicked, then surged forward, trampling lepers under her hooves and galloping across the desolate valley, which was swarming with more and more pursuers who were falling farther and farther behind their prey.

  After a day’s ride through brackish swamps, Merlin found himself back in Harrow’s Pond, where, as he expected, twenty soldiers, wearing the seal of Uther’s three crowns on their tunics, awaited him.

  Merlin took no joy in having left Uther in a state of such fear. The blood rain was a chilling omen but only the first breeze of the Great Storm gathering across the sea. The world could not withstand another War of the Sword, so Merlin was bound and determined to destroy the infernal blade before its blood thirst could topple another civilization, no matter the consequences, no matter the rivals scorned or kings defied.

  He would be the first to admit he had been a poor counselor to Uther Pendragon. Notwithstanding the unending schemes of Uther’s ambitious and ruthless mother, the Queen Regent, Merlin himself had spent the last sixteen years in a waking sleep of regret and recrimination and disinterest. And Uther paid the highest price of all, Merlin thought. But the rise of the sword had awakened his senses. And though his loss of magic left him largely blind to his enemies, he could still read the pieces on the chessboard better than most. Without his intervention, he saw how this would play out. Death and fire would not be his legacy. Not this time. No matter the cost.

  Still, he knew Uther’s temperament well enough to avoid a direct confrontation. Like any king, when Uther learned of the Sword of Power, he would demand it for himself. Merlin had to control that information and manage the king’s expectations. The final cut between them was yet to arrive. Until then, Merlin would be walking a tightrope above a floor of cobras. He could only hope that his rivals had not exploited his absence.

  As he approached, he tucked the Snake clay with the Fey Fire into the saddlebag of the Widow’s horse.

  He bent over and whispered in her ear, “When I dismount, fly like the wind, my girl.”

  The horse snuffed.

  At the sight of Merlin, the guards opened the barred door of a dungeon wagon. Several hurried over to take the reins of the Widow’s horse as the captain of the guard drew his sword. “Merlin the Magician, you are under arrest by order of the king.”

  As Merlin climbed down from the saddle, the mare rose up in a kicking fury and knocked the soldiers to the ground. She turned and flew into the narrow swamp trails as though chased by devils.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  A GUST OF COLD WIND FLAPPED the gray robes of the Weeping Monk as he rode across the cattle field of a wealthy dairy farm taken by the Red Paladins as a temporary encampment. Tied to his saddle was a rope pulling a small mare and her riders, a bound and bloodied father and son. The monk knew them as “Tusks,” creatures marked by their dark, bristled hair and the stubby horns that grew from below their ears. Their unique prints and musky scents made them easy to track, but that didn’t make them easy prey. Far from it. The Weeping Monk took pride that he’d brought in two alive. They were the toughest fighters of the Fey Kind, and capture was a great dishonor in their clan. He had seen more than a few cut their own throats rather than be taken alive.

  A group of paladins, bloody to the elbows from the slaughter of the dairy cows, stopped what they were doing to watch the monk. He paid them no mind.

  A scouting party kicked up clods of dirt as they galloped into the distance at the command of Father Carden, who smiled and hailed the monk upon seeing him.

  “My boy, my dear boy,” Carden said as the Weeping Monk dismounted into the priest’s fierce embrace. Carden held the monk’s shoulders and looked at him with his piercing blue eyes. “Are you well?”

  “I’m well, Father,” the monk whispered.

  “This is very good,” Carden replied, still searching the monk’s face, but for what he did not say. It was an appraisal as cold as the gusts blowing in from the east. Whatever he saw tightened Carden’s jaw. “We’re being tested now. All of us. We must be strong. The Beast has awakened and shown his banner. Our resolve must be total. It wants to sow our doubts and our fears. It feasts on these things.”

  “Yes, Father.” The monk nodded.

  Carden tightened his grip. “But our love is stronger than its hate. Eventually love wins. It is our unbreakable chain—our bond—that will choke the Beast in the end.”

  He smiled. The Weeping Monk bowed his head. “Yes, Father.”

  A tremulous wail of agony carried on the wind from the distant stables. The monk noted a spiral of black smoke arising from the same set of buildings. The next gust of wind brought a sharp, acrid scent to the monk’s nose, a familiar scent of burning flesh. Carden noted the curl on the monk’s lip and took a deep, satisfied breath.

  “The smell of confession. We are very fortunate to have Brother Salt hard at work in his kitchen. Arrived from Carcassonne a few days ago.”

  The Weeping Monk turned his hooded face toward the stables. His muscles tensed ever so slightly at the mention of Brother Salt.

  It was enough for Father Carden to notice. “I need my very best weapons on the front lines. The steel and the fire. Together you are God’s flaming sword.”

  The monk did not respond.

  “Now tell me about the Wolf-Blood Witch.”

  “They went south into the Minotaurs.”

  “They?” Carden pressed.

  “She rides with someone. The injuries on our slain brothers were from sword and ax. They were ambushed.”

  “She has allies,” Carden spat as he paced in the mud. “The sword is a beacon. And every sunrise that passes, every day that she is not nailed to the cross, is a day this plague spreads. Do you understand?”

  The Weeping Monk nodded.

  All kindness left Carden’s face as he said, “I pray you do.” With that, he regarded his prisoners. “Now then, what have you brought us?”

  “These two”—the monk turned his hood to the wretched father and son on the mare—“were hiding in the brush by the lake.”

  “Were they?” Carden sized them up. “The Beast’s little spies. I’ve seen their kind before.” Carden walked up to the prisoners. “Ah, yes.” His thumb wiped the dried blood from the boy’s cheeks. “We’ve been hearing about this. They’re painting their faces with animal blood to honor her.” Carden turned back to the monk, his lips tight. “To honor her.”

  The monk did not respond.

  Carden patted the boy’s knee.

  At this, the wounded father managed the strength to drive his boot into Carden’s arm. The priest stumbled backward.

  In a flash, the Weeping Monk’s sword was drawn and—

  “Hold!” Carden commanded.

  Red Paladins were already converging on the scene.

  The Weeping Monk’s hands twitched to kill as he had been taught.

  Carden brushed the mud from his shoulder. “Alive is better. Soon he will feel the full warmth of God’s light. Bring them down and strip off their
clothes.”

  Red Paladins pulled the Tusks from the mare’s saddle and tore their shirts down, exposing their bare chests to the cold wind. The father had a clean puncture on the left side of his ribs that had gone straight through his back. He coughed wetly and his complexion was gray.

  Father Carden poked the wound and the Tusk father winced. “This one doesn’t have very long,” Carden chided the Weeping Monk. “Your aim is true to a fault, my child.” The priest turned to the stables and his eyes brightened. “Well, no matter, this pig will squeal. Here comes Brother Salt now.”

  Two Red Paladins led Brother Salt from the stables to the well. He dipped his hands in a full bucket, rubbed the water over his shaved head, and poured another handful over his stitched-closed eyes. He dried his hands on his red robe, tightened his belt, and allowed his acolytes to lead him across the muddy pasture to Father Carden. One of the acolytes carried objects in a leather bundle under one arm.

  “I heard the hoofbeats on the cold dirt,” Brother Salt said with a smile, taking the Weeping Monk’s hand and patting it softly. Salt reeked of the sour smoke of his trade. “And I knew it was my brother.”

  The Weeping Monk removed his hand from Salt’s clasp.

  “The eyes are weak. We cannot trust what they see, they give away our hearts and they are soft to the touch. That is why I save the eyes for last in my work. A man always cries like a baby when you touch his eyes. This is why I had no use for mine. It makes me a better soldier for God.”

  The Weeping Monk’s hands balled into fists as Carden gently took Salt’s arm and led him to the prisoners. “Brother Salt, the monk has brought us gifts.”

  Brother Salt’s hands eagerly sought out the Tusks’ exposed skin. His fingers crept into their armpits and around the soft parts of their necks, behind their ears, and around their backs. He found the father’s injury and grunted with displeasure. “This one is useless. We’ll have to start with the boy. The father will talk when I work on the boy. Do you know me, boy?” Salt asked the Tusk, who the Weeping Monk guessed could not be a day past fourteen. The boy shook from cold and terror but held his grimace. “Have you heard my name? Have you heard of Brother Salt and his kitchen? Let me introduce you to my friends.”

  Salt’s acolytes unrolled the leather bundle, revealing seven iron tools in leather pockets.

  “God’s Fingers, I call them. Each is named for one of His archangels.” Salt pulled out one of the implements, about as long as his arm and tipped with a corkscrew brand. “This is Michael. When I put Michael in the fire, he glows a beautiful white. A white light. The light of truth. For Michael is truth. You can only speak truth to Michael.” Salt put the brand back into its leather sheath. He pinched the boy by the nose. “Don’t worry, you will meet them all tonight.”

  “No!” The father lunged for his son, but the Red Paladins easily wrestled him down. “I’ll tell all I can! He doesn’t know anything!” The father sputtered these words with his face pressed into the mud. At Carden’s nod, the paladins dragged the Tusks across the field toward the stables. The boy kept mute the whole time, head hung low as he stumbled along.

  Another cold gust rattled the Weeping Monk’s robes as he swayed with indecision. Carden noted this with displeasure. He came up close to the monk so they could not be overheard. “You need prayer. We have raised the crosses in the burning field behind the barn. Take the time you need.”

  The Weeping Monk half nodded, as though embarrassed, and swung up onto his courser, wheeling her around and riding toward the pasture of empty crosses as ordered.

  He knelt there for three solid hours, not moving, as his fellow paladins sawed and chopped the wood for several more crosses. They were raised in a crooked line and resembled a skeleton forest around the monk. The temperature continued to drop. The wind lashed at him. The rest of the paladins sought shelter by the fires in the house. The Weeping Monk remained, still as a statue.

  When the moon was directly overhead, Father Carden walked into the pasture and knelt beside him. After a few prayerful moments, he turned to the monk, whose cheeks were wet with real tears.

  “I’m proud of you, my son. Your gifts bore fruit. They were spies as I suspected, scouts for a secret trail through the woods away from the King’s Road, smuggling the Fey Kind who escaped us. The conspiracy leads south into the Minotaurs near Cinder’s Gate. There could be hundreds or more crawling around in those caves. This must be where the witch is heading. We can pull this weed from the roots.”

  The Weeping Monk shook his head. “I failed you.”

  “How have you failed me, my child?”

  “His Grace, I can’t feel it. I call to Him, but I reach out and there is only darkness. And I feel . . .” The monk hesitated.

  Father Carden rubbed the monk’s back. “Tell me.”

  The monk struggled with his words. “There is a serpent in my stomach. It twists and writhes. It’s poisoning me.”

  “Does it speak to you?”

  The monk nodded.

  “And what does it say?”

  “I fear to give it a voice.”

  “You have nothing to fear from me, my son. You are the sword of avenging light in pitched battle with the Lord of Darkness. Did you think you could escape his touch? His corruption? The Beast does not tear flesh. It tears souls.”

  The monk shuddered as he fought off a wave of emotion.

  Father Carden’s voice was soft. “Speak this poison and expel it before it sickens you further.”

  “It tells me I am the dark angel.”

  “Of course it does,” Carden chuckled, pulling the monk’s hooded face to his chest, “for that is what you are to our enemies. God’s cleansing blade. My dear, dear sweet boy.” The Weeping Monk wrapped his arms around the only father he knew, balling his robes in his fists. Carden rocked him gently as the wind gusted around them. “I fear I’ve put too much on you. This work will blacken our hearts, but we must persevere. Channel your strength into that sword and bring me that witch’s head and her Devil’s Tooth. My dear child,” Carden soothed, “my Lancelot.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  KING UTHER DREADED THE LONG, winding walk up to his mother’s tower. The moment the smell of her pastries hit his nostrils, goose flesh would rise on his arms and his stomach would lurch. He looked down at her slender goblet on the tray he was forced to carry and mused briefly about spitting into the hot water, yet decided against it. Lady Lunette, the Queen Regent, was far too savvy in the dark arts of poison for him to toy with her on that same battlefield.

  Still, he resented the summons and knew the cause: three nights before, he had lost three ports and twice as many ships to the Red Spear, a Viking warlord notable for an iron lance, like a great horn, on the bow of his ship, painted with pitch and set ablaze to inspire fear in his victims. The Red Spear was a loyalist to Cumber, the self-proclaimed “Ice King” and an audacious claimant to the bloodline of Pendragon. This was sure to reignite the murmurings of Uther’s illegitimacy to the throne, the type of unjust drivel monarchs were subjected to, Uther could only assume.

  Hands full, the king knocked with his slippered foot, hurting his toe on the heavy wood and cursing his mother under his breath for it.

  “About time,” said a croaky voice from within.

  Uther sighed and tried to balance the tray on one hand while opening her door with the other. When he managed to enter, he found her in her usual spot, perched at the tower window to spy over all, endlessly patting her tart dough. The Queen Regent’s tower was all white, and a fire burned warmly in the hearth. Trays of candies, cakes, and pies were set atop many tables. By design, there was no lovelier or more welcoming room in the entire castle.

  “We’re rather busy, Mother, so we hope this doesn’t take long.”

  “Busy, are you? Not as busy as the Ice King, it seems,” she scoffed.

  Uther allowed his tension to spill over. “Where does this lowly savage find the bloody nerve to claim our name? Our name!”

&n
bsp; “Good lords, I hope you didn’t blubber on like this at court.” She set down her dough and slapped her knees as though preparing to teach a lesson. “It is the pity of princes that no one ever teaches them how to take a punch. Because when someone finally does, they screech like pheasants.”

  “Right. Thank you, Mother.” Uther wheeled around to leave, but Lunette was not finished.

  “The first gauntlet of the greatest war in ten ages has just been thrown and you haven’t a bloody clue, have you?”

  The king hesitated at the door. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “The Sword of Power, Uther. The Sword of the First Kings has revealed itself. Its recovery was likely the very reason for the blood that rained on your castle. I seem to recall a certain trickster in your employ who should have told you about this. What was his name? A famous name, I believe—”

  “Just stop,” Uther snapped, turning around. The tower was quiet but for the squish of Lunette’s dough. He loathed that she was ahead of him on anything. It was the very reason he kept Merlin by his side, to counter his mother’s constant meddling. Uther assumed an aloof posture, careful not to betray his urgency to know her thoughts. “Who told you this about the sword?”

  “Well, I figured one of us should cultivate acquaintanceships with those who can see the other side. I have my ways, Uther, don’t you worry.” Lunette smiled coldly.

  Uther locked his fingers behind his back, examined some tea cakes, took in the view of the cliffs and crashing sea from the window. Then: “We thought the sword was a story. A child’s story.”

  “Further proof of how ill-served you have been by that mixed-blood Druid.” Lunette shook her head and dipped her doughy fingers into another bowl. “I assume you know the prophecy?”

  Uther repeated it like a distant memory. “Whosoever wields the Sword of Power shall be the one true king.”

  “Yes, well, Cumber wants the Sword of Power, and unlike some monarchs I could mention, he appears motivated to actually get it.”