Cursed

by Frank Miller

  Nimue headed in the other direction, back to the cavern where the Joining had been, to find Arthur and to apologize. I kissed him! Or he kissed me. She wasn’t sure. But she was certain she had run off like a fool when Gawain had arrived and that it made her look quite fickle. She hoped to repair that breach and even pick up where they had left off.

  She entered the cavern and was sad to see that the beautiful boughs of flowers had already come down and been trampled underfoot by the new refugees. Nimue looked for Arthur amid those tending the wounded, but he wasn’t there. After a few minutes, she found Morgan tearing clothes into strips for dressing wounds.

  “Have you seen Arthur?” Nimue asked.

  “He left.”

  “Left? It’s the middle of the night. Left for where?”

  Morgan looked up at Nimue with sympathy. “To wherever Arthur goes.”

  “What are you saying? You mean he left for good? Without saying goodbye?” Nimue tried to sound calm, but her voice shook.

  “I warned you this would happen,” Morgan said with an edge to her voice.

  Speechless, Nimue hurried down the corridor to the alcove where Arthur slept. His lantern, wineskin, sword, and saddlebags were gone.

  Against all her secret hopes, Arthur had been true to his word.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  LED BY THE GLOW OF a solitary torch, thirty Red Paladins rode single file through thick woods in total silence along a slender deer path.

  Sister Iris carried the torch and led the procession, pleased that she had been chosen as First Fire, an honor Father Carden bestowed upon brothers and sisters considered most pious. It was the job of First Fire to enter the heart of impure villages and set the straw alight, drawing bodies to the flame for easier capture. If some fled, no matter: Sister Iris had her sling and bag of rocks, each rock sanded smooth. Once her prey was hit, Iris would finish the victim with a poke of her two-bladed sword. Or she could spill their brains with her hooked hammer. There were so many ways to purify.

  It made Iris smile inside when she learned the Fey Kind had named her the Ghost Child. This meant they feared her, just as they should. At eleven years old, she was already a spirit of death. Some of the older brothers might still laugh when they met her in person. She was only four feet tall.

  But they laughed only once.

  Her size was an advantage. That was how the Melted Man won so much gold, tossing Iris into the ring with men twice her size and laughing away as she bit and sliced and gouged them down to her level. Iris despised that laugh as she loathed everything about the Melted Man. He was still the only thing in the world she feared: his monstrous body and face of boils, his stick beatings, his threats of terrible curses, threats of selling Iris to the black network and their secret terrible gods. But he’d taught her to fight and taught her to hate, and now she could use those talents to serve Father Carden.

  His face was wide and smiling and cracked with wrinkles like an old statue weathered by storms, as beautiful as the Melted Man was ugly. Almost every night she dreamt she was Father Carden’s true daughter, that he took her aside and whispered the truth to her: you’re my real child. And she would wrap her arms around his neck as a true daughter could.

  For now it was enough to be his Ghost Child. One day she might even surpass the Weeping Monk as the favorite in his eyes. That thought warmed her more than the flickering fire she held aloft with her right hand.

  The wolves were making a bloody racket with their howling and their chains. Iris shot a look back at the shepherd, who snapped his short whip at the beasts, quieting them down.

  Iris was on edge. She did not want to disappoint Father Carden. He seemed more tense of late, the burdens of his task showing in his stooped posture and flashes of temper. The Wolf-Blood Witch was on all their minds. Sister Iris wanted to kill the witch so badly she could practically taste her blood. She so wanted to ease Father’s burden by cutting the witch into pieces and consigning her blackened soul to the glorious pyre.

  In time, Iris prayed, for now she had to focus on tonight’s raid.

  The village was quiet as they entered. That was good. Sister Iris counted twelve mud huts. These were Marsh Folk, so the air thrummed with frog chirps and the buzz of mosquitoes. For a moment, Iris grew concerned the huts would not burn in the damp air. With her left hand she readied her sling, feeling exposed as the other paladins peeled away to encircle the village and she alone—the First Fire—led her horse to the village center. She was surprised by the lack of dogs, by the lack of any scouts or night watch. Only a single pig rooted through a garden of chard and cabbages. Where are the dogs? she wondered.

  Sister Iris turned in a few anxious circles outside the Chief’s Hall, the largest of the huts, its roof a tangle of swamp branches ringed with animal skulls. She wound up and hurled her torch through the open hatch at the front, then spun and freed her two-bladed sword from her saddle, ready for whoever ran out.

  The hall was engulfed in seconds. So she waited, fist tight on the center grip of her sword, yet no one ran out. She lingered well past the time it would take any living thing to roast inside the Chief’s Hall, until finally, a scream ripped through the night.

  But it was not from inside the hall.

  Sister Iris turned as a Red Paladin galloped through the village, a long arrow protruding from his neck. His throat gurgled as he raced past Iris and trampled through the cabbage garden before falling from his saddle into the shallow marsh. More screams cut through the night as an arrow whistled and landed in her horse’s right flank. Iris’s horse wheeled and blundered backward into the crumbling, flaming wall of the Chief’s Hall. Iris was thrown head over heels into a fireball of dead branches.

  She screamed and breathed in the flames. Her robes lit up like a torch as she grasped burning coals to pull herself onto her feet. Her eyes swelled shut and the village around her was reduced to distant pinpoints. She was aware of the chaos around her but could not hear anything save for the crackle and sizzle of the clothes she was wearing and the flesh beneath them.

  A warrior at heart, Iris had had to manage pain for as long as she could remember in order to think on her feet in the pits. It was this skill she called upon as she tore free of her robes and ran with all her remaining strength into the snake-filled marshes at the edge of the village. As she collapsed into the reedy muck, her body gave off a blast of steam. Iris knew the fire had ravaged her and took no comfort in the numbness of her skin. She knew that was only a prelude to the torture to come.

  The witch. The witch did this.

  Iris rolled over in the mud and smiled with blackened lips as she dreamt of the many agonies she would inflict upon the witch.

  Meanwhile, a dozen Red Paladins dodged a volley of arrows and galloped into the forest to meet the ambush head-on.

  With their arrows spent, Faun archers scattered and bounded away like deer, their antlers flashing in the light of the paladin torches.

  “In the trees!” one of the paladins shouted. All eyes looked up to see shadowy bodies with long arms, framed against the moon, darting through the canopy branches with inhuman agility.

  The horsemen rode deeper into the darkness, the leader locking in on an injured Faun, who had separated from the group but who was, even at a hobble, still unnaturally fast. But the Red Paladin had been killing from horseback for months and chopped the Faun’s head clean between the antlers without breaking stride.

  Having recovered from the surprise of the ambush, the Red Paladins organized and spread out into a wider circle, trapping the Faun archers and several families of Marsh Folk in a ring of trees. As taught, the Red Paladins herded their prey by slowly closing the circle of horses. They barked and yipped like animals to enhance the fear of those trapped. A panicking Faun tried to leap over the horses, but one of the monks was ready and timed his swing perfectly, opening the Faun’s guts in midair. This gave the paladins a surge of confidence and they whooped louder, closing in for the kill.

  The com
mander shouted, “Horned devils first!”

  Marsh Folk pleaded and covered the heads of their children as the paladins’ swords rose into the air.

  Yet before the first blow fell, a loud snuff resounded behind the paladin leader, along with a crunching of leaves. The leader threw up his hands, signaling a pause, and carefully turned his horse to the shadows of the glade. He waved his torch in front of him and the spreading light caught upon large, dark eyes concealed in the lattice of swamp branches. What followed was a squeal loud enough to panic the paladins’ horses. The commander lived long enough to see the head of a giant boar erupt from the gloom to a chorus of snapping branches. Its saber-like tusks, each the length of a jouster’s lance, dipped low, then swung up under the paladin’s horse, flipping both rider and mount into the trees, where they were impaled upon the twisting branches. They hung there like scarecrows as blood and leaves rained down upon the others.

  The paladins’ confidence vanished as pandemonium broke out.

  Nimue lunged from her hiding spot in the brush, but Gawain pulled her back.

  “Hold. Let the Tusks do their work,” he whispered.

  Nimue felt hot and feverish, and her teeth were on edge. “I can’t.” She shoved away from Gawain and charged into the moonlight wearing a chain-mail shirt, two sizes too large for her and belted into a form of skirt; breeches and high boots for the glade; and the Devil’s Tooth slung around her back. A Red Paladin happened to be running directly at her, and she drew the sword and severed his head in a single stroke. She felt like her cage door had risen and she was wild and free. Her fears and anxieties were forgotten. Her hurt over Arthur’s departure fled. Instead she reveled in the cries and the desperate, conflicting orders of the Red Paladins.

  “Troch no’ghol!” Wroth of the Tusks rebuked Nimue as he rode the gargantuan boar and directed the charge to inflict maximum violence upon the paladins. For centuries, the Tusks had trained their war boars for combat with fighters on horseback. The boar kept its nose low, its tusks at ground level, as paladin swords slapped at its thick bristled mane and leather-tough hide to no effect. Then the boar jerked its wagon-size head left and right, sweeping out the horses’ legs and flinging paladins into the darkness.

  The Tusk fighters had been thrown out of their battle formation by Nimue’s arrival, giving the Red Paladins a chance to regroup.

  The plan faltering, the Green Knight whistled and hatches opened in the ground. Arrows whisking past their cheeks, Tusks and Fauns hurried the Marsh Folk into the underground Plog tunnels, the shy, strange Plogs tilting their heads inquisitively at the frightened Marsh children as they crawled into the freshly dug corridors, led by Fauns with torches.

  “Nimue, stay with us!” Gawain shouted after her as she ran deeper into the marsh, where the Red Paladins were forming a line. A few broke off to engage her. One of them raised his sword high and she swept him low, cleaving his leg off above the knee. An arrow clipped her shoulder. Another buzzed past like a dragonfly. She heard Gawain in the distance, the worry in his voice. But Nimue was not afraid. Her vision was clear. She was a step faster, like she could feel the paladins’ movements before they made them. The Hidden enhanced her senses. It was the sword. The sword was the beacon.

  Another Red Paladin drove at Nimue with an ax. She parried the blow aimed at her ribs and swiftly countered to his neck. Blood sprayed and blinded the paladin charging up behind her victim, giving Nimue a clean blow to his head.

  Paladin, paladin, choke and twitch, bitten by the Wolf-Blood Witch.

  Nimue smiled. She liked the rhyme.

  A flash of movement allowed her to pivot away from instant death, but a dagger still sank deep into her left shoulder.

  Idiot fool! Nimue cursed her carelessness as agony forked through her head and chest and the Red Paladin’s full weight against her toppled them both into a thicket, Nimue on the bottom. She got her forearm up in time to block the paladin’s next desperate blow. The paladin’s dagger point hovered inches from her eyes. His other hand clawed for her throat and his eyes bulged, ready for death. The Devil’s Tooth was useless, pinned beneath her. She scratched at his face, but he bit her hands instead. She tried to knee his groin, but he sat above her waist. His fingers found her throat and squeezed, cutting off her air.

  A wet thunk sprayed Nimue’s face with blood. An arrow stuck through the paladin’s temples. Nimue could suddenly breathe again. She fought off the stars bursting in her eyes, climbed to her feet, and retrieved the Devil’s Tooth, roaring at the same time. She turned and saw the Green Knight several yards away, readying another arrow. His face was all fear and fury.

  A bold paladin ran past Nimue and speared the giant boar in the side. The beast squealed. Nimue stepped forward, spun the heavy sword in a high arcing circle, ignoring the fire in her shoulder, and—chuk—sent the paladin’s head soaring through the air, past Wroth atop his boar mount.

  Wroth watched the head fly past and splash into the mud, then slowly roll to a stop. He turned back to Nimue with a wide, big-toothed smile.

  “The Wolf-Blood Witch!” Wroth bellowed into the night.

  Nimue was dizzy, almost giddy, and somewhere, deep down, scared to death.

  Wroth and his fighters threw their fists in the air and chanted her name. Her heart pounded and she smiled, despite the lightning in her shoulder. Gawain was checking on her, saying words to her, but there was so much blood rushing in her ears she couldn’t hear the words.

  She turned and crawled into a mud tunnel. Gawain followed her. Plogs hurried to work behind them, shoveling mud between their legs with their deformed, clawed fingers, filling in the tunnel door and sealing it up to appear as though it had never existed.

  TWENTY-NINE

  KING UTHER MARCHED DOWN A filthy dungeon corridor, flanked by ten armored guards, until he reached the last cell of the block. Inside, Merlin was chained to the wall, hair and beard disheveled and caked with mud and blood. The soldiers had not been gentle with him.

  Uther straightened to his full height. “Merlin.”

  “Your Majesty,” Merlin rumbled, his eyes hidden by greasy locks of hair. “I would stand, but I am leashed to the wall.”

  Uther’s nose twitched at the rank odor of mold and human waste. He posed a simple question. “Why didn’t you tell us about the Sword of Power?”

  “Well, Your Majesty—” Merlin started.

  But Uther interrupted, “Wait, I know. You wanted to acquire it for us first before animating any false hopes.”

  Merlin’s hands gestured in their iron cuffs. “Frankly, yes, Your Majesty.”

  Uther smiled coldly. “Always the perfect answer.”

  “I confess the way I left was less than ideal, sire, but you see, the omens—”

  Again Uther interrupted. “The omens, yes. Blood raining down on Castle Pendragon. Scary stuff.”

  “But as I’ve always said, sire, there are—”

  The king cut Merlin off again. “Different possible meanings to signs. Yes, we remember. We are not as stupid as you think.”

  At this Merlin hesitated. There was no question that their dynamic had changed. He trod carefully. “I never suggested—”

  But Uther seemed determined not to let Merlin finish a sentence. “We remember all your lessons, Merlin. For instance: we need not fear omens, but rather we can seize them. Turn them around and examine them until they tell us something new. And then through action make the signs come true.” Uther wrapped his hands around the bars of Merlin’s cell. “And this thinking was very instructive.”

  “How so, Your Majesty?”

  “Because we decided the blood that fell on the castle was not ours”—all pretense of kindness left Uther’s eyes—“but yours.”

  Merlin peered at the king through his dirty locks, his voice a warning. “Uther—”

  “You never believed in us. And now we no longer believe in you.” Uther stepped away from the cell and folded his hands behind his back. “The Age of Wizards is at a
n end. We consider your recent derelictions as treason. And for that there is only one recourse: execution.”

  “Without a trial?” Merlin growled. “Without a hearing? Who has turned you against me?”

  Uther allowed emotion to peek through as he snarled, “You’ve done that yourself with your disdain, your drunkenness, and your disloyalty.” His voice shook. “When you came to this court, we were ten years old. Do you remember?”

  Merlin’s voice was soft. “I do.”

  Uther’s eyes shone with memory. “We had heard such incredible tales of the great Merlin the Magician. How we awaited you. You see, we never knew our father. There was no one to teach us how to be king.” He chuckled. “So we sat at our window for days, searching the hills for you. We wanted to learn the secrets of the world. We wanted to be wise.” Uther’s smile faded. “The day you rode through the gates, we raced out to see you. And you fell off your horse. You stank of sweat, and your beard was stained with wine. They had to carry you.”

  Merlin sighed. “You have every right to be disappointed in me, Uther, but if you want the Sword of Power, then killing me is madness. I have it on good authority that the sword is coming to me. Give me one week—”

  “I’m sorry, Merlin. But the mob awaits your head. Seize him.” Uther turned away, and his heels clicked down the stone corridor as the jailers unlocked Merlin’s cell door and the footmen lifted him to his feet.

  “Uther!” Merlin cried as they unshackled him and dragged him out of the cell. “Uther, I need more time!”

  But moments later Merlin squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding sun as he was led out of the tower dungeon and onto a scaffolding above an assembled mob in a wide courtyard of Castle Pendragon. As Merlin’s eyes adjusted, he saw Lady Lunette peering down from her castle window, a satisfied smirk on her face.