Cursed

by Frank Miller

  It was her. She was doing it.

  “P-please,” he said to her as she raised the Devil’s Tooth high. “Please!”

  And then she cut off his head.

  On the walls of Cinder, above the meager marketplace, a skeleton crew of Red Paladins huddled with concern as close to an hour had passed with no sign of Commander Anax or his company.

  Finally one of them took command. “Close the gates! Close the gates!”

  At this cue, Gawain, Wroth, Kaze, and a dozen Fey Kind fighters threw off their peasant robes and grabbed their smuggled swords, hammers, and longbows from underneath the fruit and vegetable baskets in their wagons.

  Wroth and Kaze ran at the Red Paladins manning the gate, catching them by surprise and cutting them down, while Gawain sent two arrows through two throats atop the wall. The Red Paladins pitched forward and plunged through the thatched awning of a bakery, kicking up clouds of wheat flour.

  The crowds of peasants, farmers, and traders ran in all directions, some wisely hiding behind their trade wagons. The Red Paladins were caught flat-footed. Wroth charged one skinny monk headfirst, butting him into a cart of turnips and crushing his skull with an overhead hammer blow.

  Expert Faun archers tipped over vegetable stalls and used them for cover as they plucked Red Paladins from the ramparts, while across the yard a Cliff Walker fell to the mud with a slashed-open stomach. His clansmen overwhelmed his Red Paladin assassins, chopping them to death with their rock axes.

  But the Red Paladins on the wall regrouped and laid down a volley of arrows that sent Fey Kind sprawling into the mud. Gawain took cover behind the guard tower as Kaze found herself in a melee with three Red Paladins.

  Paladin reinforcements poured in from the garrison on the northern wall. Wroth and his Tusks met them head-on, and the fighting was pitched and gruesome.

  Gawain felt their advantage slipping away. He braved the arrows whipping by to cut into the Red Paladins slashing at Kaze. An arrow grazed his ear as the ring of clashing swords turned his eyes back to the gate.

  Arthur galloped through the gates on Egypt, sword slashing and Red Paladins falling in his wake. He vaulted from Egypt and ran up the stairs of the western wall, hacking at Red Paladins as he climbed.

  With the archers distracted by Arthur’s arrival, Gawain and Kaze gutted their paladin attackers and ran to the aid of Wroth and his Tusks.

  The rout was on. Arthur fought like ten men atop the wall, sending a steady rain of paladin bodies onto wagons, barrels, and rooftops.

  The footmen of Lord Ector, having already endured the occupation of the Red Paladins, surrendered without a fight. So, with the bulk of their numbers lost in the forest, the remaining Red Paladins grabbed what horses they could or took flight on foot and fled through the gates of Cinder.

  Gawain shouldered his bow and leaped onto a soldier’s courser. Arthur ran at him, waving him off. “Forget them! It’s not worth it!”

  “I’m happy to see you, Man Blood, but you don’t give me orders!” Gawain shouted at Arthur. “Secure the keep!” Then he bolted through the gates after the fleeing Red Paladins.

  “I will go after him!” Kaze shouted to Arthur, seizing one of the local horses crowding the square, and galloped after him.

  It was left to Arthur to gain control of the situation, which was rapidly devolving. With no Red Paladins left to fight, the Fey Kind warriors turned on Lord Ector’s footmen, who until now had been waiting out the battle, unsure which invading force to support. Arthur threw himself between an eight-foot-tall Storm Crafter and a terrified soldier. “They’re not the enemy!” It took effort to pry them apart, but the Storm Crafter finally relented. Arthur shouted, “We’re not here to slaughter!” He turned to the soldiers. “Drop your swords and you won’t be harmed, I promise you!”

  The soldiers turned to their captain, who was bloodied from a tussle with a few Cliff Walkers. He nodded to his men. Swords were thrown into the square. But the citizenry were panicking, some farmers grabbing pitchforks and fallen swords to protect their children from the “monsters” in their midst. Wroth snatched a spear from one of the farmers and broke it in two with his bare hands. He was about to gore the poor farmer when a murmur rippled through the crowd of Fey Kind, soldiers, urban workers, and peasants.

  Nimue entered the gates of Cinder trailed by dozens of Fey Kind: Fauns, Snakes, Cliff Walkers and their kin, Moon Wings, and Man Bloods.

  Arthur staggered out of the smoke, exhausted, sword dragging in the mud. Nimue stood in place and said, “You’re here.”

  “Aye. I’m no knight, that’s clear enough. But if you’ll have me, I pledge my sword. And my honor. To you. I think there’s still some good left in Arthur.”

  “There is.” Nimue took him into her arms. She could smell the blood and smoke in his hair. She wiped the grime away from his eyes and cheeks and kissed his mouth.

  Arthur held her face in his hands. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Nimue turned to the frightened populace. She could feel the violence about to erupt. They knew who she was and they feared her. She climbed onto a toppled wagon. Her heart raced.

  “I am Nimue of Dewdenn from the clan Sky Folk! Daughter of Lenore, Arch Druid to my people! To my enemies”—she searched the crowd for Red Paladins—“I am known as the Wolf-Blood Witch.” She softened. “But I am not your enemy. I want you to know that as of this moment Cinder is free! You are free to live. To raise your families in peace. To work. To love. And to worship the gods you choose, so long as those gods seek no dominion over any other.” Nimue felt her mother with her, guiding her words. “All we want is peace. To return to what’s left of our homes and rebuild. We did not ask for this war. But that does not mean we cannot fight this war! That does not mean we cannot win this war!”

  “QUEEN OF THE FEY! QUEEN OF THE F EY!”

  The Fey Kind roared their approval; even a few farmers slapped their hands on the wagons, drumming their support.

  Nimue lifted the Sword of Power to the sun. “This is the sword of my people, the sword of my ancestors, forged in the Fey Fires when the world was young. Let this sword be our courage, our light in all this terrible darkness, our hope in all this despair. They say this is the Sword of the First Kings! But I say the kings have had their chance! For I claim it as the sword of the First Queen!”

  “Queen of the Fey!” Wroth bellowed. His clansmen followed suit: “Queen of the Fey! Queen of the Fey! Queen of the Fey! Queen of the Fey!”

  Arthur watched with amazement as the chant spread across the square, a rising tide of voices, Fey Kind and human, farmers, families, even some of Lord Ector’s soldiers. He turned back to Nimue, holding the sword aloft like an avenging goddess, beautiful and frightening. Despite his reservations, Arthur pumped his fist with the rest. “Queen of the Fey! Queen of the Fey!”

  FORTY-ONE

  GAWAIN AND HIS HORSE WOVE between small, leafy trees in pursuit of a fleeing Red Paladin. He squeezed the saddle between his legs and released the reins to grab his longbow and nock an arrow. He targeted the flapping red robes, aimed for the center, and fired. The Red Paladin’s arms flew wide and he arched in a way that Gawain knew he was dead. The horse rode on, the paladin bobbing in the saddle before finally crashing into the brush.

  Gawain slowed his charge. His horse was coated with sweat. He followed the sound of a stream to a small stone bridge, its walls blanketed in soft moss. He led the palfrey to the stream below, where she could drink before he saddled up for the ride back. Gawain knelt and drank the cool water in handfuls. Out of the corner of his eye, in the reflecting mountain stream, he caught a glimpse of spectral gray robes above him and lunged to the left as a barbed arrow sank into his right hip. Gawain scrambled for tree cover, knowing from the wound’s depth that it was a swallowtail arrowhead, used to hunt larger game, designed to maximize bleeding and injury. He threw himself against a crooked ash tree and snapped the arrow in two. He heard the shing of a sword being drawn and spun around to see t
he Weeping Monk vault the bridge wall and land silently in the mud. His sword was long and thin, its slight curve reminding Gawain of the sabers he had seen on the belts of Asiatic warriors in his desert travels, but more elegant, the hilt shorter and more square, a weapon of finesse and speed.

  Ignoring the fire flaring down his right leg, Gawain drew his long sword and ran onto the stream bank, roaring and slashing with two hands. His leg buckled slightly on the charge, but it was enough to force the monk back on his heels, though he wasted no movement and sidestepped into a cut that Gawain barely got his blade up to block. The Weeping Monk took the advantage, and steel on steel rang through the forest as he lunged and swung, pushing Gawain into the stream, where his bad leg gave out on the slippery rocks. It was only his green pauldron that prevented him from being cut in half by a savage blow. All the same his skin split under the damaged armor, and he felt warm blood trickle down his shoulder. He rolled in the water away from multiple blows. Gawain had never met a fighter as fast.

  He finally braced himself against a rock and took his blade in hand, blocking the monk’s sword and clubbing him with the pommel. Gawain used his height advantage to drive the monk up against the high stream bank and tried to force him down into the mud, but the monk grabbed the edge of the broken arrow in Gawain’s hip and twisted. As he cried out, the monk pivoted free and slashed the back of his thigh, hobbling him further.

  The monk took him by the ear and reared back for the fatal cut when Kaze dove from the trees, with a leopard growl, tackling the monk into the water and rocks and knocking his sword loose. They fought wildly. Her tail whipped the air as she slashed with fang and claw. The monk kicked her off but she fell onto him again, teeth at his throat. Somehow the Weeping Monk slipped her grip and scrambled on top of her, his arm locked across her throat, choking her. As she struggled, her claws dug deep grooves in the monk’s cheeks beneath the strange birthmarks around his eyes. He held fast. Her fingers made spell forms and she tried to speak conjuring words, but her cat eyes rolled back into her skull and she slumped in his arms. He threw her against the rocks. The Weeping Monk picked up his sword, flicked it dry, turned, and stabbed Kaze through the back.

  Gawain wrenched himself to his feet. “Kaze!”

  Then the monk came for Gawain, who pulled himself onto the bank by the branches of an overhanging elder. He clawed through the dirt, up to the bridge, the Weeping Monk walking steadily behind him, smoothly, with no urgency.

  Gawain fell onto the ancient wall, his hands sinking into the moss. His slashed thigh would take no weight. His armor was soaked in blood and a chill racked his body, yet as the air whistled he got his sword up in time to parry the Weeping Monk’s cut. They clinched, and Gawain, locking his sword grip against the monk’s, swung him against the bridge. They fell into a test of strength, Gawain trying to force his blade across the monk’s throat. The monk threw his hand against the moss to brace himself. Gawain’s eyes darted to the hand, anticipating attack, but instead what he saw stunned him.

  The Weeping Monk’s hand, its texture and color, was entirely invisible against the moss. It had blended to the bridge surface like some lizard’s camouflage. Gawain gasped, “You’re one of us?”

  The monk bared his teeth and shoved Gawain across the bridge. Gawain dropped to one knee and tried to keep his sword up against a merciless rain of blows, but the monk was enraged and Gawain had lost far too much blood. As his arm weakened, the monk took advantage and stuck him in the ribs.

  Death will come soon, Gawain mused grimly, his thoughts turning to Kaze in the stream. Yet as he awaited the fatal blow, the Weeping Monk cracked him across the skull with the grip of his sword. The world spun. Gawain collapsed against the wall.

  He heard the monk hiss, “They want you alive,” as another blow fell and all went dark.

  FORTY-TWO

  LORD ECTOR’S CASTLE WAS SMALL and compact and capable of a worthy defense, with four rounded flanking towers protecting the curtain walls, a chained bridge, murder holes in the gatehouse, and machicolations along the parapets, but when the Red Paladins fled, the remaining guards, having been vanquished once, surrendered it without a fight.

  Ector’s disarmed guards huddled in small groups, talking in low voices, as Wroth led Nimue, Morgan, and Arthur into the Great Hall, a vast space held aloft in a point by crisscrossing timbers and by stone columns of black and gold, the colors of Lord Ector’s seal. His banner of a gold dragon against a black background hung behind his modest throne.

  Morgan and Arthur walked a few paces behind Nimue.

  “What angle are you playing, brother?” Morgan asked.

  “Well, clearly I’ve been missed. It’s nice to see you, too, dear sister.”

  “Are we to believe you are suddenly the defender of the Fey?”

  “Isn’t it enough to be a friend to Nimue? What is the problem? Are you disappointed you don’t have her all to yourself?”

  “We’ve actually made progress without you. I just don’t want you filling her head with foolish ideas.”

  “Like proclaiming herself Queen of the Fey?”

  “You doubt her?”

  “I doubt the strategy.”

  The four of them paused before the empty chair as huge logs snapped in the wide fireplace along the western wall. Then Nimue walked forward, climbed the four steps, unslung the Sword of Power, and hung it on the corner of the chair.

  Then she sat on the throne.

  Morgan smiled and nodded. Arthur’s expression was less joyful. Wroth pounded the end of his war hammer on the stone floor and barked, “Stra’gath!”

  Two Tusk soldiers led Lord Ector into his hall. His round, soft features showed the strain of the past weeks. His cheeks were patched red from drink and his eyes were heavy with bags. But he comported himself with dignity as he approached Nimue.

  “Lord Ector, I want to thank you for this sanctuary,” said Nimue.

  “Well, it was not offered, milady, it was taken,” Ector answered darkly.

  Wroth growled.

  Ector shot a look at Wroth and added diplomatically, “I have no argument with your kind. And I have no love for the Red Paladins, I promise you that. But when you say that Cinder is free and then take your seat in my hall, I must question your sincerity, milady.”

  Nimue glanced at the damp imprints her hands left on the arms of the throne. She spoke slowly. “All we want is to go home. We want our land back. As you know, we are not city folk. But my people were starving, and it appears that to deny us food, the paladins set fire to your lands. If we can support each other through this, if you can let my clans recover here, then perhaps we can attack Father Carden and stop his paladins. Nothing would make me happier than to return your keep to you and to have my people return to their homes in peace.”

  Lord Ector smoothed his mustache and sized up Arthur and Morgan and Nimue. “You’re practically children,” he said in disbelief.

  “Easy now,” Morgan advised.

  “Do you think you’re safe here? Is that what you think?” Ector pressed, assuming the adult voice in the room. “You were safer in your caves or your trees or wherever the hell you were hiding. You’re the most hunted woman alive, madam. And you’ve just painted a brilliant white target on your back. You will never leave Cinder with your life.”

  Arthur was quiet.

  Morgan was not. “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s reality, girl!” Lord Ector spat at Morgan. “The witch is here. The Sword of Power is here. Soon the armies of Uther Pendragon and the Vatican and the Ice King will be here, and then what? Then they will rain fire on Cinder until even the rats are dead. So eat lightly, for these provisions you crave will have to last a long and bloody winter.” Ector gave Nimue a dark look before turning on his heel and marching from the hall.

  But his words lingered. Nimue felt cold sweat trickle down her back. In truth, the walls of Cinder had felt like a shield. She had fought for this, urged against other plans for escape, used the trust
of her people to force this action. But what if she had been wrong? What if the walls of Cinder were not their shield but their cage, entrapping them until the slaughter?

  “You all right?” Arthur asked her, perhaps reading her face.

  “I’m fine,” Nimue lied.

  She turned to the Tusk soldiers. “Is there any news on the Green Knight?”

  Mogwan was one of them and shook his head. “No, my queen.”

  She winced at the word “queen” but nodded crisply.

  Mogwan added, “What do you want us to do with the prisoners?”

  “Prisoners?” Nimue asked, struggling to catch up with events of her own making.

  Mogwan led Nimue and Arthur to the gatehouse and down several curving stairways to a claustrophobic and reeking corridor of cells. Glancing through the small barred windows in the doors, Nimue saw dozens of bleak, frightened eyes blinking back at her. The dungeon was full to bursting.

  “Free them,” Nimue said, sickened by it all.

  “All?” Mogwan asked.

  “Some may be dangerous,” Arthur offered.

  “They’ve been treated as poorly as we have. Let them pledge their loyalty to us, if necessary, but free them.”

  “And what of these brutes?” Mogwan asked, pushing open the door to one of the last cells in the hall. Inside, four broad-shouldered, scruffy warriors lay in chains against the walls. Their beards and long, embroidered woolen tunics and baggy pants identified them as Northmen. One of them was shirtless and had been beaten bloody and burned with torches. He was barely alive, his breathing shallow.

  “Raiders,” Arthur warned.

  Nimue entered the cell. The Vikings regarded her with sullen looks. She knelt by the tortured prisoner. She took his hand in hers.

  Nimue thought of Lenore kneeling by Merlin’s bedside. She remembered her prayers. She wondered if she might have the same healing gifts.