by Frank Miller
A thread of silver wound up her neck, and the raiders’ eyes shone with fascination. She reached out, silently asking the Hidden to bind the raider’s wounds. After a moment of contemplative listening, Nimue gently placed the man’s hand down. “Your friend is beyond my help,” she told them. “He’s joining the Hidden soon. The most I can do is ease his pain.”
“That’s a mercy,” one of them murmured.
Nimue put one hand on the tortured prisoner’s shoulder and took his hand with the other. The vines of the Sky Folk on her skin lit the dark cell silver. She whispered her mother’s prayers as the Northman’s breathing deepened. She bade the Hidden to surround and embrace the dying man. His limbs relaxed. His comrades bowed their heads and murmured words to their warrior gods. After several minutes, the prisoner’s breathing slowed and then gradually ceased.
“He drinks from the Horn now,” one of the raiders said.
Nimue struggled not to betray emotion, though the death of the prisoner had moved her. “You are far from home.”
Their leader with a long blond ponytail nodded. “Aye, we came to these shores with the Ice King. Fell into some trouble with these monks. They dragged us south to here.”
“You are welcome to join our cause,” Nimue offered.
“Wait, they are?” Arthur asked, incredulous.
“The Northmen are no friend to Tusks,” said Mogwan. “Father will not like this.”
Arthur subtly pulled Nimue aside. “I’m with Mogwan. These raiders are murderers, pirates, and thieves. They kill everything. You don’t want the fate of the Fey to be in the hands of the Ice King, I assure you.”
“We could use some murderers, pirates, and thieves,” Nimue said. “An enemy of the Red Paladins is a friend of ours.” She turned back to the raiders. “Will you join us?”
“As you say, we’re far from home. And besides, our dead brother is relation to our captain. We should return him to the sea.”
Nimue nodded. “Then we wish you safe travels. We can spare a week’s rations and two horses.”
Arthur started to interrupt, “A week’s rat—?”
But Nimue cut him off. “I’m sorry we cannot offer more.”
“That will suffice,” the blond raider answered.
Nimue ordered the Vikings freed. Mogwan unchained them. They thanked Nimue, and as they left the cell, the blond raider turned to Arthur and clasped his arm. “You’ve earned the thanks of the Red Spear, brother.”
Arthur eyed the raider warily. “If you say so,” he said, grasping the raider’s arm in return.
The Vikings bowed their heads to Nimue. Then frightened voices rang down from above. “My queen! Milady!”
Nimue and Arthur hurried past the raiders.
They were quickly led out of the keep and a few hundred yards into the town square, where a group of Fey Kind huddled around a bloodstained horse and a mound of purple robes on the ground. Nimue pushed her way through the crowd and got down on her knees to Kaze, who was covered in blood.
“Kaze? What’s happened?” Nimue assumed the worst.
“They took him, milady,” Kaze whispered, fluttering in and out of consciousness. “They have Gawain.”
Nimue’s hand went to her mouth. After what she had just witnessed, capture by the Red Paladins seemed a far worse fate than death.
FORTY-THREE
THE ENERGY IT TOOK TO open his eyes made Gawain want to go back to sleep. The steady movements of the horse sent shock waves of pain through his ravaged leg and hip. His lungs felt heavy when he breathed, and his clothes and armor were cold and damp. Looking down, he realized they were wet with his own blood. He realized he’d fallen unconscious in the saddle. His hands were bound and the Weeping Monk rode his own horse to his right. They were at least a few miles from Cinder, judging by the position of the Minotaurs peaks, and out of the fire zone given the taste of the air. He knew they were headed to a Red Paladin encampment.
“Why?” Gawain asked.
The Weeping Monk rode in silence.
“You’re one of us. How could you?”
“I’m nothing like you,” the monk answered.
“I saw your hand change. What are you? An Asher? There haven’t been Ash Men in these lands for centuries. They had marks too. Like your eyes—”
Instantly the monk’s sword was under his chin. “Say it again, devil.”
“Do it, Asher,” Gawain said through clenched teeth, the blade still at his throat. “Kill me if you’re so brave. Or better yet, free my hands and we’ll see how good you are. I took your arrow, coward. Why was that? Were you afraid to face me up close?”
The Weeping Monk considered Gawain’s words, then returned his sword to its sheath. “In a few hours, you’ll wish I’d killed you.”
Gawain felt numb at the sight of the first Red Paladin torches flickering a dull, hazy light. The forest had been sheared with clumsy haste, leaving jagged stumps, like a field of broken teeth, for hundreds of yards in all directions. A noisome odor of burning flesh shook Gawain’s bold countenance as they entered the muddy field of tents. Dead-eyed, tonsured monks standing around campfires followed their progress until the Weeping Monk slowed to a stop. Gawain followed the monk’s eyes to a small army, a hundred or more black-robed warriors. They were the Trinity, Gawain surmised. He’d heard the rumors of their fighting prowess and cruelty. Their golden death masks gazed impassively at the Weeping Monk as he resumed his ride, pulling up to a larger tent, where, judging by the scowls and puffed-out chests, the tension was thick between Father Carden’s Red Paladin guard and the Trinity soldiers.
The monk dismounted and dragged Gawain from his palfrey. Against all his efforts, Gawain screamed when his feet struck the ground and he buckled to his knees, his wounds tearing wider after the long ride. At the monk’s orders, two Red Paladins grabbed Gawain roughly by the shoulders and dragged him into the large tent.
Father Carden stood at a table covered in maps, next to a man in Trinity robes with a shaved head and a black beard worn in a French fork. Brother Salt was also present, swaying in the corner, ever smiling, stitched eyes turned to the ceiling.
Even in his wounded state, Gawain could feel the edge in the air. Carden’s face was pinched, but upon seeing the Weeping Monk and his prisoner, some blush came to his cheeks. Relief, it seemed.
“My son, you are a sight for sore eyes,” Carden said.
“Is this him?” the man with the forked beard asked, circling around the table. “Is this the famous Weeping Monk?”
The monk turned to Father Carden with a look of confusion at their new visitor. “This is Abbot Wicklow. He’s here to . . .” Carden trailed off.
“Observe,” Abbot Wicklow finished for him.
The Weeping Monk bowed his head respectfully. Wicklow folded his arms behind his back and studied the monk’s face, studied his eyes. “I’ve heard a great deal about you. A great deal. They say you’re our best fighter. Possessed with unnatural speed and grace—”
There was something in the way Wicklow said “unnatural” that made Carden stiffen. He interrupted. “Speak, my son. What have you brought us?”
“The Green Knight, Father.”
Wicklow turned to Carden, surprised. “The rebel leader?”
Carden came forward. “This is welcome news.” He put his hands on his hips, taking in Gawain’s condition. “The Green Knight. Well? What do you have to say, hmm? Perhaps if you tell us where to find the Wolf-Blood Witch, you can save yourself.”
“What do I have to say?” Gawain repeated. Then he turned and looked at the Weeping Monk, who did not return his look. “There is much I can say.” He let his words hang in the air. “There is much I have learned.”
Abbot Wicklow frowned.
Father Carden grew testy. “No matter, we are very skilled at making your kind sing.”
As he regarded the Weeping Monk, Gawain had a change of heart. Instead he turned back to Father Carden. “I’ll tell you this much, old man. The Queen of th
e Fey has taken back Cinder and left five score of your Red Brothers dying in the wood.”
Carden’s cheek twitched.
“Are these lies?” Wicklow asked Carden, who did not immediately answer. Wicklow turned to the Weeping Monk. “Is this true what he says?”
“The town has fallen,” the monk said without emotion.
“She’s taken the damned city?” Wicklow said to Carden incredulously. “How did this happen?”
“Brother Salt,” Carden said, eyes burning with fury, and ignoring Abbot Wicklow, “take this abomination to your kitchens.”
Gawain’s face went slack and he fell into the arms of the Red Paladins supporting him. He struggled as they led him away. The Weeping Monk turned, and their eyes met for a brief moment before Gawain was dragged outside.
Hundreds of yards away, Squirrel crept across a high branch in an old black alder, pushing aside the wide leaves, eager to get a better view of Gawain. He was careful not to shake loose any seeds onto the heads of the Red Paladin patrol beneath him. He had been upset when Nimue had not allowed him to join the other fighters in the market wagons at Cinder. But when he saw Gawain break away from the gates in pursuit of Red Paladins, Squirrel had seen a chance to play a part and gave chase. He’d only arrived in time to see the Weeping Monk lift a bloodied Gawain onto the saddle. Now he watched as Gawain was half dragged across the muddy encampment by two paladins, followed by a blind old man, also in red robes, to a square pavilion with two entrances and an open hatch at the top that belched a thick gray smoke. The coppery, sickly-sweet taste in the air told Squirrel what happened inside that tent. With his eyes he plotted his course between the tents and the campfires. There would be three near misses with Red Paladins before a final sprint to the torture tent and to Gawain’s rescue.
FORTY-FOUR
IN CROW HILL A RED paladin checkpoint was desecrated with wolf blood and the heads of farm dogs. Farther east, still in the French provinces, many peasant farmers have turned their loyalties to the Wolf-Blood Witch, believing she is some kind of savior. They’ve burned several Red Paladin outposts and driven them out of the villages of Gryphon and Silver Brook. A church was put to the torch in Gray Moor. And then of course there is the case of Cinder, a large town in the hills of the Minotaurs”—Sir Beric smoothed one of his thick eyebrows—“previously occupied by the Red Paladins, quite against Your Majesty’s wishes. It was taken four days ago by the witch and an army of various Fey Folk with grave paladin losses—”
“What is the population of Cinder?” King Uther asked in a low, menacing voice. His fingers were white as they gripped the arms of his throne.
“Perhaps five thousand, sire?” Beric guessed.
“Gods, that’s a small city! And who is the lord of that keep?”
“A Lord Ector, sire, a distant cousin to the Baron of Thestletree. I believe he attended your games in the—”
“We don’t care what games he attended. We want to know how he’s lost his city twice in a fortnight! Wine!” Uther held out his cup to a footman, who hurried to fill it.
Sir Beric lowered his parchment and drew a line on the stone floor with the toe of his leather shoe, considering his words. “It would appear the keep was surrendered willingly, Your Majesty.”
“Willingly?”
“It would seem what Your Majesty faces is a popular uprising in favor of the Wolf-Blood Witch. She has become a symbol of defiance against the Red Paladins, who seem to have overplayed their hand, the final straw being the burning of miles of farmland in the Minotaur Valley, apparently in an effort to starve out the witch and her kind—a strategy that has most definitely backfired.”
“I can walk on my own, thank you very much,” Lady Lunette snarled, pulling her elbow away from her footmen escort. Her shoes clicked as she marched to the throne. “What is the meaning of this, Uther? I don’t like being summoned. I don’t like leaving my tower, you know this.”
Sir Beric hurried as quickly out of Lady Lunette’s way as dignity would allow.
Uther sat up rigidly in his throne. “Mother, did you order soldiers to follow Merlin to his meeting with the witch?”
“Of course I did,” Lady Lunette scoffed. “And what of it?”
“That was not our wish, and those are not your soldiers to command,” Uther fumed. “Prior to your interference, we had Merlin in check and the sword in our grasp, and now we have neither!”
“I would advise you to lower your voice when you speak to me.”
“We will speak to you as we like because we are the crown!” Uther roared.
“Clear the hall, please,” Lady Lunette ordered.
Sir Beric and the footmen headed for the door.
“Stay where you are,” Uther countermanded.
Sir Beric and the footmen hesitated, caught between the two monarchs.
Lady Lunette sighed. “Yes indeed, stay where you are. But a warning: those in the past who have heard the words I am about to speak have a terrible habit of winding up dead.”
After a few tense moments of silence, Beric sputtered, “With your leave, Your Majesty,” but hurried off without actually receiving permission, only to be followed in short order by the footmen. The door closed soundly behind them.
Lady Lunette and King Uther were alone.
“I’m done coddling you, Uther. It’s done you no favors.”
“ ‘Coddling’ is not how we would describe your parenting, Mother.”
“Yes, well, I was never meant to raise children, Uther. You see, I was meant to rule. That was my talent. But in this world of men and their bloodlines, that was not meant to be. Instead it was my task to make you king.” Lady Lunette’s words hung in the air. “And it seems I have failed in that task.”
“You undermine us and then sit in judgment. How rich.”
“I wasn’t about to sit idly by as you crawled back into Merlin’s lap. I’ve given you far too much rope, and now the kingdom hangs for it. From this moment on, I am the throne and my words will flow from your lips like a fountain statue as I pour them into your ears, or you will suffer the consequences.”
“We lost track of the outrages in those last few sentences, but we have noted, with great concern, that your faculties seem impaired, Mother. You are not yourself. A good rest by the sea, perhaps.” Uther savored the thought.
But Lady Lunette was wistful. “Sadly, Uther, this is my truest self. For it is you who are the lie.”
FORTY-FIVE
SISTER IRIS TURNED TO THE ramparts that grew out of the castle and surrounded the town, and where Faun archers patrolled. Without a word, she headed back into Cinder. The influx of Fey refugees had created congestion and confusion through the streets. Many of the villagers of Cinder were frightened by the different Fey races and had shuttered their shops to hide in their homes, only to discover that shy and anxious Moon Wings had taken up residence in their rafters and spun themselves into silk cocoons; while the more generous residents—the innkeeper of the Seven Falls, Ramona the baker’s wife—struggled to meet the demand of the starving invaders. The roads were almost impassable by wagons thanks to the divots dug up by burrowing Plogs. Loud, shoving, anxious lines grew in the square as Fey and humans struggled to work together per the queen’s orders. Iris walked past the stone church and its smashed windows. The words Wolf-Blood Witch were smeared on its walls with calf’s blood.
She approached a pair of Fauns stealing swigs from a pilfered wineskin in between their shifts on the wall. “Talaba noy, wata lon?” one of them said about Iris, nudging his friend, who laughed.
“I don’t understand,” Iris said flatly.
“Forgive my friend. He is rude,” the laughing one said to Iris in English touched by his melodious accent.
Sister Iris ignored him and looked at their bows. “How far does the arrow fly?”
“With a Faun longbow? This is the strongest bow in the world.” The laughing one made a swoosh sound and an arc with his hand, suggesting very far.
S
ister Iris turned, measuring the distance from the wall to the keep. “Would it go from here to the castle, for example?”
“And then double that,” the Faun bragged.
“Can you show me how?” Iris asked, gazing up at the Faun through her sackcloth hood with her one good eye.
The Faun frowned. “Can you see, little one?”
“Well enough.”
“Why do you want to learn this so bad?”
Iris shrugged. “I’m hunting a dog.”
The Fauns looked at each other, this strange kid, and laughed together. The nice Faun bent down to her. “Yes, little one, I will help you kill this dog.”
Nimue couldn’t sleep. She gazed down at the many campfires the Fey Kind had lit in Cinder’s main square as they slept out in the open air. Not a hardship, for most of them preferred the outdoors to cramped caves or human dwellings. The fires gave the small city a gentle orange glow. The moon was half-full and gauzy through a sky veiled by smoke.
She heard whispers, looked down, and noticed that she was holding the sword. Curious. She hadn’t realized. She was so tired. She rested the blade in her hand and studied its clean lines, how the steel seams caught the moonlight. The whispering grew louder. Like distant screams. The memories of the sword, of course, Nimue thought. The sword was speaking to her. It was recalling victims and their cries. Some of the screams she recognized. They were Red Paladin screams. But strangely, she was not horrified. They quickened her heartbeat and warmed her blood. Her tired muscles felt revived by a current of energy flowing between her and the blade. Her doubts of the earlier day felt small and silly.
Why did she doubt herself? She was the Wolf-Blood Witch. Queen of the Fey. She possessed the Sword of Power and dared any man king to take it from her. She would inspire more of her kind, more of humankind. They would rally to her calls of freedom and fight for her, bleed for her, and together they would crush the Red Paladin plague and send them scurrying like rats back to the Vatican. And then let the Church itself tremble, Nimue thought. Let them fear me. I will pile their crosses into a bonfire and—
