by Frank Miller
Lord Ector cursed under his breath.
Wroth nodded, satisfied.
B’uluf held out his hands. “Man Bloods have to know their place.”
At that, Nimue turned, drew the Sword of Power, and in a single stroke severed both of B’uluf’s hands at the wrist. The Tusk’s mouth was open a full second before his guttural scream, and he fell back into Arthur’s arms.
“Defy me again at your peril!” Nimue screamed.
Wroth lunged at Nimue, and the Fauns threw themselves in his path only to be tossed aside like rag dolls. Only Mogwan had the strength to hold his father back as Wroth spat every Tusk invective he could at Nimue. As B’uluf wailed on his knees, Arthur drew his own sword and swung it around at Wroth. Nimue held the Sword of Power in both hands, aiming the point at Wroth, who struggled against Mogwan before relenting. He marched over to B’uluf, yanked him to his feet by his unbroken horn, and stormed out of the hall.
Morgan took Nimue by the shoulders as the sword dropped from her shaking hands and she muttered, “I—I can’t—I’m sorry—” Her thoughts exploded. I’m a monster. You are Queen of the Fey. A monster. I’m a monster! Your people need you. They need you. It’s just blood. He’s just a stupid boy. I can’t. I don’t want this. You wield the Sword of Power. I don’t want it!
“You did the right thing,” Morgan reassured her, though her voice shook.
I’m turning into Merlin. The sword will fuse to my hand.
Arthur sheathed his sword and also went to Nimue’s side. “Now we’ve lost the Tusks,” he warned.
This isn’t me. I don’t know who I am. You are Queen of the bloody Fey!
“What in the Nine Hells was she supposed to do!” Morgan shouted at her brother.
Paladin, paladin, choke and twitch, bitten by the Wolf-Blood Witch.
“I don’t know! I know we have fifty bodies at best who can use a sword. And—gods—” Arthur gestured to the clenched, bloody Tusk hands on the first stair and called to the Fauns, “Pick these up.”
Lord Ector shook his head at the display and marched from the hall.
“Have they found Squirrel, Arthur?” Nimue asked, tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice suddenly small.
“Not yet.”
“She’s exhausted,” Morgan told Arthur. “She hasn’t slept or eaten for days.”
“We’re all exhausted,” Arthur shot back, running his hands through his hair.
“Milady! My queen!” Cora ran into the hall, the torchlight catching on her chestnut antlers. “Come quickly!”
Moments later Nimue, Morgan, Arthur, Cora, and several Faun archers hurried along the ramparts of Cinder’s northern wall, joining several Fey Folk soldiers already shouting and pointing into the Minotaur Valley.
A hundred yards farther down the wall, Sister Iris saw the commotion and stood up. She had become a fixture on the ramparts, the Faun archers finding her quirky manner amusing. She had pestered them into longbow training and they had relented, even allowing her to shoot between the crenels at sparrow hawks and ospreys as long as she ran out and retrieved the arrows. Her talent shocked the Fauns, who were renowned archers. After only a week or so, Iris could neck-shoot a raptor, in flight, from two hundred yards. She had become so adept, so quickly, that the Fauns had called over others to watch their young prodigy shoot. They had even given her a bow of her own to practice with, though the catgut was frayed and the wood slightly warped. Fluency with weapons had always been the way with Iris. It was a life-and-death necessity in the fighting pits. At this moment, while all eyes were on the activity beyond the wall, Iris was focused on Nimue. She took her bow in her hands and slid an arrow from her quiver. The catgut creaked in her ear as she nocked the arrow and followed Nimue with her front knuckle. From this distance, Iris could guarantee a neck shot. Her finger slowly eased off the string when dozens of footsteps thundered toward her.
“To the walls!” This order was repeated up and down the ramparts as Fauns shoved past Iris and took up offensive positions. Iris turned back and Nimue had been swallowed into a crowd.
When the archers saw her coming, they cleared a path for Nimue, who climbed onto the wall. Then her breath left her.
A sea of torches, mounted cavalry, and wagons flying the colors and crowns of House Pendragon washed across the vast farmlands only a few miles from the town of Cinder.
Nimue felt her throat go dry. Lord Ector’s words of warning rang in her ears. She had painted a target on their backs.
“To the east! Look to the east!” a Faun shouted.
All heads swung to the eastern farmlands and another army marching into the valley, this one displaying the red banners and white crosses of the Vatican. A thousand torches lit the night, as wave after wave of Red Paladins emerged from the tree lines and farm roads, swallowing up acres and acres of countryside. For the next hour, Nimue and the others could only watch helplessly as the two glowing armies filled in the entire valley between the Minotaurs peaks.
They were completely surrounded, with no chance of escape.
THEY WERE COMPLETELY SURROUNDED, WITH NO CHANCE OF ESCAPE.
FORTY-EIGHT
KING UTHER ENTERED THE ROYAL pavilion shoulder first so as not to disrupt the tray of goblets and the pitcher of spiced wine he carried. Lady Lunette looked up from her tray of cakes, surprised.
“Uther, where were you? What is all that?”
“A bit of honeyed wine to celebrate,” Uther said, smiling, as he set down the tray and poured their cups.
“Celebration, you say?”
“We just met with the famous Father Carden. Turns out he’s quite the reasonable fellow.”
Lady Lunette’s face tightened. “We were supposed to meet with him together, Uther. That was the plan.”
“Yes, well, that is true. But we preferred in our first contact with the rebel leader not to play second fiddle to our mother.” Uther sat down, satisfied. “We are sure you understand.”
Lady Lunette’s gaze did not soften. “If this new arrangement is to work, Uther, you will have to get over such trivialities.”
“Indulge us this once. We think it worked out quite well.”
She sighed, relenting. “And what did you and Father Carden discuss?”
“An alliance. We will allow the Church to keep a majority of the lands seized—as long as a generous tax is paid for the rights, of course. In return, the Red Paladins will support our claim to the throne and lead the siege on this ‘village.’ ” Uther waved his hand dismissively in the direction of Cinder. “No sense in losing any good men to the cause. When all is said and done, they will burn the witch and we will get our sword, countering this Ice King’s slanderous lies. Cheers, Mother.” Uther clicked his goblet against hers.
Lady Lunette’s eyebrows were raised as she sipped, dubious of Uther’s claims. “You were never much of a negotiator. Did you have the good sense to get any of this in writing?”
“Our scribe was present. We think you will find all the terms quite agreeable.”
“Well, we’ll certainly see about that,” Lunette smirked, clearing her throat. “Have him come over here. I have a number of questions for this Father Carden, questions I’m sure you forgot to ask.” She cleared her throat again.
“Yes, Mother, we expect nothing less.”
“Who will define these borders, for example? They’ve scourged half of Aquitania. Are we supposed to—” Lunette paused and stared at the table. She cleared her throat again.
“You were saying?” Uther pressed.
Lunette opened her mouth slightly and touched her throat. “The wine is not agreeing with me.”
“Yes, the borders. We may have missed some details. No doubt you will clean it all up.”
Lady Lunette cleared her throat more violently. Her hands shook as she pushed away the goblet. “Fetch the Healer, Uther,” she gasped.
Ignoring his mother, Uther gazed into his goblet of spiced wine and swirled the contents.
“Uther, d
o you hear me?” Lady Lunette said, her lips reddening.
Uther looked back up at her, his smile fading. “Yes, Mother?”
“Fetch the bloody—” Then she paused, her eyes widening as she realized.
“Fetch what?”
Lady Lunette tried to speak, but all that came out was a grinding croak and a mist of blood. She clawed at the table, clutched her throat, and fell onto the carpet, then rolled onto her back, struggling to breathe.
All the while, Uther watched impassively. “We forgot to mention, Mother, we had Sir Beric inquire, quite discreetly, of course, into the circumstances of our birth. It was not easy, we assure you. You obviously went to very great lengths to conceal your tracks. However, with the resources of the crown, we found a single record of a peasant girl named Sylvie who worked on a farm quite close to the castle. She died, rather mysteriously, after drinking some spiced wine. She was only nineteen years old. Was this she? Was this our mother you had killed?”
Lady Lunette struggled to crawl as blood dripped down her chin, but she lost her strength and collapsed beside Uther’s boots.
“These last few days we’ve thought very often of this young Sylvie and the sort of mother she might have been to us. You said you paid for us in gold coins. Obviously, you wanted us to have the impression that this peasant girl was eager to trade her newborn son for riches. Yet we wonder. Was she really given a choice? You knew your intentions. There was no way that woman could live, given the enormity of your secret. Nor do we find it very surprising that you gave birth to a stillborn child. We imagine it would be very difficult for any babe to live inside you. With all that cold blood.”
Lady Lunette was turned face up, eyes open, face the color of chalk, mouth stretched wide. The only sound coming from her was a soft rattle. Uther got down on his knees and took Lady Lunette’s face roughly in his hands. He shook her as he spoke.
“But whatever fantasies we entertained in these past few days of a life we will never know, of a loving mother we will never see, of a kindness we will never feel, let this final toast between us remove all doubt: I am now and forever your son.” Hateful tears streamed down Uther’s cheeks as Lady Lunette’s breathing ceased. Yet before her eyes glazed over, they softened and cleared and brimmed with a feeling Uther had never experienced from her. Her eyes shone with pride.
The king wept over Lunette’s body for several moments. Then he furiously wiped his tears and cried out, “Beric! Beric!”
Moments later Sir Beric and a footman raced inside the pavilion. Sir Beric gasped when he saw Lady Lunette on the floor. “Your Majesty!”
Uther stood and turned away from the body. “She fell over. We were talking and she just collapsed. She’s gone.”
Sir Beric snapped his fingers to the footman. “Quickly, quickly! Get her to the Healer, there may still be time!”
Uther took Sir Beric’s arm. “Don’t bother, she’s gone.”
“There may still be—”
But Uther tightened his grip on Beric’s bicep. “She’s gone.”
Sir Beric flinched at the look in Uther’s eyes. “Yes, yes, sire.” He turned back to the footman, who had lifted Lady Lunette into his arms. “Take the body to her tent and await further instructions.”
The frightened footman nodded and hurried out of the pavilion.
Beric’s shaking hands reached for a wine goblet, but Uther placed a hand over it. “Some water, perhaps.”
Sir Beric quickly connected the dots. He straightened up and struggled to compose himself. His eyes betrayed fear.
Uther savored it. “We need to arrange another meeting with Father Carden. There are new terms to be discussed.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Sir Beric bowed more deeply than usual and made a hasty exit.
FORTY-NINE
ONE HUNDRED SIXTY BARRELS OF ale, forty-five barrels of wine, several hundred bags of wheat flour. We’ve salted the fishes and meats, we’re drying the fruits we can, and the wells should give us fresh fish until they manage to spoil it. And we have plenty of waterbirds in the moats. Unfortunately, the fires have left us in quite a state as far as wood is concerned. We just won’t be able to feed the fires. Available wood may be our greatest need.” Steuben was Lord Ector’s captain of the guard: tall, bald, and rail thin with a quiet, reassuring voice.
“We may need to sacrifice a few structures to the cause,” Arthur noted. Around the table in the Great Hall were Nimue, Lord Ector, Morgan, Arthur, and Cora. Wroth had not been heard from since the incident with B’uluf.
“Aye, though just whose structures pay the price may prove complicated,” Steuben offered.
“How much time,” Nimue asked carefully, “do we have? Before we—”
“Starve, milady?” Steuben finished for her.
“Yes,” Nimue said.
Steuben scratched his chin. “Well, before all of you”—he paused—“newcomers came about, I would have said a month or two before we ran out of food, but given our current state and just how much some of your kind eat . . . Well, I’d say a week at most. Even without the siege, we just have too many mouths to feed.”
“A week,” Nimue whispered, repeating it to allow the reality to sink in.
“There is no choice but surrender,” Lord Ector said bitterly.
“Surrender for you,” Nimue said darkly. “The fires for us.”
“Or death for us all,” Lord Ector shot back. “In a day or two the siege engines will be upon us. Let’s see how bold you all are when they send the burning pitch over those walls.”
“My queen!”
Nimue turned to two Faun archers standing at the entrance to the hall.
“Yes?”
“A rider is at the gates. He says his name is Merlin.”
Minutes later the archers led Merlin into the Great Hall, where a scowling Nimue waited on the throne with Morgan and Arthur standing on either side of her.
“Milady Nimue.” Merlin bowed his head slightly. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“That’s Queen Nimue, sir. She wields the Sword of Power,” Morgan corrected him.
“Let us not become too attached to our titles,” Merlin said, “for I fear that blade is about to become a bargaining chip in a much larger war.”
“Arthur, Morgan, I would like to introduce you to Merlin the Magician.” Nimue’s tone was tinged with frost. “My father.”
Arthur and Morgan both turned to Nimue, shocked.
Morgan said, “Your what?”
Ignoring Morgan, Nimue said to Merlin sarcastically, “Wasn’t this your plan all along, Merlin? To find a human king to wield the Sword of Power?”
“I had every intention of destroying the sword in order to prevent this very thing: the petty struggles for incremental power, the seizing and reseizing of lands that were formed before time and belong to no one.”
“Pretty words that do not match your actions,” Nimue accused.
“What sort of fool would I be to ambush you with Uther’s soldiers as you claim? Why not kill you on the road? Why the charade? Why show you my most intimate thoughts if my purpose there was to simply betray you? Think, Nimue.”
“I saw them with my own eyes!” Nimue scoffed.
“As did I, confirmation that we both have enemies. I was betrayed. And now his army stands against you, shoulder to shoulder with the Red Paladins. We are at a precipice and must either prepare ourselves to work together and make very difficult choices or risk the very extinction of our people.”
“Our people?” Morgan interjected. “Since when have you been a friend to the Fey?”
Merlin took a few menacing steps toward the throne. “For seven hundred years I have stood in the breach between men and the Fey Kind, giving all my blood and toil to keep them from tearing out each other’s throats. I have lost more than I have won, but it is an effort that has cost me dearly in my heart, in my mind, and in my very soul. You would be wise to know your history before you ask such questions.”
&nbs
p; “Morgan is a loyal friend,” Nimue said, while putting a hand over hers to compel her silence. “Continue,” she said, not wishing to betray the gnawing, trapped feeling gripping her heart, urging her to run, flee, and escape it all.
“The sword has its grip on you, Nimue. I know you feel it. I’ve felt it too. It wills you to slaughter. To conquer. But this is the path to oblivion. The sword has power but no answers. A leader must be not only brave but wise.”
When Merlin spoke of the sword, Nimue’s stomach twisted with anger. How dare he? He wants to steal it for himself. She sensed the sword’s influence pushing her mind like winds on a sail. Feeding her passion. Her rage.
But she pushed back. The Fingers of Airimid flared briefly; the Hidden checking the sword, Nimue observed.
“What is it you propose, Merlin?”
“Very recently I brought a gift to the court of Cumber, the Ice King, a Viking lord who claims to be the true blood heir to the throne of House Pendragon. This gift will go a very long way to affirming his claim, or at the very least, diminishing Uther’s. This was something I had hoped I would never have to do. These matters inevitably lead to the deaths of innocent men, women, and children. Nor have I any desire to wound Uther Pendragon. He has been ill-served by those he trusted most. Let us leave it at that,” Merlin said ruefully.
“And yet?” Nimue asked.
“I had to do it,” Merlin continued. “So that I might bargain for your life.”
Nimue folded her hands in her lap, unexpectedly moved by his words.
But a troubling thought snuffed the light. “And what of the Fey Kind?”
Merlin’s eyes darkened. “The Ice King has offered you sanctuary in his court. As a prisoner, of sorts. To be treated very much as a guest, but a prisoner all the same. That is as far as the invitation goes.”
“What kind of invitation is that?” asked Morgan. “You want her to be a hostage?”
Nimue was about to object, but Merlin pressed. “I would encourage you to journey with me to the Beggar’s Coast and take an audience with the Ice King. Together we can plead the case of the Fey and attempt to turn his mind.”
