Cursed

by Frank Miller

  “No! No!” Carden gagged, opening his mouth to speak and allowing another handful of flies to fill his throat. He croaked to vomit as Nimue wrenched the Sword of Power free. She screamed with primal rage, spun around and cleaved Father Carden’s head from his neck.

  Merlin swung around and pulled his captor’s sword. The Red Paladin shielded his face and lost his arm to Merlin’s blow. Merlin stepped aside for another paladin lunge and drove him headfirst into the carpet of rats at their feet. Merlin fought past the other flailing monks and slashed his way to Morgan’s captors. They battled the mage despite the dozens of rats hanging on their robes and the bats fluttering in their faces but were ultimately no match as Merlin plunged the steel through their hearts and tore Morgan free. “Now! Nimue, now!” he cried.

  Nimue stumbled away from the sight of Carden’s head on the floor, gradually becoming a meal to the teeming flies and rats.

  But another cohort of Red Paladins thundered around the distant bend of tents. Sensing the enormity of the moment and drawn to the panicked cries of their brothers, they poured on the speed and Merlin, Morgan, and Nimue were forced to take flight.

  Arthur ran out from under the shelter of sandstone and grabbed the longbow of a fallen Faun archer. Using the body as cover, he took an arrow from the dead Faun’s quiver and fired at the charging raiders, who had cleared off the cliffs and were now charging on horseback across the sands to finish them off. Pendragon sailors and Fey Kind were still washing onto the beach, bloodied and nearly drowned, easy prey for the approaching Vikings. Arthur emptied the quiver, but he was almost alone in the battle. Half his best fighters were dead or wounded on the beach. Hundreds of Fey Kind huddled in terror beneath the sandstone. Arthur knew the raiders would not be taking prisoners. They were there to annihilate. Out of arrows, Arthur drew his sword and stumbled into the path of the horsemen. He vowed to take a last few with him before he was cut down. The pounding hooves roared in his ears. The raiders were close enough for Arthur to see their bloodthirsty smiles. He tightened his grip as a strange whistle came from the east. Something flashed in the corner of his eye, and a massive fireball of burning pitch blasted into the first dozen raiders of the oncoming charge. Bodies flew everywhere. The impact threw Arthur backward. The air was filled with black smoke and swirling sparks. Burning horses stumbled about on broken legs or heaved and screamed in the sands. The confused Vikings circled around the resulting crater in the earth as another whistle cut the air and a second fireball tore through the raiders’ back end of the charge. Another ten riders wailed in a mass of broken and charred limbs.

  Arthur turned to the sea and the raider ships, as one of them suddenly split in two, torn in half by a Viking longship augmented by a burning lance fused to its prow. Arthur felt caught up in a dream. “The Red Spear,” he whispered. He recalled the raiders in the dungeons of Cinder, Nimue’s healing magic, and a promise made with a handshake. A volley of fireballs exploded onto the raider ships, thanks to the ballista and customized trebuchet aboard the Spear’s fleet.

  The raiders on the beach were having second thoughts about their charge as the Spear’s ships took a head-on position for the shore. Huge fighters in bearskin capes leaped into the shallow surf armed with axes and met the raiders on the wet sands in clanging fury.

  Arthur could not reason through the Viking on Viking violence but was thrilled to be the beneficiary. And as the first wave of ships fled back into the deep seas or burned and sank, the Red Spear’s longship rode the surf toward the shore, ably turning the ship in the churning waves. The Vikings aboard waved to the survivors on shore and Arthur sprang into action, shouting to the Fey Kind. The Tusks gathered the refugees into columns and led them into the surf as the Red Spear’s invading force made short work of the raiders on the beach.

  More of the Red Spear’s ships rode the surf near to shore to receive the Fey Kind. Arthur plunged into the waves, fighting the brutal cold to help the weak or the small or the aged. He stayed in the biting surf for more than an hour, sloshing up and down the coastline to help the Fey get aboard the longships until his arms were frozen, dead weights and his lips were blue. Before he sank under the waters, a rough hand took hold of the back of his neck and Wroth half lifted him onto one of the ships. Arthur collapsed onto the deck, vomiting seawater and racked with chills. He looked up at a pair of steel-toed boots lined with sealskin. A set of axes hung from a belt over leather breeches. A leather-and-steel-gloved hand reached out to him. Arthur saw circular dragon carvings on the gauntlet. He took the hand and noted the size of it. He stood to his full height and looked down slightly at a fierce dragon helm.

  “I’m told I owe you a debt,” said the voice within.

  “I’m glad to hear it. And by the gods consider us even,” Arthur gushed.

  The Red Spear removed her helm and red curls spilled over her shoulders. Her green eyes flickered with mischief. “You’re an easy one, aren’t you? I’m Guinevere of the court of the Ice King—a court now under siege by traitors.”

  “I’m Arthur,” he answered. “And we’ll do all in our power to help you.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  THE WEEPING MONK WHEEZED HEAVILY. Something was broken inside him. His left arm hung useless at his side, and his sword dragged in his right hand. The ground was thick with twitching Trinity bodies. One Trinity remained. His death mask had been knocked aside, revealing wide, fearful eyes behind it. He spun his flail. The monk walked forward, fearless of the weapon. The Trinity guard shouted and swung his flail. The monk caught the spiked balls in his ribs, grimacing through the agony, and locked his elbow down over the chains, trapping it. The Trinity yanked to no avail as the monk drew him in and stuck his sword directly through his throat. The guard coughed blood and pitched forward as the Weeping Monk jerked his sword free. The monk spun around as his legs buckled under him.

  Squirrel raced to him. “Come on now. Up you go.” He pulled on the monk, who rose on instinct alone, allowing Squirrel to guide him to a nearby horse. The Red Paladin camp was largely empty. The sounds of battle from the Pendragon camp echoed across the Minotaur Valley. Squirrel knew that Trinity guards were still at large and would soon discover their dead brothers.

  The Weeping Monk tried to mount the horse but was too weak. Squirrel fitted the monk’s boot into the stirrup and wedged his shoulders under his backside, then pushed up with his legs. The monk lay over the saddle clumsily, and Squirrel hopped up behind him. He reached over the monk for the reins and urged the horse forward, turning them toward the wood. Several times Squirrel had to throw himself against the monk to keep him from pitching over the side. The bloody night had ended and a burning pink dawn was rising.

  They rode for an hour in silence across a hillside of tall pines.

  “What . . .” The monk tried to speak. He took several breaths, summoning the strength. “What is your name?”

  “Squirrel,” he answered.

  “That . . .” Again the monk lost strength. He tried again. “That is not a name. A squirrel is an animal.”

  “That’s what they call me,” Squirrel said, shrugging.

  “What did your parents name you?”

  “I don’t like that name,” Squirrel protested.

  The Weeping Monk was quiet for several seconds. Squirrel wasn’t sure if he was about to die or not. He figured it was not the most unreasonable question.

  “Fine. They called me Percy,” he said, annoyed.

  The Weeping Monk grunted. “Percy?”

  “It’s short for Percival, I think.” And this brought up another question. “Do you have a real name?” Squirrel asked.

  “Lancelot,” he answered. “A long time ago my name was Lancelot.”

  Across the valley, the Red Paladins invaded the forest to hunt the Wolf-Blood Witch, hell-bent on vengeance for the death of Father Carden.

  Only a half mile ahead of their hunters, Merlin and Morgan battled with Nimue, who fought with them to cross the fields to the Vatican camp. “I can�
�t leave him again! They have Squirrel! You don’t understand!”

  Morgan took her friend’s face in her hands. “I do. I do understand. But he’s gone, Nimue. He’s gone. They won’t leave him alive. You’re alive and your people need you!”

  “They attacked the ships,” Nimue said through tears. “They never made it, they never made it, it’s my fault. I can’t lose him, too.”

  She pulled away from Morgan and stumbled back down the trail.

  “Nimue!” Merlin shouted.

  She wavered on the lip of the rise and looked down and saw a wave of red washing through the woods. More than a hundred Red Paladins were closing in on them. Because of this, she allowed Morgan to pull her back to where Merlin studied the terrain.

  “If we make it to the Rabbit Cross, we can lose them in the Narrows. This way. Hurry. It’s less than a mile.” Merlin hurried them down the hill. Several minutes later they could hear the sound of rushing water and came upon a swiftly moving river and a tilting wooden bridge, covered in moss. A hundred yards farther on, the river pitched over a deep falls, marking the start of the dark canyons of the Minotaurs. They ran to the edge of the bridge, the sounds of the falls drowning out the rumble of the paladin horses behind them.

  “Hurry now! Now!” Merlin pulled Morgan onto the bridge and had taken several strides before realizing Nimue wasn’t among them. He turned back.

  Nimue lingered at the end of the bridge. “I’m sorry. I’m going back for him,” she said to Merlin.

  The mage heard her words, but his eyes noticed a movement near the trees, on the opposite end from where the Red Paladins were pursuing them. Nimue was turning back in that direction as a small figure emerged wearing peasant rags and holding a longbow far too tall for its tiny frame. An arrow was nocked.

  “No,” Merlin whispered.

  Nimue thought she recognized the child, though she wasn’t wearing her disturbing mask. “Ghost?” she asked as the first arrow struck her in the right shoulder, knocking her to one knee. Sister Iris smoothly loaded a second arrow, still marching toward the bridge, and fired again. Thud. Nimue fell onto her back and looked down at the second arrow, sticking out of her ribs on the left side. She clawed the dirt, struggling to stand, as Sister Iris nocked another arrow and fired. Thud. The third arrow caught Nimue in the center of her back as she turned toward the bridge, propelling her forward. She caught herself and stood there a moment, swaying, as Merlin and Morgan rushed back across the bridge toward her.

  The Red Paladin horsemen cleared the rise, saw Nimue, Merlin, and Morgan, and thundered down the hill.

  Nimue’s eyes fluttered as she drew the Sword of Power, only to have it fall limply from her hand and clatter onto the bridge. She faltered, tried to catch herself, and slid over the slick, wet moss covering the low warped wall. She tipped over and somersaulted fifty feet into the rushing river, the current swallowing her like a drop of rain.

  Morgan threw herself against the bridge wall. “Nimue!”

  Sister Iris slung her bow over her shoulder and watched the Red Paladins storm the bridge.

  In that moment, Merlin looked down at the Sword of Power at his feet. He knelt down and wrapped his fist around its grip. It felt as easy and warm as a heartbeat, and it opened a channel that flooded Merlin with energy. It was his magic, returning to his blood with molten heat and power. His blue crackling eyes gazed up at the Red Paladins, and with the sword he drew a glowing sigil in the air. The effect was immediate: the clouds overhead turned black and roiling and tempest winds swung up through the Minotaur Narrows, colliding with such fury, they flung and spun the horsemen into the air, breaking them against the trees, hurtling some hundreds of feet into the air or dropping them onto the sharp rocks of the falls.

  Sister Iris wisely retreated to the shelter of the trees as another wave of Red Paladins crested the hill only to be bludgeoned by the gale-force winds. Merlin roared and held the sword aloft as a series of lightning bolts struck the sword and the bridge in a succession of deafening blasts, culminating in a fiery explosion that uplifted a massive column of black smoke. Gradually the winds died down and the surviving paladins crept down the hillside. When the smoke finally cleared, the Rabbit’s Cross was nothing more than blackened, charred, and sparking pieces.

  And there was no sign of Merlin or Morgan.

  Nimue drifted in a cobalt-blue void. The gentle currents danced her arms at her sides as ribbons of blood encircled her. A tiny stream of bubbles escaped her slightly parted lips as she turned in a wide, descending spiral toward a pulling blackness.

  The sword is still close.

  She couldn’t touch it. She couldn’t see it. But she sensed it, and the idea warmed her cold body.

  Her eyes fluttered briefly and her body convulsed as she swallowed water. She flashed to the fawn in the Iron Wood. Death is not the end.

  Would the light of the Sky Folk reach her in these depths? Would Lenore be waiting for her? She hoped so. She longed to feel her mother’s arms around her. And Pym. Mad, wonderful Pym.

  NIMUE DRIFTED IN A COBALT-BLUE VOID.

  And Arthur. My young wolf. My heart. Will I see him again?

  Her body convulsed again, with less force. She was yielding to the dark and the cold. The Fingers of Airimid slowly branched up her neck and cheeks.

  This was my vision.

  I will keep the sword safe. Neither the Church, nor Uther, nor Cumber will have it. The War of the Sword dies with me.

  Until a true king rises to claim it.

  EPILOGUE

  POPE ABEL WORE HIS CEREMONIAL tiara, a three-tiered crown, his flowing mantum and his falda skirts to emphasize the importance of the occasion. In his right hand he clutched the papal ferula, a shepherd’s crook topped with a crucifix. The torchlight of the small cathedral San Pietro in Vincoli shone on the golden Ring of the Fisherman, which he wore on his left third finger. He gazed out upon mute columns of Trinity soldiers. Abbot Wicklow stood to the side in his ceremonial robes, hands folded in prayer.

  Pope Abel smiled to the congregation. “Out of the darkness there always comes a light. Blinding in its clarity. Searing in its strength. Innocent like a child. Pure as our Lord God is pure. For make no mistake, to smite the abomination of the Wolf-Blood Witch, God has sent us his own avenging angel, her humble origins a model of saintliness and duty, her conviction indomitable. Today we add to the ranks of the Trinity a new warrior of God. Rise, Sister Iris.”

  Sister Iris looked up at Pope Abel with her melted eye. She stood as he draped her own unique death mask over her head. She turned to the Trinity brotherhood as they bowed their heads to her.

  Pope Abel whispered in her ear, “We shall accomplish great miracles together, my child.” His breath smelled like dead men’s bones.

  Nimue’s body washed up on a sandbar in the shadows of the looming canyon walls of the Minotaur Mountains. The arrow in her back had broken off to a stump. The other arrows were bent under her weight. Her breath came in heaving intervals.

  Something moved near her. Footsteps on the gravelly sand. Black robes swept around her. More footsteps were followed by hissing and whispering voices. Dozens of bodies swayed over Nimue. Blistered hands, some missing fingers, pushed and probed at her. After some debate in a secret, ancient language, the ghoulish hands reached underneath Nimue’s body and lifted her into the air. The leper mob swarmed her limp body and spirited it into a dark and foreboding tunnel.

  I WOULD LIKE TO THANK Arthur Rakham, A. B. Frost, Al Foster, Wallace Wood, John R. Neil, Thomas Wheeler, Silenn Thomas, Madeleine Desmichelle, Tony DiTerlizzi, Angela DiTerlizzi, Jeannie Ng, Chava Wolin, Tom Daly, Justin Chanda, and Lucy Ruth Cummins.

  —F. M.

  I REMEMBER DRIVING DOWN MOORPARK street in Studio City, California, when Frank’s first sketches of Cursed hit my phone. I won’t lie; I temporarily lost control of the steering wheel. I had the presence of mind to pull over, and it was then I realized—as I scrolled through lustrous dark fairies and a dream-like image
of Nimue, with her back to us and her face turned away to reveal her Demon Bear scars—that, oh my God, this was really happening.

  I’m a lifelong Frank Miller fan, and this collaboration has been the unlikeliest of bucket listings. He’s one of a handful of creators whose work helped shape my creative voice through the years, and it has been my high honor to tell this story with him. I’m so thankful for his trust, his wisdom, and his idea to ally Sister Iris with an army of killer children (a must for book two).

  This project also would not exist without the tenacity and creative passion of Frank’s partner in crime, Silenn Thomas. She was there at the very beginning as we shined a light on the idea-seedlings that would grow into the thorn mazes of Cursed.

  Phillip Raskind at WME was an early believer in Cursed, and when he sets his mind to something, the wisest thing to do is dive out of the way and let him do his thing.

  So, through Phillip, I was introduced to Dorian Karchmar and Jamie Carr at WME New York, and their early enthusiasm, encouragement, and outstanding notes helped shape Cursed closer to the form it takes today.

  Dorian and Jamie were instrumental in bringing the amazing Justin Chanda and Simon & Schuster to the party. I feel quite blessed to have benefited from Justin’s experience and heartfelt guidance through the editorial process. For me he was the ideal and necessary combination of cheerleader and field general to help power me to the finish line. With the keen eye of designer Lucy Ruth Cummins, they are a team extraordinaire. Thank you also to Alyza Liu, Chava Wolin, Jeannie Ng, and all the folks at S&S who made this possible.

  From there, Cori Wellins at WME took on the idea and dreamt it into the novel-TV-Netflix-series extravaganza that it is today. And my attorney, Harris Hartman, managed to make some kind of contractual sense out of it all.