Camelot's Blood

by Sarah Zettel

  • • •

  Mordred stood in his mother’s pavilion, holding back the door, and looking out at the darkness. The summer nights in Gododdin waned so short that it seemed a man could barely lie down on his cot in twilight before the morning slipped over him, but for Mordred this night had been a season long. It was not worry that made the hours pass so slowly. His company was in good spirits. Each of the peoples sang in their separate languages, telling one another great stories and great lies. Old heroes were brought out and made to live again in the brief darkness.

  They made their camp amid the empty huts and animal pens of Gododdin’s village. They had crept through the lowering mists at evening, only to find the houses had already been abandoned, for a day, perhaps two. Anything of any value had been packed off with the inhabitants.

  While his men cursed, and kicked at cold ashes in extinguished hearths, Mordred had smiled. So. Agravain had indeed seen this much coming. So could a blind man. It was of little consequence. Less if the air stayed as still as it was and the mists held until past dawn.

  Now the eagerness for battle, so long held at bay, made him champ at the harness. At last, at last, this was his war. His beginning. With the dawn he truly became a man and able to stand among men. Tomorrow he earned the title of lord and of knight that had been laid over him.

  Tomorrow he would begin to avenge his family: grandfather, grandmother, mother, self. With the dawn, as soon as his horse could see to put one foot in front of the other, it all began.

  “You’ll wear yourself out.”

  Mordred turned to look at his mother, sitting calm and clear-eyed beside her brazier. No night journeys for her now. She was fully present, saving her omens and her skills to support the battle once dawn came.

  “I thank you for your concern, lady mother.” Then he winced. He had not meant the words to sound so much like a complaint.

  She smiled at him with a mother’s fond indulgence and Mordred felt his hackles rise. A heartbeat later, he saw the glint of humor in her eyes.

  “Forgive me, Mordred, if I take the mother’s part one last time. My hours to do so are short. With the dawn you will be leader of our people, and I will be …” she hesitated. “Priestess, old woman, unneeded.”

  “You will always be needed, Mother. It is you who brought this into being.”

  “So I did. And tomorrow, we begin to harvest what was sowed so many years ago.” The glint in her black eyes grew sharper, the humor melting into steel. “Your hands shall seal it, my son. I am proud of how you have grown.”

  He bowed, the compliment warming him. “I will show I am worthy.”

  “You already have.” She touched his cheek briefly, and he felt how dry and rough her palm was from so many years of spinning and weaving and all her other works. “Now,” she stood back. “If I may give one last order. It is not good that you spend these final hours in the company of your mother. You …” She paused, and Mordred felt his smile fade. “You … what … who are you?” She took a step toward him, confusion in her face.

  “What is it?” A vision was coming over her. She did not speak to him, but to it. Cold threaded through Mordred’s blood.

  “No,” whispered Morgaine. “You cannot. You cannot. She is beyond you. You cannot touch her!”

  Her voice rose to a nearly hysterical pitch. She stumbled blindly forward. Mordred heard worried calls outside.

  Mordred grabbed his mother’s arms. “Morgaine!” A name had power to reach deep, she had taught him. “Morgaine, it is Mordred. What do you see?”

  “How! How does she reach her!” It was as if the strength went out of her, and she slumped in his arms, her eyes wide with agony. “Stop! Stop her!”

  “Morgaine! Mother! I can do nothing unless you tell me what is happening!”

  But she began to tremble, then shudder, then shake, her whole body contorting with its spasms. She screamed, wordless with pain and the horror of whatever her staring eyes saw. It was all Mordred could do to hang onto her as her seizure bore them both to the ground. Sweat poured down her as if she were drenched in sea water and she bit her own lips frantically, mindlessly, until the foam and blood came.

  “Morgaine!” he cried as if to a sick child. “Morgaine, mother, what do I do? What do I do!”

  Then, she screamed. It was the deafening sound of pure agony ripped unwilling from her ravaged throat. It bent her body like a bow in his arms, and then she dropped back, senseless, still, her eyes wide open and staring.

  She did not move. She did not breathe. Outside men were calling his name. Asking questions he could not hear properly. Mordred, shaking, laid her down, backing away as if he saw a ghost.

  His throat closed. His hands shook. She did not move. She did not breathe.

  Dead? Dead? It cannot be. It CANNOT be!

  “My lord? Lord Mordred?” Durial. Just outside the door. “My lord is … are you well? We heard …”

  But if he finished his question, Mordred did not hear it. In front of him, his mother moaned, twisting weakly. In an instant, Mordred was on his knees beside her, clutching her hand, which had gone as cold as the grave.

  “Mother? Mother?”

  Morgaine’s eyelids fluttered, and opened. He looked into her black eyes, and saw nothing there but seething hatred.

  Slowly, Morgaine sat up, and Mordred fell back onto his heels. This was not his mother, this was some demon of hate made flesh.

  Morgaine rose, a figure of white and black in the brazier’s light.

  “She thinks she has beaten me. She thinks she can kill me.” Morgaine smiled, cracking the patina of blood and foam on her lips. “She thinks she can undo me with such a little thing. Oh, no. No. No, my son. She will pay.”

  She raised her arms and threw back her head, shouting out three words that Mordred could not understand. They sank through his skin, clawing at blood and seizing bone to twist and change.

  In front of Mordred’s bewildered gaze, his mother flew into a thousand pieces of darkness, a flood and flurry of wings and raucous laughter making a hurricane to fill the pavilion. Mordred hid his head in his arms. Beating wings and unforgiving claws grazed his back and skull, until the birds found the pavilion opening and burst free.

  A storm of ravens rising up to blot out the stars.

  Mordred had no idea how long he sat there, head cradled in his arms, unable to do anything more than breathe and shake. Then, slowly, he heard someone calling his name.

  Names are powerful. Names reach deep. Mordred lifted his head, and saw himself alone in the pavilion. A single, black feather lay on the trampled grass before him.

  “Lord Mordred?”

  Durial again. He stepped hesitantly into the pavilion. Mordred could not turn to look at him. He could not tear his gaze away from the feather shining in his hand. Behind him, the pavilion opening flapped loose, and Mordred could see nothing but the solid wall of mist reflecting the brazier’s feeble light.

  “Lord Mordred, where is the lady?”

  “She …” Broke into a thousand pieces, flew away as a flock of ravens. Died and came back to life again. “She goes to defend us from Merlin’s treachery.” It sounded possible. It might even be true. “She told me we should not waste any more time.” He closed his hand around the feather. “Get the men together, Durial. Light the fires. It’s time we made ready.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dawn. Harsh and bright, and life-giving. The sun touched Laurel’s skin with warm fingers, searching for life. It touched her eyes gently, to find if there was still sight. She stirred, shifting from the night’s cold into the day’s warmth, unwilling to move, unwilling to be drawn from oblivion after all she had done. The kelpie, still beside her, as fresh and steady as it had been in the nighttime, whickered once.

  Then, she heard the raven’s cry.

  It woke her like the sound of her own name. She sat up at once. Bruised and battered as she was, she felt triumph pouring through her. It warmed her from within as the sunlight
warmed her without.

  “Kelpie,” she said. “I need you to take a message to my grandmother.” The beast turned a displeased eye towards her. Its purpose was to be beside her, to speed her on her way and protect her in danger.

  Laurel met its midnight gaze and told it what she needed. She could not do this without the last secret, the one the sea held so close that even Morgaine had forgotten it waited there.

  The kelpie stamped its hoof, and whisked around. Without a sound, it sped down the hill, a blade of night cutting through the day.

  Laurel was alone.

  She knew what she must do. For the first time since the night of her marriage, she knew what she must do and knew she had the strength to do it. The water had washed away her doubts. Her communion with Morgause had taught her how Morgaine could be drawn out. For Morgaine believed she understood her own power, and the nature of her power, fully. Morgaine believed there was no one she could not deceive or seduce.

  Not even her own sister who knew her best.

  Laurel rose to her feet and turned her face towards the clear, blue sky.

  They came from the east; a cloud of ravens, carrying the storm of war behind them. Morgaine had felt her sister’s freedom, and now she came to wreak her revenge, thinking to find Laurel alone on this dry hilltop, far away from her blood’s home and power.

  “Come to me, Morgaine!” Laurel shouted. “Let us make an end, here and now!” She spread her arms, in summoning and in prayer. She felt the wind wrap itself around her, clothing her in its life and power.

  “Are you the raven, Morgaine?” Laurel cried. “Then I am the falcon, soaring high to strike!”

  The whole world changed then, and Laurel changed with it, rising up on her own wide wings.

  Now. Now we make an end.

  • • •

  With the sunrise, Agravain and his men descended into the mists. Cold fog surrounded them, muffling breath, footfall and the jingle of harness. The horses snorted, disconcerted. They whickered to one another, reassuring themselves that their mates had not suddenly vanished in this opaque, grey world. Beside Agravain, Ruadh carried the hawk banner that had been his father’s standard. It hung limp on its pole, weighed down by the still mists.

  As an omen, thought Agravain grimly, it cannot not bode well. The empty scabbard rode uneasily on his shoulders, pressing him to vigilance.

  Keade, headman for the holding at the rock’s foot, led them down the treacherous path on a shaggy pony. The headman could guide the way down this hillside in the dead of night, and his sturdy mount trusted him. Seeing the pony’s calm, Agravain’s stallion followed willingly, and all the rest came after him, nearly nose to tail. They’d make a proper formation when the slope evened out.

  If we’re given the chance. Agravain gritted his teeth. Where are you, Black Knight? He narrowed his eyes, willing his sight to pierce the mists farther than the rump of Keade’s pony.

  “Sire?” breathed Keade. He eased his pony up slowly, giving Agravain plenty of time to bring his horse around his right side. “Do you see?” He pointed out into the mists.

  Agravain strained his eyes until they ached, and then he did see. Pale sparks wavered in the fog. Fires. Camp fires. Torches perhaps.

  There you are. A grim warmth spread through him.

  “So now we know where we’re going,” he murmured. “Eadan.” Agravain looked down. They’d taken the swift boy with them for a messenger. Nervous as he was, Eadan was holding steady. If they came out of this alive, he’d make Devi a good squire. “Pass the word back. We fan out as soon as the ground gets level and every man is to hold his tongue. The enemy is camped in the village, we do not want to give them any warning of our coming.”

  • • •

  Grey and white and storm wind. Laurel’s limbs spread wide, alive to each current, each ripple beneath them. It was good. She knew the wind well and it had answered her need faithfully before. It lifted her high above the tiny, dark, paltry thing that was the raven below. Oh, it came in an unkind mob of its fellows, but there was only one she hunted.

  One in the centre. One that shone more darkly than all the others.

  She spread herself broad and her blood surged. She folded herself tight and plummeted down, beak open to grab warm flesh and warm blood, and the raven screamed in its pain.

  But there was something else, something that had no place in this world where they wheeled together, hunter and prey.

  Something that rent a sharp wound through her triumph.

  Are you the falcon, Laurel of Cambryn? Then I am the eagle and my wings cast their shadow far above you!

  Her prey was gone. Laurel spread her wings, catching the wind, just in time. She soared high again, suddenly bereft.

  Alone and afraid she drifted on the wind.

  Agravain caught the scent of smoke moving sluggishly through the mists. If he stared hard, he could see that the misted shadows around him were stone and thatched houses, and the lines of wicker fences.

  And nothing had happened. He rode up to a fire that drove back the fog just enough to show muddy, trampled ground. He stood in the middle of straw stubble and the prints of dozens of feet, both human and animal. There waited a grey stone wall. There a stick fallen crosswise to their path.

  All around them was mist and silence. Agravain’s horse shifted uneasily underneath him. His company waited at his back, just as uneasily.

  “Where are they?” For a moment Agravain thought he’d spoken aloud. But it was Ruadh, staring at the fire they could now see clearly.

  The brightly burning, completely unattended fire.

  In the back of his mind, Agravain heard the trap slam shut.

  “Back!” he shouted, reining his stallion around. “Back! Everyone back!”

  The sound of a strange horn shivered the mists. “Back!” he bellowed again. Too late, too late. The words sang in his blood even as he hauled on the reins and dug his spurs into his stallion’s sides to send the beast leaping forward.

  He heard the hoofbeats now, thundering against the ground. Hoofbeats enough to make the whole world tremble as the Black Knight’s army poured out of the mist.

  • • •

  The falcon knew she was hunted. She felt it through the length of her body. The world was too dark, the wind too weak. She tried to flap her wings and gain some height, but it was too late, far too late.

  This is wrong. Wrong. This is not how it should be. But she couldn’t think. She was too small. Too afraid. Something waited above. It usurped the wind. She had to think. She couldn’t think for the fear. She could only fly. She could fly far away, seek the broad salt waters. The waters were safety. They were part of something she had been once, before she changed, before all things changed.

  Pain slammed against her neck and she screamed as hot blood ran down her feathers. Her body flailed and struggled and the world darkened before her eyes. And she remembered who brought the pain …

  Eagle, I am the arrow loosed from the bow, and I fly to your heart, bringing you down!

  • • •

  Mordred leaned low across his stallion’s black neck, baring his teeth to the rushing wind. The jolt and thunder of the mad ride drummed into him, setting his blood pounding in eager answer.

  “Run! Run!” He laughed towards Agravain’s fleeing form.

  Here it began, here was the first great victory. Here was the hand of vengeance that had waited so long to smite down the bastard, traitor brood whose son fled before him.

  He knew what they meant to do. Their outriders had seen the loose fence of sharpened pickets set in the shadow of the cliff. Agravain thought his men would impale themselves on those stout stakes, run up on their pikemen and their spear throwers.

  Oh, no, Your Majesty. We will not be caught so easily!

  Most helpfully, Agravain’s men had set a course of flags up to mark the distance to the pickets. Blue, red and yellow; yard after yard of cloth hung from stout posts. It was as if they thought to mark a fest
ival day rather than a war. A wealth of brightly dyed cloth to be wasted on the battlefield.

  Durial had wanted to tear them up, deprive the enemy of their road. Why? Why not use it for themselves and deprive him of the dead he hoped to make with his little fence and pathetic surprise?

  Agravain and his men were already dead. They were surrounded and they did not know it. This plain was just the killing ground. The Picts scaled the back of the hills to take the pass. The Dal Riata climbed the cliffs to take the narrow bridge that was the last retreat of the kings of Din Eityn. The mists made the war engines useless, because the operators could not see whether they aimed at their own king.

  It was all over but to see Agravain’s head rolling at his feet.

  The red flag flashed past on his right. “Now!” cried Mordred to Durial. Durial reined up short and raised his horn to his mouth to blow three sharp blasts. As neat, swift and sure as any Roman guard, his horsemen wheeled. They turned to the right, running back and fanning out to make a living wall in front of Agravain’s picket fence.

  To make their battle line, and hold it there.

  Mordred’s grin broadened. The sun had lifted the mists just enough that he could see the picket fence from here. There dark and lumpish mass of pikemen arrayed before the shifting line of horsemen. One figure gleamed red and black in the grey fog.

  Mordred urged his horse forward a few steps. “King Agravain!” he called out to that straight, proud, doomed figure. “King Agravain! Surrender now and I swear that none of your men will suffer for their allegiance to you!”

  Agravain also moved his horse, coming forward to the very edge of the fence that was his chosen battleground. Mordred sat back in his saddle, waiting for whatever curse of defiance Arthur’s kindred could muster.

  But only one word came.

  “NOW!”

  Bronze horns, and the frenzied pounding of drums split the world. Mordred stood at once in his stirrups, staring wildly around to look for the attack, but there was nothing. No cloud rising from the fog, no blur of motion from the picket in front of him. Only the rush of wind, the blare of horns.