by Sarah Zettel
He had to let the Black Knight go. For now. For now only.
“Now!” Agravain shouted.
Three blasts on the horn, the wave of the red flag. Ruadh was sweating and blood-spattered, raising the hawk banner high to show the rallying point.
Follow the standard! Agravain prayed to his own men through his gritted teeth. God Almighty, let them keep together and follow the standard!
He couldn’t wait any more. He had to turn his horse yet again, and retreat. Shift the course, move fast, bear around to where the ridge was low, to the cleft where they’d dug so hard to clear a way that was wide enough and smooth enough for the horses get through.
Agravain risked a look over his shoulder, squinting to try to make out the picture on the jolting landscape behind him. There was no way to tell how many had managed to follow him. The pack looked fairly tight. He caught flashes of colour that might have been banners for his men. It might still be all right. They might be dragging Mordred’s army around behind them, putting their flank to the ridge.
He faced forward again. The ridge was near. In another few heartbeats the ground would rise and he’d have to swing around again to force his tired, balking horse up the pass.
It could still work. It had worked so far. It could still work …
• • •
Laurel ran towards her death, squealing in her shock, but unable to stop, unable to slow or turn. The path was too tight, her hooves too slick, her speed too great. The hunter grinned, holding his spear steady. She must run towards him, and he held, and as long he held she must die. She ran, a bare arm’s length from him now and he held …
Hunter, I am the stone that slips and turns your ankle, throwing you helpless to the ground.
Small, tight and hard, round and smooth and treacherous. Blind and senseless, knowing only the unbearable pressure from above. Then, the pressure shifted just the tiniest amount, and she was free. She rolled, and the pressure was gone, and she flew into the dark.
Stone, I am the sea where you fall, plummeting, helpless to the bottom.
• • •
Now! Now! Pain burned up Agravain’s arms as he gripped the reins. He clamped his aching knees to his stallion’s sides, forcing the whickering, whining animal up the rough ground. The makeshift walls of stone and timber were too high for him to see what was happening above. His ears were so deafened by the clash of battle he could hear nothing.
Come on! Any further and you won’t have a clear shot at them! They’ll run right past …
Cold dropped hard against Agravain’s mind. Had he missed something? Had there been a third arm? No, no, they didn’t have enough men for that surely … He wheeled around, and his horse screamed as he dragged at the beast’s raw mouth. He ignored it. He had to see below and read the flags and shields in the pounding churning mass struggling to overtake him, his mind and sight a blur.
The Picts. Where are the Picts in this hoard?
God, no …
But the thought had no time to complete itself. A shout came from above, and a new sound, a creaking thunder that began low and picked up speed. Agravain’s head snapped around in time to see the logs of timber cascading down onto the great fantail of Mordred’s army.
Horses and men screamed and fell, toppling down the steep hills. Dying, crushed by the logs, by the hooves and falling bodies of their comrades’ horses.
Then, one man after another popped up from behind the barricades of earth, and the bolts and the stones began to fly down.
His men cheered, and Agravain lifted his sword, turning again, following the path of the timber, grinning fiercely as he roared out his wordless battle cry.
• • •
She flew free. The air brushed her, tumbling her over. There was joy in her flight, but it was wrong somehow. Too long, too far, curving, tumbling, endless. A shock of cold. Pressure now on all sides, a cold embrace, guiding her down and down, without stint or measure, no ending, cool turning to cold, the warmth of light fading fast as she fell and fell and fell.
But this too was wrong. The touch of this embrace was not right, was not true somehow. The current was wrong, the flow, the cold not enough, too much was missing. False, false, false …
Like all things made by Morgaine.
Morgaine.
And Laurel remembered and strained and changed.
• • •
Devi, his hand gouged open by splinters and his eyes stinging from sweat, backed slowly away from the catapult. His weak arm trembled and spasmed and he lacked the strength to control its frenzied dance.
“Try it now!” he cried to his crew.
The men, old sailors and miners used to the ways of ropes and pullies, bent their backs to the wheel, chanting slowly.
“Bring her round, boys!
“Hard now, haul now!
“Bring her round boys!”
Devi barely heard them. All his focus was on the trebuchet’s arm, slowly lowering. The timbers sang out sharp and angry as the gut ropes forced them down.
They had to be ready. The army below was in retreat. The king’s men would pursue them back to the shattered pickets, and then it would be their turn up here again. They must be ready. They must be able to finish this. To show Sir Agravain — King — Agravain that his faith and planning had not been misplaced. That all those years Devi had spent grubbing through Londinium’s ruins, all the gold he had paid out for the scrolls from Rome and Byzantium so he could ferret out their mysteries, had not been a waste.
That Pedair had not given his life in vain.
I might die today and here I am worried about my honour. The thought moved through him with a tremulous laugh. Ah, God, pride makes us all fools.
The armature reached the level of his nose. The timber and gut creaked, slowly; complaining, but not shouting.
“Brake!”
The man standing by shoved the great bar into place, jamming the gear, taking the strain off the ropes. For a single heartbeat, Devi could breathe.
“Sir Devi! Sir Devi!”
Devi swung around to see Abel, a broad, stunted boy pelting across the yard. He’d been carrying buckets of water and grease all day and much of the night. Devi had set him with the watchmen over the cliff walls, so he could get some rest.
“They’re coming for the back door!”
Devi felt the blood that flushed his cheeks run down to his heart. “Are the men still in place there?” His voice cracked. His throat hurt. Everything hurt. His skin and eyes burned from the corrosive firing compounds, and sheer lack of sleep.
But Abel was nodding. “They’ve all held their places.”
“It’s up to them, then,” Devi whispered. “Keep good watch.”
He turned back to the engines. These were his charge. He could not think too much on the narrow bridge that was Din Eityn’s back door, or the men waiting hidden in its shadows. They’d crafted the hinges and stops as carefully as they could. It would either work or not work. There was nothing he could do now.
This for Pedair, Devi told himself and whatever god old or new might be listening. He clutched his weak arm to his chest as he remembered the scream and the stench and the old chief calling out their king’s name. One last gambit to keep us safe.
• • •
Laurel’s change flung her high, lifted her to float neatly above the false waves.
Sea, I am the boat that rocks upon your waves, the boat that holds the children crying for their mothers. The children set adrift for dreadful purpose.
For the first time in this long, strange war, Laurel heard Morgaine laugh. The laughter came from every side, enveloping her even as the waves buffeted her timber sides.
You think to shock me with my own deeds? You think I do not know what I have done?
I will be the morverch, cold daughter of the sea’s longing. To take up the babe promised me.
Laurel rocked hard, buffeted by Morgaine’s blows on every side. Water poured in an unbroken stream from the sky,
pushing her down so that she could not swim, could not float, could only founder. Morgaine filled the whole world, her power dragging the water down, pushing it up. Laughing, laughing over Laurel’s screams as she tipped slowly over, pushed and pulled by the weight of the water too strong to fight.
Laurel sank beneath the waves.
• • •
Behind Mordred, his army was being routed. The rush and thump of the stones hurled from the fortress above filled the air, punctuated by the desperate cries of men, the screams of the horses, the endless clash and clang of sword, shield and spear.
Mother, where are you? Why aren’t you here to break them down!
Some of his men managed to follow him out of the heart of the carnage. Not too many, he didn’t think. He could not spare strength to look back. He had to ride, ride hard, ride fast, trust the smoke of the stinking fires to hide him as he raced his horse the long way around, to find the Dal Riata, to see how they took the bridge. Last gambit, last game.
At last he rounded the ragged outcropping and reined in his horse, too hard; the beast shrieked and tried to rear. Up on the walls, he could just see the Dal Riata, moving cautiously along the ridge, their shields high. Bolts and stones rained down from above, clanging like hailstones. But they kept their formation, each man pressed tight against his neighbour, the whole of them moving slowly forward, the bolts doing no more damage than pebbles against a stone wall, for all the rattle and clangour.
They’ll do it. They’ll do it.
Agravain had let the bridge over the cliff’s gap stand. Probably, he thought it could be used in retreat. Perhaps he had gambled that Mordred had not been able to find out about its existence.
Movement in the shadows caught Mordred’s eye. Mordred stood high in his stirrups as his horse danced beneath him.
Beneath the bridge, Mordred saw men moving.
Mordred screamed in wordless, helpless warning. All the shouts and clash of battle turned in an instant to cries of horror as the bridge’s supports neatly separated from its planking, and the Dal Riata, like so many straws, fell screaming into the ravine.
It was over in a moment.
Shaking as if fever overcame him, Mordred dropped back into his saddle.
It was over. Over. If he had a third of his men left, he had a great deal. He’d been crushed and burned and broken, spitted and cleaved. He’d failed. Utterly and completely. His mind was stunned, unable to contain the enormity of it. All the whirlwind of battle that he had somehow managed to keep at bay sank into him, buffeting him to his bones, pounding against his very heart.
He turned his horse; his trembling, sweating, nigh-on dead horse. He could not think what to do. He had no plan for this. This should not have been. Could not be. How had this happened? How in the name of all the gods had this come to be?
“Mordred.”
Mordred’s head jerked up. His mazed ears couldn’t identify the voice, and for a single wild instant, he hoped it was his mother.
No. Before him waited Agravain, sitting on a mount flecked with foam, blood and mud. His sword was drawn, his helmet gone, shield gone, face and hands spattered with drying blood.
Mordred grinned. Not done yet. Not yet. There was still a chance.
His sword sang as he freed it from the sheath. He nodded to Agravain.
Agravain charged.
• • •
Come now, little one, come to your home.
All of Laurel’s awareness had dwindled down. This was not her change. This was change made for her. She was flesh and bone again, small and struggling, weary and hungry. Gentle arms wrapped around her, cold but living. It was so good to be held again, she did not fight. She could not fight, even though it was still cold and dark, and the world was too heavy for comfort. The dreadful noise had stopped now, and the element all around her was deeply familiar somehow.
Home, her small, weary mind whispered. She stirred in the arms that held her so gently but so firmly. Morgaine’s arms.
Home in the depths. I will sing you to sleep. Come down, come down, come away with me.
Breathe. The flesh she wore could not, did not, refuse, but the soul it clothed stirred again.
Morgaine, this is no home of yours.
Hush, little one. Little one. Small and helpless, and longing to be held. Nothing more. No one else. Just the tiny bundle in the dark. No name to remember, no wish for anything but to be held. Hush. Breathe deep. I will take you home.
• • •
Swing again, and again. All art, all science gone. Only bloody, brute force left. Hammer hard, like a smith breaking iron. Wear the other down, beat him, break him until he fell. The whole world had come down to this; blow for blow, ducking, wheeling, fighting pain, struggling to see, to sense the next fall of the enemy’s blade. Struggling to bring his own arms up, again and yet again.
But the ground underneath was mud and stone. The horses were as overtaxed as their riders, and had no fury or fight for life to sustain them. The black war horse stumbled, and its foreknee buckled, just for a moment, but it was enough. The Black Knight lost his seat, sliding hard to the ground, landing with a squelch and a thud.
Agravain slashed down, but his reach was not long enough. He swung out of his saddle and stumped over to his enemy.
It ends, here and now it ends.
He took aim at Mordred’s exposed throat, and stabbed down.
Mordred moved. A flash, a ringing clang as the Black Knight’s blade knocked his own aside. Jolted into awareness, Agravain tried to step back, but fire lanced through his knee, and he fell. His shoulder hit stone and pain burned, robbing him of the ability to roll aside for a crucial instant. Mordred was above him, his teeth flashing white beneath the black guard of his helm. Mordred’s sword flashed down, burying itself deep into Agravain’s chest.
And pulling out again.
There was surprisingly little pain. Just a strange pressure. His hands were warm and wet from the dark blood fountaining over them. It was hard to breathe. Very hard. The darkness was coming. Agravain was not so confused as to think it night. No. This was a darkness far older and eternal, and it laid itself down lightly on him.
Laurel.
The darkness closed down and took all thought with it.
Darkness surrounded Laurel; cool, calming darkness that was infinitely familiar to the deepest part of her soul. The deeper they dived, the more familiar, more intimate that touch became, the more clearly she heard her name in the currents that whispered past her ears. It was the arms that held her that felt wrong. This was a stranger’s touch, it had no belonging here. It borrowed the flesh of a beloved and mischievous daughter. It was an abomination. It would be cast out.
Grandmother was angry. Laurel stretched, holding the form she had been given with difficulty, as the sea’s grip closed. Where are you taking me, Morgaine?
Down to your brothers and sisters. Down to where daylight will no more trouble you.
Pride. It poured from her in ripples. Laurel made the babe in her arms go limp. Are we almost there, Morgaine?
Almost there, little one. It was so gentle. So much like what a mother would say to soothe a restless child. Laurel could bear it no more.
Yes. Yes. Here we are, you and I Morgaine. And we are not alone.
Morgaine laughed, flinging herself wide. You think your grandmother will save your mortal flesh, little one?
I do not speak of the bucca-gwidden, Morgaine. I speak of the other ones. You called them my brothers and sisters, but you never knew their names.
Names. Names were powerful. Names cut deep. Her grandmother knew the names of all the souls who rested in her body, and she whispered them in Laurel’s ear.
Shall I call them for you? Bran and Tor, Caden, Austell, Masin, Piran, Daveth, and Ian.
Laurel felt Morgaine’s pride and certainty waver. What are you doing?
Calling my brothers, Morgaine, she answered calmly. You brought me here. Made me one of them. One more babe drowned to b
uy your son’s life. How can you refuse to see the others who you murdered in this darkness? Garen and Eloweth, Worth and Rhys and Kevern …
More shadows, shapes made of a darkness beyond darkness, but as the list of names tolled they grew clearer.
The ghosts of the children came.
They walked on thin legs. They were bloated and black-eyed, heavy with the water their skins had drunk. Their mouths hung slack from the choking screams that had been their last sounds. The remains of their clothing and the coils of their hair swayed in the current like strange water weeds.
Come, my brothers. Come, my sons. Come and meet the one who brought you here. Come meet Morgaine the Sleepless, Morgaine the Goddess, Morgan the Fey.
Fear. Fear, deep and black as the waters that surrounded them boiled out of Morgaine. This she had not seen. This she had never looked for.
Morgaine, Morgaine, the little ghosts’ whispers were filled with wonder. We never knew your name before. We called and called, and you could not hear, because we did not know your name.
Morgaine.
Morgaine.
She rallied, anchoring herself to the strengths that had held her so long. She drew deep on the bottomless well of hate and need that had sustained her heart and soul and strangling power for all the long years. You cannot call to me. I accepted this deed long ago. My soul will pay when I die, and I am not dead yet!
You accepted this deed, but we did not, Morgaine. You never asked us. It was not with our consent you made us sacrifice. We said this to you over and over, but you never heard us. Because we did not know your name.
You did not hear us call our mothers and our fathers.
You did not hear us cry for the cold and the sound of the thunder overhead.
You did not hear us weeping all these long years in darkness.
They closed, those dreadful ghosts, grinning grins that belonged to no child. These were the ghosts of hate and fear. These were the last, lost wishes of the human soul. They wanted to know why this had happened, to find the hand that bore them down.