Morgana Trilogy Complete Series

by Alessa Ellefson

  “I really don’t think you should go,” Arthur says quietly as we wait for our turn.

  “Oh, and are you going to tell any of these other people here to stay as well?” I retort.

  We take a few steps forward as another group of knights steps inside Pigfain’s Fey circle, many barely our age.

  “It’s not the same thing,” Arthur says.

  “Are you saying their lives matter less than mine?” I hiss out.

  “Don’t put words in my mouth,” Arthur says. “What I’m saying is that you’re way more dangerous than they would be should you fall into Carman’s hands again.”

  “I thought that was exactly where you guys wanted me,” I retort scathingly.

  The people in line ahead of us throw curious glances over their shoulders at us, before quickly looking away again when they see me. I repress a flinch, hurt at the thought that these knights would rather face Carman than be anywhere near me.

  “But in that, you guys are right,” I say at last. “No one around here knows how Carman works better than I do, not even Lugh himself.”

  It’s now time for the group in front of us to move into Pigfain’s portal, and with a bright flash they all disappear.

  “Morgan, please,” Arthur says urgently as the Fey circle starts glowing again, “try to understand—”

  “No, you try to understand!” I fire back at him. “I know what it’s like to be at her mercy, and believe me when I say that I’m the last one who’s going to want to fall into her clutches again. But she’s used my own blood to create that damned dragon of hers! So I must, no, I need to find a way to undo it. And believe me when I say that I’m not going to let anything, nor anyone, stop me from fighting her, not while there’s a breath left in me.”

  Shocked at my own outburst I push past him, but not before I see the pain and fear in Arthur’s eyes. I know he means well, that he cares for me as any knight would his younger, more inexperienced squire. But if I allow him to sway me today, I’ll never get the courage to face Carman again.

  I nod to Pigfain as I step inside his wide circle, and the Fey boy nods in return, his features strained with evident exhaustion. The rest of our usual group follows suit, pointedly looking everywhere but at me.

  At the last second, Arthur jumps inside the circle too, and I barely have the time to let out an annoyed expletive before we’re all sucked into the ground.

  Chapter 25

  “Watch it!”

  Arthur’s hand shoots out to stop me from dropping to the ground, and I heave right over his shiny boots instead, the whole world still spinning around me.

  “Great,” he mutters, patting my back soothingly as Pigfain disappears once more to fetch the next batch of soldiers.

  “Disgusting,” Keva says with a sniff.

  “I hate traveling this way,” I mutter, wiping my mouth on the back of my coat sleeve.

  Pigfain’s taken us to the woods on the southeastern part of the Order’s expansive property, far enough away from the battle so as not to warn Carman of our presence. But even under these trees, the trampled snow is blood red, and a strange rumbling permeates the freezing air.

  Keva and I exchange nervous glances.

  “Maybe she’s already gone,” I hear someone say as Sir Boris shouts for order.

  “Shut up,” someone else says. “If she’s gone then that means our—”

  The sound of a distant explosion sends a flock of birds cawing away in alarm, and a heavy silence settles over what remains of our troops.

  “Better hurry,” Keva says, taking the lead.

  But Hadrian calls her immediately back. “When did I say you could go?” he barks at her.

  Keva’s cheeks flush red. “But I thought—”

  “I didn’t ask you to think, I asked you to follow my orders!”

  Keva’s eyes widen in surprise. Never has Hadrian talked to her with that tone before, and the shock of it seems to be difficult for her to swallow.

  “You are to remain at my side at all times, unless I order you otherwise, understood?” Hadrian asks.

  I look at Arthur, wondering suddenly if he’s going to pull the same I’m-your-mighty-knight-so-obey-me kinda crap, especially after my earlier outburst.

  The plan was for us two to slip through Carman’s forces, unseen, and head straight for the prison, while everyone else helps Caamaloth survive its latest invasion. But maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he wants to go alone.

  But instead, Arthur gives me a resigned sigh.

  “Come on,” he says, turning to cut across the trees that border Caamaloth’s main compound, and, with a silent thank you, I fall into step behind him.

  It doesn’t take us long to arrive behind the security hall, or what’s left of it. Half the building is missing, as if a giant’s swiped it clean off the face of the earth. Bodies litter the ground—mostly those of guards and knights. However Carman’s army managed to get in this time, it was a massacre.

  We angle right to head up the main road, when my footsteps falter. I glance again over my shoulder, and catch sight of a lone figure roaming about the rubble, poking at the debris with a short spear.

  “Wait,” I whisper, grabbing Arthur’s arm before motioning him towards the remains of the last guardhouse.

  “We can’t afford to stop,” he whispers back at me.

  “But it’s hunting for survivors,” I say, peering around the wall. “We can’t let it kill defenseless people like that!”

  Arthur’s lips thin out. “OK,” he says at last, “but we can’t—”

  “Another transgression, unbelievable!”

  We both startle at the deep French voice. I tilt my head to the side in confusion as the figure straightens itself, holding onto what I hope isn’t a human head, a cigarette burning red at its lips.

  “Inspector Bossart?” I call out in my surprise.

  The man jumps, dropping whatever he’d caught on his spike, and reaches for his gun.

  “Wait, don’t shoot!” I shout, pulling away from the cover of the guardhouse, hands held high above my head.

  With a frustrated sigh, Arthur follows suit.

  “It’s only me,” I add, carefully edging towards the weaselly man. “Morgan de Cor—Pendragon,” I add, remembering belatedly he only knows me under my old family name. The fake one.

  “Morgan Pendragon,” Inspector Bossart repeats.

  My ears might be deceiving me, but it seems he isn’t saying my name with as much venom as he once did. Then again, it’s been a couple of years since he last saw me, so maybe he doesn’t remember who I am.

  “Why am I not surprised to find you here?” the inspector continues. “You seem to attract trouble wherever you are.”

  I grimace, finally dropping my hands to my sides. The man evidently has the memory of an elephant.

  “You really shouldn’t be here,” I say. “It’s too dangerous for…for someone like you.”

  “Are you saying there are more of those aberrations of nature?” the man asks, holstering his firearm, and I know he means the draugar.

  “Look,” Arthur says, “I have no idea what kind of reports you’ve received about our center, though I can venture a good guess. But I’ll have to second Morgan on this one. This isn’t a place for untrained people to be. So I suggest you hurry back out before—”

  “I will not let a couple of emo teenagers tell me what to do,” Inspector Bossart says, picking his spike back up to point behind him, its end weighed down by a small creature with pink and black fur.

  “Isn’t that Lady Tanya’s pet?” I ask Arthur.

  “I’m twenty,” Arthur growls, ignoring me.

  Inspector Bossart shrugs, lighting up a second cigarette. “Could be my great-aunt, for all I care. Besides, I need to know what to tell that lot over there.”

  “Tell who?” I ask, finally looking at what Inspector Bossart’s pointing at.

  I go very still. Pressing angrily against the entrance gates down the driveway, is
a crowd of journalists, their cameras aimed straight at us, flashes going off like machine guns.

  “What are they doing here?” Arthur asks tensely. “They shouldn’t even have made it this far.”

  “I’m actually surprised they’ve never made their way down here before,” Inspector Bossart counters, waving the tiny Fey’s carcass around, “what with all the exceedingly odd things that always happen around here, and how the whole world seems to have gone down the rabbit hole too.”

  “Our security team’s usually pretty good at intercepting them beforehand,” Arthur says.

  The security team which was taken down in the assault, I silently add, my skin prickling with dread. I look at the storm clouds gathered over the rest of the compound, wishing I could already be at the prison looking for Sir Joseph. But I can’t let these innocent humans get into harm’s way either.

  “Well, they’ll certainly have a ball when the militia finally gets here,” the inspector says.

  “You didn’t!” Arthur exclaims, going pale.

  “Of course, I did, boy,” Inspector Bossart says, stabbing him with his finger. “Whatever your secret sect may say, there are too many things happening in here, in my country. Not to mention those monsters you keep harboring. I’ll be damned if—”

  “If those soldiers get here, you’ll be responsible for their deaths,” Arthur says, seething. “Call them off. And you”—he points at me—“get those civilians away!”

  “What do you expect me to do?” I ask. “Shoo them away?”

  “Exactly,” Arthur says, a crazed glint in his eyes. “Remember that time you played with the clouds on our way here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do it again.”

  My mouth drops open. “I don’t think that’s very wise,” I say. “What if the thunderstorm falls over us? We’re all carrying a lot of iron on ourselves.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Arthur says grimly. “All I’m asking is for you to move the clouds lower to create a fog. Anything to hide what’s happening from their lenses.”

  “And what, exactly, is happening here?” Inspector Bossart asks, a little subdued. He may be prickly and an annoying stickler for his rules, but he isn’t stupid.

  The ground shakes as a loud explosion thunders across the Headquarters. The inspector loses his footing, and Arthur rushes up to catch him before the man can tumble all the way down to the bottom of the pile of rubble. The angry skies above the Tactical Operations Center light up as our troops respond to the attack with elemental power.

  “What was that? Another gas explosion?” Inspector Bossart asks, looking like he rather wished it were.

  “They must have gotten to the prison,” Arthur says in alarm.

  “There’s a prison here?” Inspector Bossart exclaims, dropping his third cigarette.

  Arthur turns on him. “If we manage to repel this latest attack, I’ll get someone to answer any question you may have, if that’s what you want,” he says quickly. “If you’re still alive, that is. And the longer you stay here, the lower the probability.”

  I crane my head up to look at the dark clouds rolling over the Jura mountains, trying to recall my animal figure-making when we were landing here on my first visit to Caamaloth.

  “Very well,” I hear the inspector say. “I’ll do my best to detain those journalists while your people handle…whatever that is. But you better wrap things up quick, cause the militia isn’t going to listen to me.”

  Drawing a deep breath, I point to the closest cloud with my index finger, then sweep it down, an artist painting on her canvas. For a moment, nothing happens, then a sharp breeze picks up, funneling the cloud our way.

  “It’s working!” I exclaim, as Inspector Bossart casts us weary glance before heading down the long driveway to the gates.

  “Don’t stop now,” Arthur says, keeping a worried look at the back of the compound where we can hear our troops fighting.

  Dutifully, I turn to the next cloud, doing the same as with the first, until the whole sky seems to have dropped onto our heads, burying us in a cold, vaporous blanket.

  I let out a giddy laugh, all my senses tingling. This is what being Fey is supposed to be: Using the elements to help others, not waging war and destroying everything around.

  Then the first rumblings of a storm roll in, and I feel my hair rise with static electricity.

  “I think I may have overdone it,” I say, as the clouds turn a nasty shade of grey, lightning bolts sizzling all around us.

  “It’s perfect,” Arthur shouts in my ear, pulling me after him. “Now come on!”

  We bolt across the rough terrain, navigating around bodies and fallen buildings as quickly as we can. Which is still not fast enough.

  “We could fly,” I suggest, still buzzed from tampering with the weather.

  “Not unless you want to draw the lightning straight to you,” Arthur retorts, as we pass by the Research Center.

  Debris from shattered windows crunch beneath our pounding boots as we near the thick of the battle. Shouts and cries resound across the Headquarters, drowning out the sound of my pounding heart. Metal hisses and clangs as it connects with claws and fangs. Another detonation rips out somewhere close, throwing us into the Research Center wall. Bodies fly to land at odd angles on the trampled grounds.

  I shake my head, eardrums ringing. But Arthur’s already helping me back up.

  “That way,” he shouts, pointing at the Armory’s burning warehouses.

  I can tell it’s costing him not to join the fight. But I’ve made us waste too much time already.

  We plunge between the long buildings, eyes stinging, and coughing on the acrid smoke. The walls on both sides of us seem to pulse with life as the heat of the flames makes them expand and contract. My sweat evaporates, leaving me parched. My uniform feels heavy, and growing hotter, almost burning.

  We come out the other side, and I gasp in mouthfuls of fresh air, shivering in the sudden cold. But my relief is short-lived.

  Straight ahead is the black cube that denotes the prison’s entrance, stark and solitary within its separate enclosure. And, rising from it, dark plumes of smoke.

  We’re too late.

  “Morgan!”

  I duck instinctively at the sudden shout, and Arthur wheels around, unsheathing Excalibur in one smooth movement. There’s a surprised cuss, and Arthur tries to pull his swing back before he can cut the knight in two.

  “Sir Cade?” he calls out.

  My uncle halts in front of us, two knights flanking him, Emmerich, and some woman I’ve never seen before. All three of them look like they’ve been run over by a tank. But they’re alive, and the tightness in my chest eases a fraction.

  “Where are the others?” Sir Cade asks.

  “They should be here already,” Arthur says with a frown. “Sir Boris is leading them. Haven’t you seen them?”

  Sir Cade’s face falls. “I was hoping that was just the front line.”

  “Afraid not,” Arthur says through clenched teeth. He points at the prison with his stubbly chin. “Seen anyone come out of there?”

  “Too many, but not Carman herself, if that’s what you’re asking,” Emmerich answers.

  “So be it,” I say.

  My uncle’s brow creases in a severe frown as his eyes bore into me, his jaw tensing. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am,” I find myself saying. “I have no choice.”

  “Of course, you do!” Sir Cade exclaims. “You and Arthur should both leave and let us—”

  “Handle things here?” I ask with a pointed look at the war raging on around us.

  Sir Cade’s face closes again.

  “Carman’s here for Sir Joseph,” Arthur butts in. “The two apparently used to be lovers before she got put away. It’s what we wanted to discuss with you earlier.”

  My uncle blanches. “You can’t be serious.”

  All three of them look at the prison, understanding dawn
ing on their faces.

  “Hurry,” the woman says, already taking off.

  We sprint the last few hundred meters that separate us from the prison block, past its torn-up fence. The front of the building looks like it’s been melted through with a giant blowtorch, a large hole where the secret entrance had once been. I take a deep breath, the thick smoke tickling the back of my throat. I blink droplets of mist from my eyes. This is it.

  “Wait for my signal,” Sir Cade says, already motioning the other two knights inside.

  I stare intently inside the hole where my uncle and his knights have gone. One breath. Two. Everything inside is silent, save for the whistling of the wind. Three. Four. Five.

  Still nothing.

  My nerves twitch. Carman’s in there, I know it.

  Arthur’s hand finds mine, and squeezes it briefly. “Wait a little longer,” he says, inching towards the gaping hole, Excalibur flashing in his hand.

  A bloodcurdling cry arises from the depths of the prison.

  “It’s him!” I shout in anguish.

  Without waiting for Arthur, I dash inside the prison, springing down the staircase as quickly as my legs can take me. The smoke is thick, blinding, burning down my lungs. But I don’t slow down.

  “Ansuz!” I hear Arthur say behind me.

  There’s a green flash and the air clears up as Arthur’s sylph holds us inside its protective bubble.

  “There,” I say, pointing at a small puddle of black tar on one of the steps leading further down.

  We follow Carman’s poisonous trace, taking the stairs three at a time, eyes roving for any sign of Sir Cade and his team.

  “Which floor is Sir Joseph on?” I ask, jumping over another patch of tar.

  “Don’t know,” Arthur says, his eyes darting down each corridor we cross, each baring signs of forced entry, trying to count the number of Fey Carman may have freed on her way to Caim.

  “Here,” Arthur says, skidding to a stop on the twelfth floor down.

  Breathing hard, I peer into the dark hallway ahead, trying to make out what’s happening inside. Another scream resounds, making the hairs at the back of my neck stand up.