In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy)

by Sarah Zettel

  Mordred nodded happily. “Thank you, mother!” he said, and snuggled his new pet close against his chest again, making to run at once to the kitchens. But Morgaine caught his chin, and turned him firmly to face her again.

  “He has come to you in need, Mordred,” she said. “It is now your duty to care for him and not neglect him. Do you understand?”

  The boy nodded, all solemnity again. “Yes, mother.”

  “Good boy.” She smiled again, ruffled his hair and gave him a push toward the hall door. The boy scampered happily away with his treasure. Morgaine looked after him, sighing and shaking her head. The shadow of anger crossed her face as she watched her son vanish into the daylight, and something of sorrow.

  But whatever she was thinking, Morgaine kept it to herself. When she turned her attention again to Kerra, her thoughts were all on their business and the work yet to be done.

  “You have done well,” said Morgaine. “But he is a busy one, Euberacon, and he is making still more work for you.” She smiled almost apologetically at Kerra. “I fear I must keep you from home awhile longer yet.”

  “What would you have me do, mistress?” asked Kerra immediately.

  “This Easterner plays too many games. There are too many reverses. He should learn the value of simplicity.” Her long fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh. “I think you should do just as he has told you. Have your men capture this Risa, separating her from Gawain.” Morgaine’s gaze grew distant then, filling with memories and the deep, burning pain that never left her. “But should they be a little too zealous and kill both her and Gawain, that can hardly be your fault.” She smiled a fresh smile then, one that made Kerra’s heart quail within her.

  It was a long moment before Kerra could make herself speak again. “He clearly wants them alive, mistress,” she ventured. “Should we not try to discover why that is?”

  Morgaine considered this, her fingers still tapping out the rhythm of her thoughts. “That much is quite plain. He wants Gawain and, by extension, Arthur, confused and weakened at a critical time, and if one wishes to weaken Gawain, one could do far worse than to play on his heart. As for the girl …” Morgaine’s mouth tightened in disapproval, even as her eyes looked to the future. “As a slave, such powers as hers could be useful in many circumstances. If he returns to Constantinople with her and claims she was bought in a slave market while he was abroad, who is to say differently? Certainly not she. No,” she sighed as a woman might seeing the number of chores that must be performed in a day. “I think they are both better off dead. Gawain’s death will strike Camelot at its core, and at the girl’s death will at same time weaken Euberacon and set back his plans, so that he must stay and shield our own work from prying eyes that much longer.”

  “Then it shall be as you say, mistress.” Kerra bent her knee in reverence and in recognition that the audience was over.

  Morgaine laid her hand on Kerra’s head in approval and blessing. “Take care, daughter. His is half blind, that sorcerer, but he is no fool. He will kill you as soon as he can.”

  “Then he had best learn to sprout his own wings and quickly, mistress, or my friends will have something to say about it,” said Kerra with perhaps too much solemnity.

  Her bold jest earned her one of Morgaine’s rare laughs, and Kerra left the hall in high spirits. Night was coming, but there was perhaps an hour or two of light left. She could make some progress. There was no time to waste if she was to complete her work and return before Euberacon grew suspicious.

  Kerra lifted the hood of her cloak and raised her eyes. A raven once more, she launched herself into the sky.

  It was not even noon before the Saxons found Risa and Gawain again.

  It had been a cold night. They had kept to the track until the light and the horses were exhausted. No shelter offered itself, so they had been forced to sleep in the open, with only their cloaks and the horses for warmth. Dinner was crumbling and overripe cheese and hard bread. Breakfast was the same, livened by the eggs of a quail and their parent roasted overnight in the coals of a minuscule fire and washed down by the last of Gawain’s watered wine. The only consolation was that the rains seemed to be staying away for the present.

  Gawain looked tired, though hale. Risa wondered how much of the night he had spent in watching over their small camp, but could find no way to ask. She wanted the world to begin again with the morning, and was content to leave the night and previous day behind. The visceral discomforts of a cold night and nagging hunger made it strangely easy for Risa to set aside her discomforts of mind. Guessing how much farther it was to Pen Marhas — where there would be a much larger fire, and bowls of stew and roast meats and the day’s fresh baking — pushed back memories of the dead, and unconsidered kisses.

  She found herself humming under her breath as she shifted her weight back and forth on Thetis’s back, trying to ease the pain from the constant riding. The tune gave a little vent to her feelings and her hungers. To her surprise, Gawain took up the words.

  “Oh, waken Queen of Elfin, and hear your woman moan

  Oh, mourn you for your meat? Oh, mourn you for your fee?

  Oh, mourn you for the other bounties, Ladies are want to gi’e?”

  He had a good voice, rough but pleasant, and it seemed he enjoyed the act of singing, or perhaps he just hoped to put her once more at ease. Risa was more than willing to let him.

  She added her voice to his, soft but true, and they worked their way through the story of the woman lured from her home by the Elvish queen.

  “I mourn not for my meat, I mourn not for my fee.

  Nor mourn I for the other bounties, Ladies are want to gi’e.

  But mourn I for my young son, I left him four nights ago.”

  The trees thinned, and the road dried, but the way grew steeper and more rocky, making riding more difficult and leaving little breath or mind for singing. As the forest fell behind them, so did the birdsong, leaving them alone with the wind and the distant call of hunting ravens. Risa shivered at the sound.

  Gawain turned from the rising hills and took them toward the slopes that led down again to the broadening valley. A grey and brown ribbon of road cut straight across the distant valley floor. The ground between them and that road was rough, and Thetis quickly began to complain at having to find a path between the holes and the stones. Risa realized she would have to get off and walk before they reached level ground.

  Gawain did not seem at all relieved to see the clear way below them. He was looking behind them, squinting toward the folds in the hills that towered over their backs as if he thought them eavesdropping. The palfrey he rode snorted and balked at his lack of attention, and even Gringolet pulled at the tether that tied him to the smaller horse. A raven croaked to the east, and another to the west. Stone clattered against stone, and a pebble rolled past Thetis’s hooves, making her pull up and whinny in annoyance.

  Risa lifted a hand to pat the mare’s neck, but as she did, a fist-sized stone tumbled through Thetis’s shadow, followed fast by another. The mare shied, and Risa was barely able to stay on her back.

  Gawain shouted, but the clatter of stones drowned out his words. They skipped and bounced down the slopes — grey-green and brown, singly and in chattering streams, a whole scree of missiles aimed straight at the horses’ hooves and ankles.

  All the horses screamed, high, human sounds. Thetis reared back, throwing Risa to the ground. The breath slammed out of her body and the world spun in a riot of color. Hooves flailed overhead. A stone skipped against her side. Risa threw her arms over her head, curling up into the tightest ball she could. The harsh roar of men’s voices cut across the horses’ screams. Fear uncurled Risa and sent her scrambling up the slope. Her eyes focused more slowly than her hands and feet moved so it took a moment for her to see the danger.

  A dozen Saxons raced down the hill. Thetis galloped toward the valley floor in blind panic, bearing Risa’s bow away with her, leaving her with nothing but her ba
re hands against the wave of men racing toward her, their axes and short swords flashing in the sunlight, their cries mixing with the ravens’ mocking calls. Nearby, the palfrey lay on its side, screaming in pain and panic as its body twisted and jerked grotesquely from Gringolet’s frantic efforts to yank his tether free from the fallen horse. Gawain was struggling with Gringolet, dodging hoofs and heavy head, his knife drawn, trying desperately to get hold of the tether so he could cut the charger loose.

  Risa tried to run, tried to get the maddened Gringolet between herself and the marauders, for the outraged horse was the only shelter there was. Gawain finally managed to slice through the tether. Gringolet reared and spun all in one fearful motion, tossing Gawain backward to land on a cluster of loose stones with a painful cry. The stallion leapt over him as if he were no more than a fallen log and charged down the slope.

  The roar of warriors in full charge turned to raucous laughter. The Saxons ringed Risa and Gawain making a living fence of brown and bronze. Their noseguards had been worked into shapes like boars snouts or the muzzles of hunting cats and wolves, lending them a bestial appearance. Their eyes glinted ice pale beneath their helms. Risa’s reeling mind threw out the memory of the pale ghost she had seen in the croft. That ghost could have been any one of these ferocious, grinning men.

  Gawain struggled to rise, but his eyes were dazed and his elbow buckled as he tried to push himself up. His knife had flown from his grasp, and one of the Saxon’s scooped it up and stuck it in his belt.

  Seeing there was no possible resistance left for their prey, the Saxons darted forward. Two grabbed Gawain and hauled him to his knees, ignoring his gasp of pain. Another slammed his heavy hand between Risa’s shoulders, forcing her down beside Gawain. He gripped the back of her neck with his gloved hand, digging his fingertips into her flesh so that she could not move without more pain.

  One of the Saxons strolled over to the screaming palfrey. The man looked at the horse for a moment and then casually thrust his sword through the animal’s throat. The palfrey sputtered, and died at once in a welter of blood and foam. The clean wind filled with the scent of sweat and death. Risa felt something crumble inside her. Gawain just watched in grim silence.

  Without appearing to notice the abundance of gore, the Saxon helped himself to the saddle bags and other gear, including Gawain’s spear, sword and shield, and tossed them to his waiting fellows, doubtlessly to be shared out later.

  The man holding Risa squeezed her neck a little harder, in anticipation of the spoils? Risa’s stomach turned over.

  The first of the ravens lighted on the dead horse. It dipped its beak down to feed, and Risa tried to turn her head to look away. This only made her captor laugh and grip her neck all the harder. Risa swallowed her gall and made herself remain still.

  Then, one of the Saxons, whose helm was fashioned so he had the appearance of a wild boar said something in their guttural tongue. Four of the dozen loped away down the hill, clearly on the track of the other horses.

  His men dispatched, the boar’s head — whom Risa took to be the leader — turned toward the captives. As he did, he pulled of the helmet and wiped the sweat from his face and beard. His hand, she saw, was missing two fingers.

  Gawain stared in open shock, and mouthed a single word.

  In response, the man spat. A slow and deadly smile spread across face.

  “You did not think to see me again so soon, did you, my Lord Gawain?” he said. His accent was heavy, but his words were carefully measured so as to be understood.

  “Harrik.”

  You know this man? thought Risa, stunned.

  Gawain face had gone paper white and he stared at the one he called Harrik. “What are you doing?”

  The feral grin spread even wider, but the heat of it did not reach his winter-blue eyes. “Avenging my brothers slaughtered by your king and living as one of my blood should live.”

  Gawain glanced to either side of Harrik. The other Saxons were watching, but they watched for movement of hands, watched for the return of their fellows with the horses, or watched the saddle bags, attempting to divine their contents. They were alert, but they did not behave like men listening to a conversation they comprehended.

  “I do not believe it,” said Gawain evenly. Not one of the Saxons grunted or laughed, or gave any other sign they understood what had been said.

  Harrik leaned close. He smelled sour and warm, like sweat and bad beer. “Believe,” he said harshly, but his eyes were wide with some emotion Risa could not readily name. For a heartbeat she thought it might be fear. Harrik straightened abruptly. His jaw worked itself soundlessly back and forth a few times. “Or do not. You will be dead in a few moments, so it does not matter.”

  “No!” Useless fear tightened all Risa’s muscles, thrashing her body against her captor’s grasp. The man simply laughed and forced her forward so he could more easily grab her flailing wrist and yank it up hard behind her shoulders.

  Tears of pain flooded her eyes, but Risa made herself go still. This is no good. You cannot escape like this. She strained her gaze to see Gawain from the corner of her eye. Rage had hardened him face and limb. His guards held him close, their weapons out and ready.

  Harrik turned his face toward the men who held Gawain. The ravens clustered on the palfrey’s corpse lifted their heads as if in anticipation. Panic flooded Risa, turning her thoughts into a gabble of prayer and pleading.

  The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want … Mother Mary, spare him, save us, don’t let him die … He prepareth me a table in the midst of my enemies … Mother Mary help us, help us …

  “What of your son, Harrik?” cried Gawain, and the man froze. Gawain went on relentlessly. “Do not think Arthur will shrink from doing what the law demands when he learns you have broken your word.”

  “My son is a warrior of the True Blood.” The words seemed to grate against the man’s tongue as he spoke. His jaw was again working itself back and forth, chewing something unseen. “It is better he die young than live as a chained dog.”

  Behind Risa, metal rasped against leather, and she knew a knife had been drawn. One of the men beside Gawain lifted his axe.

  Harrik turned his back.

  “Your son will not die on his feet Harrik,” said Gawain steadily. “He will hang from the great oak, a coward’s death for his father the coward and traitor.”

  Risa closed her eyes, waiting for the heat of steel on her skin and found she could only pray the blade was sharp so death would be swift and the pain brief.

  Harrik spoke one word. Overhead, a man answered, and Harrik barked an order. The edge of the knife did not touch her throat. Risa dared to open her eyes.

  Harrik stalked over to Gawain. “Be very glad that none of my men speak your barbarian tongue or I would have to kill you myself.” His face filled with hate, but did his gaze glitter too brightly? Could those be tears shimmering in the eyes of this monster?

  “Harrik, what has been done to you?” whispered Gawain.

  But Harrik did not answer. Instead, he said, “You know well the mind and habits of your uncle. This may buy you a few more hours.” His teeth clacked and chattered together, grotesquely chewing at tongue and cheek so that Risa winced to see it. It was as if his body fought against his mind and would not let him speak.

  Is he mad?

  The ravens croaked from the hills above.

  Or bewitched?

  “I think you can tell me much that is useful before you die, and I think the woman will stand surety to make sure your tongue is loose and willing. There is so much worse we can do than slit her throat.”

  Risa felt the blood run from her heart and for a moment thought she might faint. Grim determination kept her upright. Death’s delay had allowed her to collect herself somewhat. If she must be afraid, she at least would not give way to it before her enemies.

  Harrik spoke again to his men, calling out his orders. One of the Saxons, the one with a cat’s muzzle on his helm
, said something in reply, a lazy, mocking question. Harrik’s answer was low and dangerous. The man held his ground, stating his case plainly, gesturing first at the captives and then up the hills. One or two of the others muttered what Risa took to be agreement, but most stood silent, looking to Harrik.

  Beside her, Gawain was straining every muscle. The cords of his neck stood out plainly. His face was flushed with fury and fear, but his guards gripped him tightly. He shifted his shoulders, and one of them rapped out some harsh words, and laid the edge of his sword against Gawain’s belly.

  Risa let her eyes flicker between the Saxons, looking to the way they stood and how they held themselves and their weapons, looking for some chance, any chance, to break away. But her captor did not loosen his grip at all, and there were still far, far too many of them for any plan that fluttered through Risa’s fevered mind.

  Harrik was speaking again, his anger clearly mounting. Gawain was watching him. Did Gawain speak their tongue? What were they saying? Was Harrik changing his mind about delaying their execution? Panic threatened again, and again Risa fought it down. Panic would not save either of them.

  A shout rose from the valley floor. The four men sent in pursuit of the horses had succeeded. One of them held the reins of a relatively docile Thetis and tried to keep her clear of Gringolet, for Gringolet was anything but docile. Again, and again, he reared and his hooves lashed out. Three Saxons held tight to his bridle, all but dragging the stallion between them. He tossed his head repeatedly, trying to shake them off, and more than once succeeded with one or another, causing them to have to dance about until they could catch a piece of harness and hang on again.

  The men surrounding Risa and Gawain laughed and bellowed what sounded like jests or bets until Harrik growled at them. Four left their posts as guards and headed down the hill to help their fellows.

  But Gringolet had seen Gawain. The great horse renewed his struggles. The Saxons ringed him, trying to drive him and yet stay out of range of his flailing hooves. The ones who fought to hold his bridle cursed and shouted to their fellows, but none of the others were anxious to try to come close. The stallion’s battle and all the scents of blood and death were finally too much for Thetis and she too lashed out, swinging her head this way and that. Kicking backwards, she landed a hard blow on one of the Saxon’s legs. The man toppled to the ground, grabbing his thigh and adding his own cries to the cacophony.