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

by Sarah Zettel

  Harrik barked out an order to the remaining men. The one holding Risa jerked her to her feet. He shifted his grip. One of the others brought out a strip of leather to bind her hands, to lead her away as if she were another captured mare. But there were only four of them now. Another Saxon near the horses cried out. Gringolet reared. His hoof caught the man on his helm, and the man dropped like a stone.

  The ravens rose in a great, black cloud, croaking and shrieking their disapproval.

  As if that were her sign, Risa screamed. She poured all of her fear and desperation into the wordless sound. Startled, her captor’s grip faltered. Risa dove toward Gawain. She grasped the nearest sandaled foot and rolled, throwing all her weight into the move and bringing the Saxon down.

  Gawain leapt, the suddenness of the movement breaking him free of his startled captor. He measured his length on the ground beside the fallen Saxon, and scrambled at once to his feet again, a long knife in his hand.

  Risa wasted no time. She rolled onto her knees, scooped up a rock beside her hand and brought it down hard against the face of the fallen Saxon. The blow jarred her arm up to the shoulder and she heard bone and teeth break. She scuttled backwards, yanking the hems of her dress out of the way with her free hand so she could get to her feet. Another Saxon bore down on her, and Risa threw the stone without time to aim. The man ducked, giving Risa time to catch up another stone and this time take a sighting before she hurled her missile. The stone caught the man in the eye, causing him to cry out and topple to his knees.

  The world was a blur of screams and thunder. Gringolet had broken free and charged toward his master, bowling men to left and right. The Saxons rallied, knives and axes out, ready to kill the horses. Risa fell to her knees again, scrabbling among the stones that had made their ambush, hurling them as quickly as she could grab hold of them, anything to keep the Saxons dodging and disoriented while Gawain mounted Gringolet.

  He had neither spear nor sword, but it did not matter. Gringolet himself was a weapon, well-honed and terrible. He had no fear of armed men and charged where his rider directed, breaking what little order the Saxons had managed to bring to their numbers, scattering them, knocking them flat to hit their heads against the unforgiving stones or to tumble comically down the slope.

  Risa forced herself to concentrate on reaching the pile of looted gear. As quickly as she could, she tossed Gawain’s swordbelt over her shoulder, shoved the shield onto her arm and snatched up his spear. Clumsily, she ran for Thetis who circled and danced, looking for a clear direction to flee. One Saxon had presence of mind enough to dart between Risa and the maddened mare, his axe out and ready. Risa leveled the spear and charged, sending him reeling backwards. Thetis reared again, and her hooves caught the man’s shoulders, felling him. Risa managed to catch Thetis’s reins with her free hand. The sight and scent of her mistress enabled the mare to hold her place long enough for Risa to switch the spear to her shield hand and climb onto her saddle. Another Saxon staggered to his feet and stumbled toward them. Risa swung the shield outward. Fortunately, the man had little fight left and fell back quickly, allowing her to clamber up onto Thetis’s back before the mare’s remaining nerve gave way.

  Gawain, weaponless on Gringolet, faced Harrik, who had his sword in his hand. Most of his men lay on the ground, dead, stunned or bleeding. The three who remained standing were motionless, waiting for their leader to make his move. Risa thought to draw her bow, to finish off this traitor with an arrow in his throat, but to do so she’d have to drop Gawain’s arms at the feet of their enemies.

  Into the stillness, a raven called, and that call ushered the sound of thunder.

  Not thunder. Hooves.

  Harrik smiled, a pained and wild smile.

  Gawain’s gaze met Risa’s and without a word between them, they both wheeled their horses around toward the valley. Risa drove her knees into Thetis’s ribs and gave the mare her head, allowing her to find her own way down as fast as she was able. She had only one hand anyway. Gawain’s weaponry was an unwieldy burden, and trying to keep hold of it was costing her balance. If Thetis balked, she’d be thrown again. The thunder grew louder behind her. She risked a look back. A black and bronze wave poured over the hills, a troop of Saxons on squat and shaggy mountain-raised horses raced past their defeated fellows without pausing, all their intent to run down Risa and Gawain.

  Gawain let out a sharp curse and with some difficulty turned Gringolet across the hills. Risa fought with Thetis to make her follow, and almost lost. She saw what the knight was doing. The footing was treacherous, but down on the level ground, there was no shelter. The Saxons on their fresh mounts could simply run them down. Up here, if they could get out of sight, perhaps they could hide, perhaps they could get far enough ahead that they could vanish behind a ridge and find their way down unseen. Thetis could almost keep pace, but she would not be able to for long. Foam already flew from her mouth and her sides heaved hard from the force of her breath. Risa leaned down close to her neck, doing nothing more than trying to stay on the mare’s back and keep her eyes on Gawain.

  Gringolet neared a rise and put on a fresh burst of speed. Wincing in apology, Risa drove her knees again into Thetis’s side. The mare squealed, outraged, but obeyed and they topped the hill and started down again, ahead of their pursuers and out of sight.

  Racing dangerously downhill, Risa clung to Thetis with all her strength, and prayed. Gawain shouted.

  To the left was a tumble of great boulders. Gawain must have known this place. He turned Gringolet sharply so horse and rider vanished behind the giant stones. Risa urged Thetis to follow. By the time Thetis agreed, Gawain had dismounted. Risa leaned down so he could take arms and shield from her. Gringolet trembled and sweated beside his master. Risa threw herself from her saddle, and without waiting to be told, grabbed her bow and quiver from her saddlebag. The horses could run no further. There was no other shelter.

  “Make the shots count, Risa,” said Gawain harshly as he pushed his shield up on his arm and freed his sword from the sheath.

  Risa fit arrow to string and drew. The hoofbeats drummed louder. She tried to think, to shoot horse or rider, which would be best? Could she bring herself to shoot the horses? Her mind was numb. There were too many of them coming. She did not have enough arrows for them all.

  Overhead, she heard a deep chuckle. A raven, black as night and big as a hawk sat atop the tallest of the boulders. Memory of her vision seized her with a fear and compulsion so strong she did not pause to question or even breathe. She swung up the tip of her arrow and loosed. The arrow split the carrion bird’s breast. It fell from the stone to the ground like a rotted fruit.

  Gawain stared, stunned and disconcerted. Risa ducked her head down again.

  The riders thundered down the hillside, drowning out even Risa’s heartbeats as she nocked another arrow to the string.

  Then the Saxons were atop them and Gawain went as taught as her bowstring. But Risa did not loose, and Gawain did not leap forward, and the Saxons rode past in a blur of browns and golds, the breeze from their passing ruffling Risa’s hair. Belatedly and absurdly, she realized she had lost her veil.

  And the riders were gone, and the world was quiet again. One by one, the honest birds began to sing.

  Gawain listened. Risa could feel the tension thrumming from him as he strained his ears. But there was nothing. He stood, his amber eyes looking left, then right. Still there was nothing.

  “They will soon realize they’ve passed us by.”

  He did not need to tell her to hurry. But habit turned Risa aside for a moment to retrieve her arrow from the other side of the boulders, and to see, if for a heartbeat, her quarry. In the stone’s shadow, her arrow, whole and complete, lay on the ground. Blood stained the tip. The bird’s black corpse, though, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Leave it, Risa,” said Gawain. “It has touched some evil thing. Let the clean earth have it.” He paused. “How did you know?” he asked softly.
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  “I don’t fully understand. I …” Risa swallowed. “I have seen strange things of late. Visions. I am no witch, I swear before God and Mary, I am not.”

  “I believe you, Risa,” his voice was soft and serious. “Come.”

  Her legs ached as she again swung herself into Thetis’s saddle. Her hands shook as she took up the reins again and wisps of hair floated down before her eyes, tickling tears from her eyes and tremors from her skin. She wanted nothing more than to lie down on the grassy slope and sleep until her body forgot all that she had done and seen these past two days. But because she also wished to live to see the next morning, she shook the reins in her weakened hands and urged Thetis forward.

  Chapter Seven

  Gawain was ready to cry aloud in thanks when Pen Marhas at last came into view. Dusk was settling in. He had pushed the pace as much as the animals could stand, keeping them to the stony hillsides where they would leave fewer signs if the Saxons were tracking them, and where there was at least some shelter should they be found. Fire burned in his ribs when he breathed, and every step Gringolet took jarred his spine. The thought of another skirmish, this time with mounted men, worried him deeply. Risa looked ready to fall from her saddle, and her mare was not going to last much longer. Gringolet himself was obedient but spiritless.

  When pursuit did not come, Gawain tried to feel reassured, but he could not. A small raiding party, a group of bitter and adventurous men who burned a crofting and happened on a prize hostage, that was one thing and a fairly small thing at that. But a dozen mounted men? These were not raiders. This was a war party. This was what he had been hurrying back to Camelot ahead of, and now it seemed he had not been fast enough. Even if the pursuit was not immediately at their heels, they would not stay ahead of the Saxons for long. It might be they were watched even now, while Harrik determined their destination and decided if it was worth the men to pursue them. Or it might be he already knew where they must be going, and was advancing his own preparations.

  Harrik, what has happened to you?

  Gawain wished desperately he could go straight to Camelot with his warnings, and bring back a host of men at once. But as painful as it was to admit, he could not make the ride, not at speed, not with the chance of a cracked rib. Not even if he left Risa behind him, an idea which twisted his tired heart.

  Pen Marhas was a fortress town that had been rebuilt countless times across the years. Ancient, grass-covered earthworks were backed by new wooden palisades. The gates had not yet closed for the night and the workers ambling in from the freshly plowed fields turned to stare as Gawain and Risa rode past. Gawain made no concession to such curiosity, but took them straight to the gates.

  Unkempt, gaunt, grim, with bad news in his purse and worse at his heels, this was not how he had imagined returning to this place.

  “Halt, Stranger!” shouted the sentry from the palisades. “Who are you? What is your errand?”

  “I am Gawain, and my errand is from the High King Arthur!” Gringolet’s head hung low and he was blowing and snorting from the pace to which he had been put. Risa patted her shivering mare’s neck constantly. She herself looked grey. Had she taken some hurt of which she had not spoken? “I must speak with Thedu Bannain.”

  “At once, my lord! You there!” The sentry turned and the sense of the rest of his orders was lost to Gawain, but another man in a short leather jerkin and scuffed metal-bound cap clambered down the nearest ladder, He saluted Gawain in the old Roman style that Arthur had adopted for use by his champions.

  “Follow me, my lord.” Under the helmet, he was young, with his first growth of beard still jutting proudly from his long chin. He turned and ran smartly up the rude lane crying, “Make way! Make way for the messenger of the High King!”

  Pen Marhas was not a large place and it had never been subjected to the Roman’s notions of order and uniformity, which meant it was crowded and chaotic. Wooden shacks and sheds stood alongside the more sturdy cottages and warehouses. People scrambled to get themselves, their goods and their herds of pigs, sheep and geese out of the way of Gringolet’s hooves. Risa followed, keeping Thetis admirably close.

  Unbidden and unwelcome the vision of the place set aflame by the Saxon raiders came to him. To make matters worse, his mind’s eye showed him Risa sprawled dead on the ground in the middle of those flames, an axe buried in her breast.

  He kept his face forward so she would not see the anger that hardened his features. She did not need to be frightened with what had not yet happened.

  Not that she would not bear that fear well. By God, she was ready to face anything! She kept her wits about her through death and black magics. If he were honest, he had to admit she had saved him twice now. Had she been a man, he would have sworn her to him as a brother and felt safe to sleep in the open with such a one at his side. As it was …

  Sir, discipline your thoughts, or perhaps you have forgotten this is not some hawking party?

  Bannain’s hall had been built on the gentle rise that passed for high ground in this valley. Its yards were surrounded by a second set of stout palisades. Their gates had been thrown open in greeting. The hall’s wooden walls rose from stone foundations and were topped by a peaked roof. The front of it was long and narrow to accommodate the great hall, and it widened behind to make room for the living quarters, stores and work rooms.

  As they rode up to the steps of the hall, they were met by a stout man surrounded by a cluster of boys to catch the horses reins and help the riders dismount. He was a stranger to Gawain, but Gawain could tell by the way the man’s knowing eyes widened at the sight of Gringolet that here was someone who understood horses and that the charger would be well housed while they remained here.

  Bannain’s steward, Clement, stood on the top step, dressed in a tunic of fine blue wool and a cloak trimmed in good furs set off by a silver belt and silver chain. The steward looked slightly dismayed as he saw Risa dismount, for he had brought no woman to greet her, but that could not be helped. Clement recovered his countenance quickly and bowed.

  “My master Bannain, son of Ban welcomes the envoy of his liege lord, the High King Arthur and bids that you come before him without delay that he might hear your message.” His gaze slid sideways to Risa, who only lifted her chin.

  Gawain said nothing of this, but extended his arm that she might take it. If no other courtesy could be observed at this moment, he could at least see her properly escorted into the hall. She took his arm with slightly stiff dignity, as if trying to remember a movement from an unfamiliar dance. This only made Clement look ill at ease, but he kept his silence, and led them indoors.

  The board was just being laid for evening meal. The high table had already been spread with a white cloth and the boys were setting the other boards and trestles in their places in front of the two long hearths. The air filled with the fragrant scents of wood smoke and of the roasting meats that the women were busily cutting from the spits. It was not a rich hall, but not poor either. There were three tapestries to decorate the carved walls, and a half-dozen shields and over the high seat, a battered ceremonial Saxon war axe that Ban had captured at Mount Baddon.

  Bannain stood as they entered his hall. He was a square man, his skin hardened to leather from all the time he spent out among the elements, patrolling his lands or aiding his neighbors in fending off their own thugs and raiders. He had the reputation of having little use for ceremony, but he knew courtesy, and in his own hall he dressed well in autumn brown wool and creamy linen and was only slightly more grey and lined than Gawain’s memory of him. Cailin, his dark, slender wife stood at his side, a gentle counterpoint to the grim-faced warriors who filled out the table. Gawain remembered her well too from other times as a noble hostess and a fine lady. Her black hair was beautifully braided and coiled beneath a veil of finest linen. A collar of silver and turquoise adorned her throat. Gawain felt Risa tense at his side, maiden’s pride of appearance taking hold against her will. He wished he mig
ht make some gesture of reassurance. She was fair as she was, and so noble Queen Guinevere would stand in awe when she heard all that Risa had done.

  “My Lord Gawain,” Bannain’s voice boomed, echoing against the walls. “Your return is most welcome in this hall, and this good lady is twice welcome for your sake.”

  “My thanks, Thedu,” Gawain used the old title. Bannain himself was not opposed to Arthur’s adoption of Latin titles and Roman stylings for his court and companions, but the rough and hard-eyed men at his side still saw that old empire as conquerors and thieves. “This is the Lady Risa, daughter of Rygehil, barown of the Morelands, who travels with me to Camelot so that she may act as messenger to the queen.

  “Then this night she may act as honored guest in our hall.” Lady Cailin rounded the table and extended her hands to Risa. “Come, lady, let me take you to where you might be refreshed.”

  Risa released Gawain’s arm, curtseying first to her hostess, and then to him as propriety dictated. Cailin took up Risa’s hand and escorted her out the back of the hall toward the private quarters, with an appraising glance back at Gawain.

  He set that aside. There would be time for banter with the ladies after the coming battle, God willing.

  “Bring the knight a chair,” Bannain ordered one of the boys. “Sit with us, Sir, and tell us your news.”

  Gawain stayed as he was. “I will not sit until you send your men out to make sure your people are in from the fields and your gates are all shut fast.”

  Bannain stared at him in blank surprise for a moment. Then, he nodded to the man who sat at his right hand and had a brown beard like a bird’s nest. The man was on his feet in an instant, striding from the hall and bellowing for the steward.