The Shadow Companion

by Laura Anne Gilman

  In earlier years, Gerard might have charged in, front and center, thrilled to be with these young knights, excited to face battle, determined to rescue innocents. But his travels had changed him in ways he hadn’t realized until now, and second thoughts tugged at him.

  Newt had shown him that appearances weren’t always truth. Ailis reminded him over and over that even familiar, ordinary things can change suddenly. Arthur’s need to be in so many places at once taught him the importance of evaluating threats. Morgain—and her magics—had shown him that danger comes in all forms, shapes, and sizes, and from any direction at all.

  “Wait!” he called, reining in his horse, but the others had already gone on ahead, riding now at a full gallop into the village itself.

  And still none of the dogs barked.

  Gerard turned on the girl, now beside him. “What have you led us to? What are you—” His voice dried up and stuck in his throat.

  Her hair had sprouted leaves, her skin turned from buttermilk to bark-brown, and her hands—the fingers were too long, had too many joints; they looked like twigs, not flesh.

  “Wood-witch!” he cried, dismayed. Of all the dangers of a haunted forest, this was one he had never thought to beware: a poppet made from an ensorcelled tree or brush, animated and given life by evil magics, controlled by the creator and used to cause mischief…or lead men to disaster.

  He looked up again, just in time to see the sleepy dogs begin to move. Not getting to their feet, or acting in familiar ways, but…they moved. They shook and quivered, until their bodies broke apart and things ran out of them. Gerard pushed his horse forward, fighting to keep control of the now skittish beast, who was clearly unnerved by a smell, something sharp and bitter and unnatural, that the changing breeze brought from the village.

  The wood-witch had disappeared back into the forest, but Gerard couldn’t spare any attention for her, not with what was unfolding in front of him.

  The creatures seemed harmless at first. About the size of Gerard’s palm, they moved like spiders, skittish on multiple legs. A grown man—or a horse—could stomp them into splinters, taken individually or even a dozen at a time. But there were so many of them pouring out of the dogs’ bodies that the ground looked like a black stream from dogs to knights.

  “Beware!” The words came from Gerard’s mouth without conscious thought. “Look out behind you!”

  Part of Gerard wanted nothing more than to flee, to lash his horse into the fastest run it could manage, scooping Ailis up behind him, yelling for Newt, and having Ailis open a gateway back to Camelot—ideally directly into Merlin’s chambers.

  Even as he was wishing that he could do all that, a cold, practical part of him was moving closer. He was still far enough away to avoid triggering an attack on himself, but near enough that he could see what was happening. He had to know, had to be able to make a full report…And if they catch me? Who will make a report then? The coward’s voice asked, trying to justify its fear. Let’s go, let’s get out of here!

  Gerard forced that thought into oblivion, even as he felt the cold sweat dripping down his back and along the tops of his arms.

  It’s all right to be frightened. The trick is not to let the fear rule you. A faint memory spoke, a lingering trace, perhaps, of the blood-spell Merlin had worked on them, giving them access to his wisdom and Arthur’s experience. Or maybe by now it was his own voice. Either way, the knowledge steadied him into doing what had to be done.

  Sir Brand and Sir Daffyd had already dismounted, swords in their hands, when the spider-things appeared. Sir Ruden and Thomas were mounted, and their horses reared and shied away first, alerting them that something was wrong even as Gerard shouted his warning.

  And then the creatures were swarming the four knights, covering them, their armor, swords, even daggers were useless. Brand disappeared under a wave of black, then Daffyd fell to the ground as though stunned. Thomas tried to spur his horse out of the way, but the things were moving up the horse’s legs now, and the horse shrieked, a huge, painful sound. It fell onto its side, lather poured from its mouth, and Thomas was likewise covered. Ruden sprang from the saddle and tried to run on foot. He looked up and saw Gerard, at least temporarily out of harm’s way.

  “Run! Flee!” he shouted, and then he, too, was taken down by the creatures.

  Poison, Gerard thought. They had to give off a poison, by bite or sting that stunned their victims. He had no idea what sort of creature could do that to a full-grown man or horse…other than something magical.

  And that was perhaps the most foolish thought he’d ever had in his entire life. Of course it was something magical.

  The tiny black things abandoned Brand, leaving behind a figure crisscrossed by shimmering white threads, like some kind of spiderweb spun of moonlight. But from the way Brand struggled uselessly against it, Gerard had to assume it was stronger than spider silk or moonshine. Thomas was next, then Ruden. The more they struggled, the more tightly they were bound. Ruden saw that and seemed to submit to his fate, allowing them to bind him.

  “Lad!” Ruden called out to him, his voice weak behind the net but no less commanding. “Come, help us! Set us free!”

  Against his better judgment, Gerard dismounted, patting the horse on its crest, soothing it as best he could. He studied a nearby tree cautiously, wondering if it, too, was enchanted in some way, then took the chance and tied his horse’s reins to a low-hanging branch. The slipknot was secure enough so that he wouldn’t have to worry about chasing after the foolish beast if it bolted, but not so firmly the beast couldn’t flee if the spiderlike things came after it.

  Gerard really didn’t want to think about that. If the creatures went after his horse, it would mean that he had already been…consumed.

  As he inched closer, ready with every step to flee back to safety, it looked as though the creatures were in no hurry to eat their captives or the horses, which had fallen motionless on the earth. Instead, the things were turning on their smaller brothers, binding and consuming them in messy gulps.

  Better they eat each other. Fewer to fight, when it comes to that.

  Gerard made his way another length closer, then another. Several of the creatures paused long enough to rotate beady-eyed heads in his direction, and Gerard shuddered under their scrutiny. He forced himself to remain still and eventually they turned back to their gruesome actions.

  “Lad. Gerard. Can you free us?”

  Sir Ruden was the only one who seemed able to speak clearly. Sir Brand was clearly unconscious, and Daffyd was facedown on the ground, not moving beyond the faintest rising and falling of his chest as he breathed. Sir Thomas kept struggling against his bonds, to the point where his mouth was muffled by the ever-tightening bands.

  “Stop that, or it will cut off your air,” Sir Ruden said, as sharply as a whisper could manage, then returned his attention to Gerard. “Can you?”

  “I…don’t think so.” He wanted to be the hero, but the practical voice was in charge. Even moving a handspan closer meant attracting the attention of the spiders, and he still had no idea what might fend them off. He considered fire but had no means to make any. Water? Most villages were near a stream or creek, but he didn’t hear rushing water anywhere. Even so, without a bucket he couldn’t do anything, and going into the village to get a bucket would not be wise. The moment he crossed over, he would be bound and imprisoned the same as the others.

  “No, sir,” he said finally. “I don’t think I can.”

  Silence fell, emphasizing the faint crunching and sucking noises of the feeding spiders. It made Gerard’s skin prickle again. To distract himself, he looked more closely at the spider silk, trying to see if there was a break or a pattern he had missed. With a jolt of horror, he realized that the leather gear the four of them were wearing, basic traveling armor, was beginning to dissolve under the pressure of the bonds. A glance back at Sir Ruden showed that he was aware of what was going on, as well.

  “Go.” Sir Ru
den, his eyes dark through the white ties binding him, stared at Gerard as though by that alone he could move the boy. “Find Matthias…return…”

  Gerard hesitated, torn. Part of honor demanded loyalty and he could not leave his companions there helpless.

  Leaving them seemed like betrayal. But to go closer would be to end up with the same fate.

  With a heavy heart, Gerard took off.

  FOUR

  “Lovely. Simply lovely.”

  They were horrible beasts, the blood-spiders, but Morgain could understand her companion’s satisfaction in their work. Only a dozen, placed on the outskirts of a village, could reproduce in an afternoon to become a veritable army. Of course, they needed to be fed after that, but every plan had a cost.

  And Morgain hadn’t had any supporters in that village, anyway, and did not have much to lose.

  When her spies reported that some of Arthur’s knights had taken her prophetic “gift” and were moving into the Shadows, Morgain had uttered the spell which released the blood-spiders. Then she had given them the image of a knight in traveling gear. The moment after one of them saw a knight, they would all cease feeding and hold the intruders.

  And so it had happened. The monk’s prophecy twisted to her own means had been the trigger, Morgain’s handcrafted wood-witch had been the bait, and the spiders the jaws of the trap.

  A deep bell chimed from somewhere deep within the keep. The shadow-figure, garbed once again in a heavy hooded robe, turned as though responding to something below the tones, something beyond Morgain’s hearing. The great hooded head nodded once, and a slender, white-skinned hand was raised to tap Morgain once on the shoulder.

  “I need to be here,” she said.

  “You do not. The araneae will do as they were created to do. The plan has been set in motion, and it cannot be stopped now. Come.” The words were spoken in a gentle voice, but they had an undeniable force behind them. Morgain resisted, tapping her fingers on the surface of the flat-edged scrying crystal, then relented. Pushing back in her chair, she waved her hand over the crystal and uttered a silent command. The crystal flickered, then went blank. She had set a spell to keep anything from coming in—or going out. If not monitored, a scry might be used by others wishing to see in, as well—a sort of magical peephole for invaders. Unlike the sometimes scatterbrained Merlin, she never left her flanks unguarded.

  Morgain was able to keep up easily with her companion, her wool dress allowing her full stride. Despite her outward confidence, however, a strange sensation filled her. Part of it was anticipation: Whatever the shadow-figure was ready to show her would be the result of three years of planning. These were long years, filled with setbacks and failures, small successes and a seemingly endless supply of patience. Part of what she was feeling, however, was fear.

  But Morgain did not allow fear to motivate her. It simply was not an acceptable emotion. Fear was a weakness to be exploited in others, not allowed in herself. Fear makes one doubt, hesitate.

  She had no doubts. No hesitations.

  If this was to be as she hoped, then she would adapt it, and move on. There was no failure, not so long as she breathed. It was not the possibility of failure that made Morgain’s breath hitch and her pulse stutter. Rather, it was the awareness that she was, for the first time since she was a child, allowing another to guide her actions. The ghostlike companion was the architect of this particular scheme; she had only a limited role in its creation, for all that she was the cause, the guiding force.

  Morgain was not accustomed to not being in control. But to accomplish what her companion promised—a way to humiliate Merlin and to keep Arthur from getting his bloody, Romanized hands on the Grail—she would be willing to compromise. Even give up some control. For a little while.

  Down they went, around a spiral staircase, through a doorway cut into the rocky wall, and down another staircase, this one without railings or visible support. It led to a large stone room, deep inside the keep. The entire building breathed around them, resting its weight on the walls and supports. This was one of four such underground rooms, deep in the bedrock upon which her home was built.

  Safe. Secure. To all intents magical and practical, invisible.

  In the center of the otherwise bare chamber, there was a wooden table, similar to the one in her workroom, only three times the size, to match the scale of the room. It was covered with a heavy cloth made of the same material as her companion’s robes.

  “It is done.”

  At another time, there would have been satisfaction in those words, or pride, or even relief. The companion’s voice was purely matter-of-fact.

  “Let me see,” Morgain demanded.

  Invisible hands pulled the cloth back without flourish, revealing a map spread out on the table, covering its entire surface. At first glance, it looked to be merely a larger version of the map upstairs in Morgain’s workroom, without the lights moving upon it, but there was much more vivid, intense detail. The still waters of the ocean were almost lifelike in the way it glistened, and each individual stalk of wheat seemed ready to sway in the breeze, waiting only for the peasants to begin harvesting.

  Morgain leaned over the map, looking closely, and was so beguiled that when her companion seized her arm, she was taken by surprise. Even more so when the blade appeared in its slender fingers, the sharp edge scoring a narrow, bloodless line up the inside of her arm.

  “What?” It didn’t hurt, but the shock was enough to make her voice rise.

  Even as she protested, the companion’s strong fingers had released her. Morgain pulled her arm away, inspecting the damage. As she did, a single drop of blood rose from the cut and then fell, as though slowed by forces beyond magic.

  It hit the surface, breaking into dozens of minuscule droplets, and splattered across the trees, fields, and buildings.

  And the shadow-figure said, again, “It is done.”

  This time, Morgain felt a change in the air around them. Drawn to the source, the sorceress looked down. The map, formerly only lifelike, had actually come to life. Waves crashed against the shoreline, birds soared in the air, animals slogged in the fields and pens, and the tiny forms of people moved within their villages, their limbs all powered by some usurpation of nature.

  Morgain’s pale skin drained even further of color, and her teeth were bared in an expression that could never be mistaken for a smile. Her blood. Her companion had used her blood to create this mockery.

  “The trap has been set,” the shadow-figure said, as though reading her mind. “Your blood was needed to bait it, to set it in motion. But it is the girl’s blood which will trigger it. Her blood, which Merlin has tampered with, touched with his own, and Arthur’s as well, that gives us the key to them both.”

  Morgain didn’t bother to ask for further explanation; she knew that it was just the sort of headstrong thing Merlin would do, to tamper with children in that manner. And Arthur would know no better. This was a good trap, well-made, one Morgain herself would not have been able to escape, connected as she was to Arthur through their blood ties. And if Ailis did indeed have connections to both wizard and king, then so much the better. Then the most powerful beings in Camelot would both be pulled in and trapped inside, leaving Morgain free to step into their space.

  But Morgain thought of Ailis…thought of risking the witch-child, her would-be student, her protégée…

  “How dare you,” she said, fury turning her words to ice. “How dare you use her?”

  She moved forward, her body language screaming her intent to destroy the map. She stopped suddenly; it was as though a wall had appeared in front of her, blocking her path.

  “This is what you asked for. This is what I gave you. There is no turning back.”

  Morgain glared at the map, which glinted with seemingly innocent, still-inert magics.

  “Do you know what you have done?” she asked, her voice still bitter, her gaze unwavering, unblinking. The map was more than a picture now;
it was the land itself. To close the trap, more than a drop of Ailis’s blood would be required. She would have to be drained dry.

  “All magic has a cost. All bargains must be sealed with blood. You knew this, Morgain, Enchantress, daughter of Morgause, Queen of Orkney. Take what is given and use it to accomplish your goals. Do not flinch from the cost.”

  The words might not be pleasant, but that made them no less true. Morgain forced the tension and anger from her body, and made herself look at the map, not as betrayal, but possibility. There was always a cost, but it did not always have to be paid the same way.

  FIVE

  Branches scratched at Gerard’s face and arms as he rode through the underbrush along the path the wood-witch had taken when she disappeared. He had no idea if he was even going in the right direction. He had to trust his horse to find the way back to its stablemates. Newt had taught him that trick—horses would find water and other horses better than any human could ever hope to.

  So he wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck, and prayed to the sound of hoofbeats on dirt.

  “Gerard!”

  It was Tom, Sir Matthias’s squire, catching at Gerard’s stirrup. He reached for the reins and pulled the horse around, stopping it from running into camp.

  “Gerard, where have you been? Sir Matthias—”

  “Where is he? Sir Matthias?”

  “Gone. Gone to parlay with the local lord, to resupply us in the king’s name. He wanted you with him, but no one could find you. Gerard, what’s wrong?”

  Gerard heard the words, but his brain was already racing ahead. Sir Matthias was too far away now to do any good in time.

  Swinging down from his horse, he grabbed Tom by the shoulder. “Walk him until he’s cool, then give him grain and water. And find me another horse, plus two more—any that are ready to be saddled right away.”

  “But—”

  “Do it!” Gerard ordered, and Tom, startled by the tone of his command, made a hasty, instinctive bow better suited for a knight than to another squire. Gerard didn’t even notice, as he was already striding off in the direction of Newt’s bedroll. Without Sir Matthias there, he had only one option; there were only two people who could help. If they weren’t there, then he’d look elsewhere.