by Donna Hosie
Mordred gave a dramatic sigh.
“This is most tiresome,” he drawled. “Druids, we are leaving. Remind the court of Lindsey why it is no match for the might of the Gorians.”
I arched my back and pulled my shoulders upwards. The acrid black smoke that had swamped the courtyard was now being sucked into a single, swirling vortex of blue fire, twisting around the central tower. The black figures on the battlement were controlling it with their hands, which motioned like a spectator’s Mexican wave.
A guard nearest the tower was the first to be sucked backwards into the stone tower. He slammed into the circular building and slid down, before landing with a noisy splash at the bottom. More guards followed, their arms and legs flailing against the suction of the unstoppable blue wind.
The vortex started to suck at everything that wasn’t tied down. The burnt wool and charred wood from the three pyres went next. I couldn’t stop my eyes from looking towards what was left of Byron’s pyre. I readied my stomach for the sight of his charred remains, but there was nothing left: just a darkened small shadow where his body had been tied and burnt into nothing.
The poles were sucked up next.
Debris and spray flew in a circular motion around the courtyard. Mordred ducked as a bucket, spewing red blood, flew inches past his head. His long feet ploughed forward as he walked away from the vortex. I didn’t know whether to struggle against him and take my chances with the wind, or go with him and kick his ass once we were outside. I couldn’t see Bedivere at all, but Griflet screeched as his grip on a circular, iron-cast door ring was released. He flew through the air, and then crashed down as he collided with another flying body.
We had reached the portcullis and the main gateway to the castle. A row of glossy black horses with blinkered eyes was waiting. They were motionless, like statues.
I tried to punch Mordred as he put me down on the blackened grass, but he was ready for me. My fist was turned sharply to the right as he caught it. Then he placed his flat palm against my forehead, and I felt my knees give way.
“Traditumendo,” said Mordred, and his blue-green eyes flashed once with a brilliant white sheen.
“What are…you doing…to me?”
“I have no desire to see the point of Sir Bedivere’s blade,” replied Mordred. “We depart now, and with haste.”
It felt like my entire body was turning into liquid. I tried to fight it. I sank into the ground and clawed at the grass, but it slipped through my fingers like air.
I was conscious in mind, but my body no longer belonged to me. It had completely surrendered to Mordred’s will.
“How did you…even know…we were here?” I mumbled, as Mordred threw me onto the back of his horse.
“By chance we came across another knight yestereve,” replied Mordred, climbing on behind me. His heels kicked into the horse, which immediately came to life and started to gallop away. “I regret most readily having to torture another knight of Camelot to the point of death, but alas, sometimes there is no other way. His oath of honour remained as strong as it ever was, and he gallantly refused to reveal his quest, but perchance he happened to have written word from Arthur. To hear you were back in the land of Logres was joy to my ears, Lady Natasha. Arthur’s return, not so much, of course.”
“What has…my brother…got to do with this?”
Mordred laughed. It was cold and made my weak body shudder.
“It has everything to do with Arthur, for the knight we captured was Sir Gareth.”
Chapter Eighteen
Fight Club
The world whizzed past in triple quick time, yet every word from Mordred sounded slow, like a recording running out of battery life. I couldn’t understand a single thing he was saying to me, and all the while my stomach bounced around, like it was fighting to get out of my body. I was scared. Not because I was, once again, with Mordred and the druids of Gore, but because I had lost complete control over my body. The feeling of hopelessness was terrifying. Whatever was coming, I was powerless to stop it.
I couldn’t see Guinevere, but I assumed she had also been thrown onto a horse. How would I ever be able to face her again? Byron was dead because of me and that moment of madness on top of the battlement with Lucan.
Then I thought of Gareth, who had seen his brother die last year in the battle for Camelot. He was Bedivere’s best friend. If what Mordred said was true, then Gareth was now close to death as well, and all because he refused to tell Mordred where I was.
I wasn’t worth this loyalty. I wasn’t sure Arthur was worth it either, not from a time we could only recall in strange flashbacks and blurred memories. We both remembered Logres, but only like a fuzzy dream, just snatches of a long-lost past that would come to us when we least expected it.
We had to stop these people dying for us.
Byron’s scowling face refused to leave my head. I didn’t want him to look cross in my memories, but I couldn’t remember him laughing, or even smiling. My memories of Patrick were like that too; I could only remember his crying, because guilt stopped me from remembering the laughter. Now it was like that with Byron.
Rapid white streaks were flashing through the sky, but the rumbles that accompanied them were slow and drawn out. My eardrums started to vibrate with pain, as the lightning storm made the air tremble. It wasn’t like any storm I had ever seen back in the 21st century. I could feel heat from the electricity buzzing across my skin. The danger was palpable. I expected every strike to electrocute me.
After a while we came to a narrow opening between two jagged rock faces, and time became normal again. I was very dizzy. Mordred shifted forward and pressed himself against my back. His horse trotted through the narrow gap.
After the horses had gone a few hundred metres, the fissure widened out into an opening. It was still encircled by high rocks, the tops of which were hidden by dark fog. Thin, horizontal blue flames shot out from the hands of the riders in front of us. The fire was directed at a row of enormous shadowy trees, which looked like they had been drowned in black paint. They were dead, poisoned. As the flames pierced the gnarled trunk of one, a huge knot in the wood started to open like a mouth. Its branches reached up, stretching, feeling, against the side of one of the rock faces. The tree looked like it was screaming as the knot became longer and wider.
The black horses leapt straight through the hole. Seconds before Mordred’s horse jumped, I heard the tolling of a deep-sounding bell in the distance. A jagged fork of lightning speared through the dark sky. It seemed to reach over the entire atmosphere like flailing hair.
It was even darker on the other side of the trees. I could still make out the silhouettes of the branches, but as Mordred pulled me off the horse, I realised that it had not been a row of poisoned trees, but a circle, and we were now enclosed in the middle of the ring. Several tents had been pitched up within the boundary. The one made of dragon hide was immediately recognisable as the tent that I had been held in the previous year. The red scales had new significance now. The red Ddraig: Arthur’s colour.
“What is this place?”
“Lady Natasha, do you really believe I am a foolish simpleton who would divulge the secrets of the Gorians to one who despises us?”
“Yes.”
Mordred looked affronted and shook his head. His hair was still as blonde as I remembered, but it didn’t hang in straight panels. It looked fluffier, like the fur on a golden retriever puppy.
“Where’s Guinevere?” I asked, suddenly aware I was staring at Mordred.
“She is dear to you?”
I should have answered with confidence, but the truth was I hardly knew her. I just wanted her to be my friend.
“Just take me to Guinevere - and Gareth as well, if he’s here.”
“
Barachoch ,” called Mordred. “Where is Sir Gareth?”
A woman, so thin she was almost skeletal, turned her face towards me. Her eyes were milky white, but had a hint of swirling green.
Instincts told me that this woman had been one of the druids who had performed the opening magic on the tree. Slowly, she raised her right hand. The black robe fell back to reveal tanned skin and swirling henna-like tattoos. A long finger, with a black painted nail, pointed to a small, triangular tent which had wisps of blue smoke rising from its tip.
I ran towards it. Mordred didn’t try and stop me. The flap was tied, and my fingers fumbled nervously as I pulled at the ends.
“Lady Natasha.”
Gareth was lying on a bed of matted fur skins. He still had on his black trousers and cracked leather boots, but his upper body was bare. Gareth had been beaten and whipped. Long streaks, at least fifteen inches long, serrated his chest. Dark purple welts had formed over his arms, and his neck bubbled with pale yellow pus. Gareth’s round face was puffed up like an over-inflated ball; he looked as if his mouth had been stuffed with cotton wool.
“Gareth, what have they done to you?”
Gareth tried to pull himself up from the furs, but the pain was too much, and he fell back down with a rasping groan. Immediately I could see several of the slashes across his chest had started weeping dark blood, but it wasn’t blood like I knew it. The colour was metallic and shiny, almost silver.
“Have the druids...harmed you...m’lady?”
I fell down beside him and grabbed his hand. Although Gareth’s skin was covered in tiny pimples, he was burning up with a fierce fever.
Then the flap to the tent was pulled back, and Guinevere was thrown onto the ground; poisoned grass crackled under the weight of her body.
“Escape would be futile,” said a deep male voice from outside, “and rescue nigh impossible. The Gorian encampment is well protected. We learn from our folly.”
Guinevere was sobbing; her bottom lip was bloodied and swollen.
“Don’t look at me, witch,” she screeched.
My stomach clenched. I opened my mouth to say something, but a slight press was made on my hand. Gareth shook his head, just an inch.
“Leave her to her grief,” he said loudly, and I was surprised at how much effort he put into saying it. Gareth was the quietest of the five knights, and on a normal day his voice was the most softly spoken. Now, tortured and unable to move, he was almost shouting.
Then Guinevere turned to me and winked.
I looked back to the flap. The Gorian had let it fall back, enclosing the three of us within the small tepee.
“THIS IS YOUR WANT, WITCH. STAY AWAY FROM ME,” screamed Guinevere, but she winked at me again before mouthing to Gareth, have you seen him?
What was going on? Totally confused, I looked at Gareth. He nodded and mouthed back at Guinevere, he is safe.
Her head arched back, and she made the sign of the cross on her chest before clasping her hands together.
Then she started screaming at me again.
“SORCERESS.”
“SPAWN OF EVIL.”
“COLLUDER WITH THE DEVIL.”
All of these insults – and more – were thrown at me by Guinevere, who appeared to be thoroughly enjoying herself. Gareth squeezed my hand as she tore into me, but her face was grinning from ear to ear.
Fight me back, she mouthed, beckoning me to have a go.
What?
“WHORE OF THE DARK WAYS.”
Fight me back, she mouthed again. Guinevere jerked her head towards the flap of the tepee. Shout at me.
Why?
We want them – Guinevere jerked her head again – to believe we are now foes.
Did she mean we weren’t enemies? But I had caused the death of her brother...
And then I realised what she and Gareth had been communicating about. Have you seen him? He is safe.
Byron wasn’t dead!
“KNIGHT’S SLUT,” I screamed back.
Guinevere clapped her hands together with an evil gleam in her eyes.
“PERVERSION OF THY MOTHER’S WOMB.”
I had to think quickly. I had never been in a proper slagging match before – at least not with someone who wasn’t my brother. I decided to reclaim the insult the girls – led by Slurpy – used at my last school.
“FREAK.”
“ABOMINATION OF EVE.”
Guinevere was good at this.
“UGLY WART-FACED HOUND WITH BAD BREATH.”
“In all my days...” exclaimed Gareth, but Guinevere looked impressed.
“VILE CONDUIT OF SATAN’S FLESH.”
“PIG-NOSED SLAG WITH THE EATING HABITS OF A HORSE AND AN ARSE TO MATCH.”
“What is going on in there?” cried the deep male voice again, and the flap was pulled back, as a Gorian stooped down and climbed into the already cramped space. “Quieten your voices, or I will have someone remove your tongues.”
“She started it.”
“Don’t keep me with the witch,” cried Guinevere. “You heard her – she is going to place a spell on me and turn me into a pig-nosed horse.”
A second Gorian appeared in the mouth of the tepee. It was the skeletal woman called Barachoch.
“Mordred has requested an audience with Lady Natasha.”
Gareth squeezed my hand again. He started coughing, but I definitely heard him hack up the word, “go.”
I kicked Guinevere and walked out. It was only a nudge, but I made it look worse than it really was. She fell back onto the ground, clutching her side like she had been kicked by a horse.
Mordred was waiting in his dragon hide tent. There were four gold tasselled cushions on the ground, and a low table which had been carved out of a tree stump. Two silver goblets, filled with red wine, were waiting, with a platter of meat and something that looked like sliced potatoes.
“Humour me, Lady Natasha,” said Mordred, gesturing to me to sit down. “I am keen to hear about your return to the kingdom of Logres. The last I heard, you were near death and on your way to the mysteries of Avalon.”
I shrugged. “And now I’m back.”
“Indeed. Pray tell, how did the knights find you?”
“They went through the Falls...” I trailed off.
Idiot.
“They travelled through the Falls of Merlin,” mused Mordred, and his eyes narrowed. “That is most interesting. And Arthur?”
“Back as well.”
“He is looking for Lady Morgana, I presume?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.”
“Oh, I believe you do care, Lady Natasha,” said Mordred, handing me a goblet. “If you do not, then you will reply with a simple no to my next question.”
Curiosity got the better of me.
“And what’s the question?”
“Would it please you to know where Lady Morgana is now?”
So she was in Logres, just as Arthur had said all along.
“Where is she?”
“She is with the sorcerer, Merlin,” replied Mordred triumphantly. “And I have been charged with the glorious task of taking you to them.”
Chapter Nineteen
The Magician’s Lair
“He’s taking you to Merlin?” gasped Guinevere. “Why?”
“I’ve no idea,” I replied, “but I’m telling you now, there’s no way I’m going. If that witch is back in Logres, then I want a million miles between the two of us.”
“If I may be permitted to speak, Lady Natasha,” groaned Gareth. “It causes much consternation to admit my weakness, but I am in no position to protect either you, or the fair Guinevere at this time. My head tells me that you should travel with Sir Mordred and the druids of Gore, at least until you are out in the open. Sir Bedivere, Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table will be searching for you. They will overcome the magic of the Gorians and come to your aid, as they have done so before.”
“Sir Gareth is wise, Lady Natasha,” added Guinevere. She was dabbing a damp cloth over his forehead. “Trapped in these trees, we can do nothing, but out there, we stand a chance. I’m not afraid to fight, and I know you aren’t either.”
I
bit down on my bottom lip: my thinking position. Gareth and Guinevere were making sense, but they hadn’t met Merlin. I had seen him as a wizened old man in my own time, and as a young guard on the battlements of Bedivere’s castle. The one trait both versions had in common was a sense of deviousness. I didn’t trust Mordred for a second, but I had the overwhelming feeling that Mordred was being taken for a fool by the sorcerer. The fact that Slurpy was with Merlin was another reason to run in the opposite direction.
So, now I was facing a dilemma. I had imagined that Nimue and Slurpy would be natural allies. Both had, in their own way, attempted to slam dunk my sorry ass with magic. Foolishly, I had been under the impression that this mutual dislike would see them join forces, like most nasty girls with a pack mentality.
I was wrong.
“What the hell am I going to do, Guinevere?”
“I’ll scavenge around the camp to see if I can find something useful to brew up to take away your pain.”
“What?”
But she wasn’t talking to me. Guinevere was going gooey over Gareth, who was starting to come out in a rash that looked like measles.
I rolled my eyes. Girls and knights. I was never that dopey over Bedivere.
My inner voice laughed so hard I almost peed myself.
“Can we talk about...Byron?” I mouthed his name. “Where is he now?”
“With any fortune he will have found his way back to Sir Bedivere,” replied Gareth. “Yet he will need time to recover. He is much weakened and ailing fast.”
“So how did he survive the burning?”
“Did you not see the blue flames? You must have done,” whispered Guinevere. “My brother wrapped the flame around the three of us to stop the true fire from killing us.”
Blue flame. What on earth was Guinevere talking about? I certainly hadn’t been wrapped in anything.
“Are you saying you weren’t burnt – at all?” I exclaimed loudly. Both Gareth and Guinevere hushed at me to speak lower.
“Of course not. All that screaming and fighting was to keep the falsehood intact. Surely you weren’t burnt?”