“Charge!” Arthur shouted, and his soldiers thundered forward, crashing into the bristling line of clannsmen before them.
Arthur fought furiously, hacking and slicing with Excalibur, but the crowd of warriors before O’Lynn and Morgana grew thicker. The clann leader was hanging back—comfortable. Letting Caerleon break itself against the rock that was a three-man-thick line of Irish warriors.
As Arthur stabbed a man who tried to slice Llamrei’s side, his horse danced back, out of the way of another who took the man’s place. Arthur felt his anger surge. “You hide like a child! Afraid to face me!” Arthur bellowed at O’Lynn.
“Just letting you tire yourself,” O’Lynn shouted back. “I need not lift a finger. For I have Tintagel at my side!” He gestured at Morgana, and Arthur’s faerie half-sister raised her clawed fingertips.
The sky around them darkened as hundreds—thousands—of crows descended upon them as if materialized from a black, gaping hole beside the suddenly shadowed sun. Sweat dripped into Arthur’s eyes and he blinked back the stinging pain. Even without the momentary hazy eyesight, he struggled to take in what he was seeing. And then the swirling black vision in the sky shifted form into offensive positions. He barely had time to shout for his warriors to take cover before the birds swooped upon them in a hungry cloud, wings flapping, claws scraping, beaks pecking at exposed flesh, especially at ears and eyes.
“Merlin!” Arthur screamed, holding his sword arm up to shield his face from the attack.
A shock wave shot across the battle field, jarring Arthur to his bones. His eyes rounded at the foreign sensation, his heart in this throat. Then, crows fell from the sky, a dark rain that hammered trees, roofs, and armor alike. People from both camps lifted shields or ducked as Morgana shrieked, screaming over and over, “My crows!”
When the thumping, thundering sounds abated, Arthur swept a calculating gaze across the village to take in the damage. Smoke from the nearby fires ribboned around piles of black, feathered bodies as far as the eye could see. Easily thousands of birds littered the ground, flapping helplessly and cawing in pain beside writhing soldiers who covered their mutilated eye sockets while crying out. The sounds of torment was enough to make his ears weep.
He straightened his position atop Llamrei and grit his teeth until his jaw ached, meeting Morgana’s wrathful gaze head-on. Snarling, he shouted, “Is that the best you can do, Queen of Darkness?”
Morgana narrowed her violet eyes, and then glanced to her left, beyond where he could see.
Two more fae females appeared at her side, stepping up before the inn beside her.
Arthur’s blood turned cold. Morgause and Elaine. Here. His two eldest half-sisters. The ones who had treated him far more cruelly while growing up. The sisters who taught Morgana that he, their bastard-born brother, the product of their father’s planned murder and mother’s rape, deserved only eternal punishment for being an abomination in their eyes. And for bearing the title Pendragon, High King of Briton.
The onslaught was sudden and furious. A bolt of lightning crashed from a clear blue sky, striking the ground just inches from Arthur. His steed reared in fright, screaming as Arthur struggled to stay on her back.
The other sisters were muttering now while writing runes into the air. More lightning strikes hit. Some of Arthur’s soldiers were not as lucky as he, and the men and horses were tossed into the sky. Claps of thunder shook his eardrums, deafening him. He swallowed his sorrow as more men he knew, men with wives and children, fell to their death atop the possessed crows. All because of him, because he was born from Uther Pendragon’s line. Perhaps this was the true curse poisoning his life. He slid a glance toward Fionna, unable to bear his shame.
But that latter thought was ripped from his attention as a new fear took hold.
The ground began to rumble, and the very dirt they stood upon began to crack. A fissure appeared between Arthur and Fionna, and his eyes grew large as it snaked wider, opening into a chasm below. Men fell into the depths, screaming, and still the ground shook.
Terror clawed up from his gut as he screamed until his throat turned raw, scorched with grief. “Merlin!” Arthur looked around frantically. He caught his druid’s eyes. Time seemed to slow for several beats of his heart as the man’s horse danced back from a widening crack. Merlin eventually shook his head, even as he mouthed words, his hands dancing before him. Whatever spell the sisters wielded, it was too strong for Merlin to break.
They would be destroyed.
“Retreat!” Arthur cried out, and spun Llamrei, kicking her flanks hard. They leapt over a chasm, just barely clearing the wide expanse. Fionna. Galahad. Arthur peered over his shoulder to see Fionna and Zephyr dodging out of the way of a lightning strike. The sudden movement of the ground together with the strike sent Zephyr sideways, and the horse and rider crashed to the ground.
“Fionna!” Arthur kicked Llamrei forward, but his mare fought him, not wanting to return to the chaos of lightning strikes and cracking earth.
Zephyr scrambled to her feet, and spooked, galloped toward Galahad.
“Zephyr!” Fionna screamed.
Galahad turned, spurring his mount toward the fleeing mare.
With Fionna’s attention pinned onto her horse, she didn’t see the crack now slithering between her planted feet.
Arthur spurred Llamrei on, his heart about to pound out of his chest. “Fionna,” he cried out at her again. “Watch out!”
She spun toward him, the horror in her eyes growing as she realized how the ground was about to give way beneath her. Arthur leaned over his saddle, stretching his arm out for her as far as he could reach. Praying it was far enough.
Fionna leapt for him as he passed. Their wrists locked. Pain groaned through him as her weight almost pulled his arm from its socket. But he had her. And the momentum of their movement helped swing her across Llamrei’s rump just as the ground caved in beneath the spot where she had stood only moments earlier.
“Hold on,” Arthur cried out over his shoulder.
Llamrei leapt over another fissure, and Fionna nearly slid off his horse’s back. But when Llamrei’s hooves connected with solid ground, Fionna stumbled to the ground. She then sprinted for Zephyr and sprang back into the saddle.
Arthur’s warriors were streaming past them now. But something felt wrong. Warriors who hadn’t been speared by lightning or lost to the unnatural depths of the earth were now riding for Caerleon with fresh terror gripping their sweaty dirt- and blood-smudged faces. He whipped his head back toward the war-sacked village and sucked in a ragged breath. A host of mounted Uí Tuírtri were pouring out from the west and around the village. They had taken advantage of the pitched battle, using the time to saddle their mounts and make an assault.
“Ride for the keep,” Arthur shouted above the melee as he dug his heels into poor Llamrei’s side once again. She surged into a gallop, flowing into the stream of riders thundering back toward the barracks within his walled fortress. He gave Llamrei her head and prayed, to whatever deity might be listening, that she would be fast enough.
WE MADE IT into the keep a hair’s breadth before the horde on our tail.
“Close the gate!” Arthur screamed, and soldiers scrambled to slam the huge oaken doors shut behind us. They heaved the cross-guard into place as a shuddering weight smashed against the outside.
I quickly surveyed the damage done to our group. We had lost perhaps a third of the warriors we had brought with us, between the fighting in the camp and the wild ride home. Dirt and sweat coated each soldier. But Arthur . . . Arthur appeared as though he dug his way free from the Underworld.
“Percival,” I gasped, my breast heaving from the frantic flight. But fear seized the very air from my lungs. I didn’t see the copper hair of my sweet knight. “Has Sir Percival returned with his men?” I called out to the guards.
“Aye,” a man answered from the courtyard. “They returned a candle mark ago.”
My shoulders slumped in r
elief, even as another cry went up outside the gates, followed by another shuddering crash.
“They’re trying to hack through the gate,” Galahad said, wiping the sweat from his face. Grime smudged across his cheek and forehead. “It’ll take them till Samhain at this rate.”
“Get archers up on those walls,” Arthur barked. “I don’t want the gate compromised. Take those men down.”
Soldiers scrambled to obey. I slid off Zephyr and then patted her heaving, lathered flank.
“Druid,” I called out. My eyes darted around until I found Merlin amongst the tumult of men and horses in the courtyard. “We have work to do.”
Merlin nodded grimly, dismounting from his own horse and motioning to me.
“What do you plan to do?” Arthur asked, stepping before me. His crown was askew, and his face was flecked with blood and dirt, his eyes red with restrained emotion. But he had never looked more handsome than he did now. A man, despite our near-defeat, in full command of the world around him. A king.
“We have one magic-wielder against three,” I explained. “However strong yer walls are, they cannot hold against Morgana and her sisters, if their full magic is brought to bear. Danu told my father I have latent power within my blood. Merlin and I must find it.”
Arthur nodded, looking away. As though hiding the building emotion—the fear, the grief. “This is your most precious task.”
I cupped his cheek and whispered, “Arthur . . .”
He appeared as though he wanted to lean into my touch. Instead he stepped back with a sad smile and said, “See it done,” before spinning on his heel and marching away.
A groom took Zephyr’s reins as I stared after Arthur’s retreating form. Then I hurried after Merlin as he angled his way through the thick crowd of villagers who led the injured to the Great Hall.
My body was exhausted from the fight and the ride, but my mind was alive with excitement and nerves. If I were honest with myself, there was trepidation there too. I had always been happy with Fionnabhair Allán. Being the daughter of a Dál nAraidi woman—a good wife and mother. Being a warrior, fighting with my fiann. I had been happy being me. And I had been happy in Caerleon too. With Arthur and my knights. Each man had awakened a passion and carnal femininity that had slumbered deep within me. I felt as though I needed nothing else—no power or might or divinity. I needed nothing but time on this green earth with the men I loved. But my enemies—Arthur’s enemies—would take even that from me. So, I would surrender myself to the unknown. Would I be happy with the woman who emerged? If my father’s tale proved true, I would be a Gwenevere. An enchantress, a goddess. But would I still be me?
“Be at ease, Fionna,” Merlin said as we reached the living area of his cave. “This has been a part of you all along. If anything, you will be more you than before.”
“Do yer powers extend even to reading thoughts?” I muttered, for I knew I hadn’t spoken my fears aloud.
“My powers extend to human nature. And your worry is written plain on your face.”
“What do ye plan to do?” I asked. Dwelling on my misgivings wouldn’t help me. Arthur needed an enchantress at his side, and so I would yield myself. For Arthur, I would yield my life, my very soul. How small a sacrifice was my identity?
“Your true essence is locked deep inside you,” Merlin said, pulling bottles off his shelf and returning to his desk, where a mortar and pestle sat. “The human mind is like . . . a turtle.”
“A turtle?” I scoffed.
“Floating in the water. You can see the eyes. That is the conscious mind, what we use to think and reason and process. But beneath the surface is something much larger. More powerful. I think this is where your powers lie. I will give you a potion to take you deep within yourself. I hope you can find your way to the answers.”
“And if I can’t?” I asked.
“Then we’ll try something else,” Merlin said. “Until we find what works.”
Merlin poured the potion into a mug of ale, and then handed the clay cup to me. I downed the contents in one swallow, before coughing and hacking. “Awful!”
“Magic doesn’t usually taste good.” The druid took my arm and led me to the chairs beside his fireplace. “Sit,” he said, and I dropped into a seat upon the fur cover. A fire burst to life before me in the hearth, and I jumped.
Merlin sat beside me. “You may see strange things in your mind. Visions. A guide may appear. Ask him to show you the way to the géis. Whatever happens, focus only on finding the géis. Your mind will take you there.”
The room swam as a flush of heat consumed me. “I feel . . . strange,” I murmured.
Merlin took the cup from me. “Close your eyes. Let the magic take you.”
I did as he instructed, and another wave of heat battered against my tingling body, warming my skin, until I felt as though I were suffocating in my armor. I reached up to start unbuckling my leathers, but Merlin’s hand grasp mine. “Your conscious mind will do everything it can to try and keep you from journeying deep. It’s uncomfortable with the unknown. Focus inside. The feelings will pass.”
I huffed in frustration but tried to do as I was told. It was dark behind my eyelids, but the darkness swam, as if alive. Moving. The darkness began to materialize—to take form. I hissed in a breath as I watched in disbelief. A forest. It was as if I were standing in a shadowy forest. On the ground before me, a form emerged, soft gray against the mossy earth. A dove.
“Are you my guide?” I asked.
The dove hopped once on the ground. I took that for a yes.
Bending at the knees, I hunched down and asked, “Can you lead me to the géis?”
The dove flitted into the air, whizzing into the forest.
“Wait!” I cried out, running after the bird.
I darted beneath branches and bounded over fallen logs, all the time wondering what in the goddess’s name this place represented. And knowing that I was moving farther away from where I had started. Deeper into the unknown.
The dove flew quickly for this type of bird. Stranger still, I could move fast as well, keeping up with my winged guide. I slowed to a stop before the dove now sitting on a branch before me, expecting a need to catch my breath. But there was no breath here. My lungs didn’t rise and fall with life-giving motions.
Bothered by this realization, I peered past the dove. Ahead of where we paused, a ring of trees circled inside a clearing. The landscape reminded me of the faerie ring where we had found the standing stone pointing us toward Caer Benic. But no monolith lay inside the ring. Instead, a woman stared at me. A woman trapped in a cage made of vines.
And the woman was me.
“Impossible,” came my garbled cry. I ran forward and threw myself against the bars, wrapping my fingers around the iron. The woman within looked at me with sullen, downcast eyes, a frown dipping her mouth. But she did not speak. I pressed my face to the space between the bars, my eyes drinking in her strange form. For she was me. But not. This me was fae. She had delicate tapered ears and skin as white and as smooth as a first-fallen snow. I knew that men found me beautiful, but this version—she was ethereal. The animal movements of her head, the glow around the pure white hair, pulled back in elaborate braids . . . she was a dream.
“How do I free ye?” I tugged on the bars to test their strength.
“A worthy question.”
I whirled, grasping for a dagger at my waist that was no longer there.
Another faerie stood before me. No, not a faerie. A goddess. She wore a dress of shimmering green and gold, the colors of spring and summer and autumn woven together in a majestic cloth finer than any mortal hand could create. Her cascading tresses were the green of the forest, interwoven with vines of ivy. Her skin was pale and glistened with dew, like a cloud. Her tilted eyes were a startling blue that raged like the sea, calm like a glassy lake, with a fluid gaze that rested on me like the gentle pool of a river.
I fell to one knee, my fingertips burying in the earth.
“Goddess Danu,” I said, my mind racing. I didn’t know if she was a figment of my mind, but I didn’t want to risk offending her on the chance she was more. Real.
“Rise my daughter,” she said. Her words were the soft touch of a new lamb’s wool.
I rose to shaky feet, meeting her gaze. There were so many things I wanted to say to her. To ask. Why my father. Why me. Where had she been. But . . . there was only one question that mattered right now. “Can ye . . .” I stumbled over my words. “Can ye help me break the géis?”
She glided forward, wrapping her own slender fingers around the bars and tugging. Flames alit in her hands, and I shied back. But they quickly snuffed out.
She stepped away, shaking her head. A look of pinched frustration flit across her face, an expression that appeared very out of place. “I cannot,” she admitted.
“But ye placed it upon me, did ye not?” I asked. “Can ye not undo yer magic?”
“My enemies have trapped me in a remote corner of the Otherworld. It stretches me thin as the Otherworld’s mist to even be here. If I were here in my full force, yes, I could undo the géis. It seems I have protected you too well. Even from myself.”
“The Fomorians did this to ye, didn’t they,” I said. “They have returned.”
She nodded. “They have. They take my court, they take my land. They will take Arthur’s sovereignty and all of Briton, if you let them. They use Morgana and her sisters like pawns, playing upon their petty vengeances.”
“Is there a way to break ye free?” I asked. “We need yer help defeating them.”
“Perhaps when your power is fully restored, you could break my prison.”
“But my power cannot be restarted until ye are free,” I said slowly, now seeing the knot fate had tied us into.
“There might be another way,” Danu said.
“Tell me,” I asked eagerly.
“Arthur. You and he are destined for each other. He is the sovereign-blessed king of all Briton, you the goddess who will bestow the final blessing upon him.”
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 52