Cursed

by Frank Miller

  “The gods smile upon us,” Uther boasted.

  The assembled banged their knives on the table and chanted Uther’s name and “The drought is ended!”

  One nobleman raised a jug of ale. “To the king!”

  Another shouted, “To the rain!”

  The guests laughed.

  Uther chuckled. “No, friends. We do not drink to the rain”—he lifted the bucket that had been placed beside his plate—“instead we drink the rain!”

  “Hail Uther!” the assembled cheered. “Hail the king!”

  Uther lifted the pail to his lips and took a long, sweet gulp. His guests observed, admiring and applauding as the contents dribbled down his manicured goatee and throat, staining his ruffled white collar a bright red.

  The room quieted. Uther frowned at the taste and lowered the pail. He smiled at his guests, lips slippery with blood. “I’m afraid I’ve spilled some.”

  Ladies covered their eyes as Uther quickly read the faces of his guests.

  “What is—?” Uther looked down at his bloody sleeves. “What is this?” He set down the pail and wiped his lips and beard, covering his hands in blood. Uther turned sharply on his butler. “What trick is this?”

  Uther’s butler was white with fear. “N-no trick, Your Majesty.”

  Uther tipped over the bucket, and a river of blood flowed over the table. His guests gasped; some screamed and knocked over their benches to run.

  The butler cried, “That is the rain that fell upon the castle!”

  “Merlin!” Uther screamed as he hurled another bucket, and another, blood rain flooding the pewter plates and spattering onto the floor. The king’s eyes were wild with fear as he shrieked to the ceiling, “Merlin!!”

  At that moment, atop the battlement, in the full fury of the storm, a single bolt of lightning struck the iron rod. A cascade of energy hurtled through the iron, ending in a searing shock wave that blasted Merlin through the turret door, sending him sprawling—aflame—into the fiery circle. Merlin roared in agony as he fought to free himself from his burning robes. The footmen raced inside to assist him, but the storm followed them in. Sheets of rain met the flames and black smoke choked the air. The footmen coughed and waved their arms until they cleared the smoke away from Merlin, naked as a babe in the middle of the floor, a horrific burn sizzling and bubbling from his right shoulder, down his ribs, and across his thigh and below. Borley and Chist both took a steadying step back, blinking in disbelief, for the burn was in the unmistakable shape of a sword.

  Nimue reached into the wrapped cloth and tightened her fist around the worn leather grip of an ancient sword. Its wide blade was blackened and nicked by what must have been centuries of combat. She held the mysterious weapon aloft and felt her blood surge as a beast landed cleanly on the tabletop rock. Turning with one swift stroke, she separated the wolf from its head. The body flopped backward and the other dogs scurried aside as it struck the earth.

  Nimue stared at the sword. It radiated a cold light and felt feather soft in her hands. The Fingers of Airimid blossomed on her cheek, forming a connection between the sword and the Hidden. The next wolf scratched its way to the ledge, and Nimue divided its skull right down the snout, the blade lodging in the rock a good three inches deeper than the blow. Nimue fought to free the heavy blade as another monster caught her elbow and dragged her over the lip of the tabletop rock.

  She flipped in midair before landing hard on her back. Her eyes rolled in her head as she wriggled her body around, and a wolf clamped its jaws on the hem of her skirts. Ripping the fabric free, Nimue lunged for the sword, which lay several feet away in the grass. She reached the hilt just as another wolf leaped at her throat. She cut through the cur’s shoulder and the creature rolled over in the dirt, whimpering, unable to climb to its paws. Nimue tasted its blood on her lips as she staggered to her feet. Two thick, bristling wolves remained, barking and snapping at her.

  “Come on!” she roared, feeling a surge of power.

  One went low for her ankles, and she drove the sword into its back. She wrenched the sword free and slew the last of them with a quick strike to the neck.

  It was over. She stood there, panting, in a puddle of blood. She took a deep breath and shrieked at the dead animals.

  She left wolf-blood footprints in the mud as she stumbled blindly across the meadow, past the moon rock where her mother had taught her lessons. Her ears buzzed. She could hear Red Paladins gathering in force behind her. Horsemen. Several on foot. She backed into the maze of thorns—a popular hiding spot for children playing “seeker.”

  Nimue was quickly surrounded. She could see the bald pates of the monks just over the shoulder-high hedges, at the junction of the maze and the clearing. Red Paladins walked softly down every path toward her. She counted seven. The tip of her sword dropped limply to the dirt. Her arms felt molten with fatigue. She sank to her knees, her eyes locked on the monks’ dirty feet and simple sandals. I don’t want to go on alone, she thought. It’s better this way.

  But resignation gave way to a memory of her mother’s voice from when Nimue was a child, when the demon gave her the scars: Call the Hidden, Nimue. The calm certainty of her mother’s voice poured cool water over her thoughts, and Nimue’s mind felt clean and washed. In that clarity she reached out to the dirt under her nails, the circling crows, and the wind in the grass. She called out to the stream, thick with innocent blood, and to the wood-chewing ants in the dead trunk of the Old Man—the most ancient tree in the glade. A shudder swept across the hedges of the thorn maze as though they’d been brushed with an unseen hand. The hum of the Hidden throbbed in her stomach. The sword pulsed in her fists. It was as if the two were connected somehow, like the sword was guiding the power of the Hidden through her veins.

  The paladin closest to Nimue angled his sword to her head, but his ankle caught on one of the branches. Another tried to free his robes, which had become stuck in the thorns, and still another found his path to Nimue inexplicably blocked by a knot of roots jutting out from the dirt.

  Emboldened, Nimue pushed her mind to open more channels of connection. The hum in her gut made hair on her arms stand up as ropy vines looped and constricted around arms, calves, biceps, and necks. The maze of thorns fed hungrily on the Red Paladins, who bleated with panic and fear, a music that sang in Nimue’s ears and gave her legs new strength. She stood tall as the Red Paladins were strangled to their knees around her. She stared into their bulging, disbelieving eyes and smiled through her tears. She thought of her mother, throwing herself in the path of the paladin to save Nimue’s life. She thought of Biette and Pym and Squirrel. Nimue’s knuckles squeezed white around the leather grip of the ancient sword. She wanted to savor the moment. She lifted the sword higher and higher, then dropped the heavy blade like a chopping ax. Blood spattered the leaves and vines around her, but she did not stop.

  SHE HELD THE MYSTERIOUS WEAPON ALOFT AND FELT HER BLOOD SURGE . . .

  The blade fell. And fell. And fell again. Again.

  The paladins’ wet robes clung to their twitching bodies. Nimue’s eyes blazed with righteous fury as she chopped and chopped, unleashing all the loss and the rage and the pain.

  NINE

  FATHER CARDEN’S BOOT POKED THE nose of a wolf’s severed head. He noted small bloody footprints in the dirt. The Weeping Monk stood silently behind him. A Red Paladin had guided them across the meadow to the maze of thorns, and it had taken an hour of hacking with axes for the Red Paladins to reach their slaughtered companions.

  Father Carden entered the freshly carved path to look upon the bodies with his own eyes. The Weeping Monk followed. The Red Paladins were nothing more than unrecognizable lumps of meat cradled in the embrace of the hedge.

  “An abomination,” Carden whispered. He pulled the bloody hood away from one of the paladin’s faces, a face contorted by terror. Carden shook his head and replaced the shroud. Again, he took note of the small footprints at the heart of the scene. “One child did al
l of this?”

  The Weeping Monk knelt by another body. “Simon saw a girl leave the temple carrying something.” His finger grazed what looked like a burn on the Red Paladin’s arm.

  Carden joined him. He studied the burn. “Observe. The skin was not marked from the outside. Our brother here was burned from within. This is powerful evil.”

  The burn had a unique shape: a branch with three stems. “The Devil’s Tooth,” Carden mused. “This is its mark.”

  The Weeping Monk looked up at him.

  Carden threw back the robes from another dead paladin. His throat bore the same brand. Another Red Paladin wore the mark on his cheek.

  Carden stood up, shaken. “We have flushed out the ancient weapon of our enemy. The Sword of Power has been found and is in the possession of one of the Devil’s children.” He spread his arms to the hedges. “One maid with the power to do this. To pervert God’s creations, to make monsters of the earth and air. At all costs this child must be cleansed. The great conflict has begun.” Father Carden pulled the Weeping Monk’s hooded head into a whisper. “Find the sword. And find her.”

  Nimue lay against an embankment, in a bed of wet leaves, thinking about Squirrel. The high midday sun was bright but gave off little heat. She had gone back to their hiding spot in the hollow of the ash tree, but he was not there. Instead she had found six men of her village cut down in a nearby field. Left for the dogs.

  A cold rain began to fall. It made Nimue’s bones ache. Her legs throbbed from running, she’d lost count how many miles. Her only possession in the world was the sword.

  Why would her mother conceal it?

  If it was important enough to sacrifice her life for it, why had Nimue never been told of its existence?

  And was Merlin the same Merlin from the children’s stories? Was he a real person? How was that possible?

  No matter, Nimue thought. She would never last the night. Hunted, without shelter or food or water, her chances were grim. The forest hid thieves and wolves. The city harbored Father Carden’s spies. She knew no one outside her clan, and that clan had just been slaughtered before her eyes. Nimue was alone.

  She regarded the sword again. The rune carved into the pommel was filled with silver and had to be worth something. Surely it could bring her enough coin for safe passage across the sea? After all, wasn’t survival the most important thing? Wouldn’t her mother want her to do everything to survive? Nimue turned the sword in her hand, so light. Incredible.

  Mother gave her life for this sword.

  Would Nimue honor that sacrifice by selling it for scraps? What other choice did she have? She was a murderer. She had slain seven Red Paladins. They would hang her for this, or worse. And she had used the Hidden to aid her in the task. She would be branded a witch.

  Nimue cried pitiful tears, which were lost in the raindrops. She’d had no time for anything. Pym. Dusk Lady. Her mother. It had all happened so fast. Nimue felt a despair welling up that could swallow her. But before she gave over to it, a name popped into her mind.

  Arthur.

  Nimue thought for a moment. Then she took the sword to her wet blond hair. She sawed through a hank of hair in her hand and let the strands fall to the ground. She needed a cloak. She’d be far too suspicious waltzing into Hawksbridge in her ragged skirts with a valuable sword slung on her back.

  Less than an hour later, Nimue crept through a field of wheat toward a laundry line strung up with the clothes of a peasant family: wool stockings, tunics, and shifts. She tore the farmer’s cloak and pants from the line and bolted back into the field, running as low as possible so the wheat would conceal her.

  As evening approached, Nimue tore strips from her skirts to make a belt that would keep the farmer’s trousers around her waist. The oversize cloak concealed the sword on Nimue’s back, despite being as long as she was. She needed to reach Hawksbridge before sunset: she doubted she could survive another night of exposure.

  Her feet felt like stumps. Her arms hung like iron weights. She ached with hunger. As she approached Hawksbridge, she was panicked to see very little traffic at the gates, and worse still, a Red Paladin stood with the guards.

  Suddenly a whistle carried on the air—barely familiar. Nimue turned and saw the traveling dentist from earlier that morning atop his one-horse cart.

  The dentist was bald with long brown sideburns and a mustache that curled down his cheeks, giving him the look of a sad hound. His smock was stained dark with the blood of his patients, and though his eyes were still red, with bags under them. Nimue attributed it to fatigue rather than ale. The dentist appeared to be through with his rounds of the local farms and headed back home inside the gates of Hawksbridge.

  Without much of a plan, Nimue stepped into the path of his cart. The dentist frowned and pulled the reins. “Everything all right, miss?”

  With her chopped-off hair and baggy clothes, Nimue was unrecognizable from the morning. She pressed a hand to her cheek and winced. “It’s my tooth, sir.”

  “Oh? Well, I’m afraid my work’s done for the day. Give me directions and I may be able to squeeze you in day after tomorrow.”

  “But that’s far too long! Please, sir.”

  “Best I can do, miss.”

  Nimue’s eyes brimmed with desperate tears. Given her misery, they were ready to fall at any moment. “But the pain is just shooting, and I can’t do my chores, and my mother beats me if I can’t work.”

  The dentist looked her over. He wasn’t impressed. “You’ve got coin, have you?”

  “My brother can pay you. He’s just inside the gates with his chums at the Raven Wing. I’m sure he’d treat you to a mead for taking pity on me.” Nimue grimaced and clutched her jaw. “It’s a torment, sir.” As Nimue held her cheek, her cloak dropped away from her wrist and the dentist saw the totems on her bracelet. It was then that he recognized her.

  “I know you from this morning.” He frowned. “You and your friend.”

  Nimue’s mind went numb as she watched the wheels turn in the dentist’s mind. He looked over to the gates. They were one cart away from the Red Paladin. After a few moments of conversation, the guard waved it through and walked toward the dentist’s cart.

  “State your business,” the guard said, bored.

  The dentist turned back to Nimue.

  “Please, sir,” she whispered.

  Fear, pity, and guilt washed over the dentist’s rheumy eyes. He looked at the guard, at a loss for words, as the Red Paladin approached.

  “Hello?” the guard asked, annoyed.

  “T-t-teeth, sir,” the dentist managed.

  Nimue noticed the dentist’s hands shaking.

  “Just—just finishing my rounds,” he added.

  “And this one?” The guard stared Nimue up and down.

  The dentist licked his dry lips. “She’s ah, she’s . . .” Somewhere deep inside, he found a seed of courage. “She’s—she’s my patient, sir.”

  Nimue managed a short breath of relief. She climbed onto his cart.

  “One of my regulars,” the dentist added.

  “Remove your hood,” the Red Paladin ordered.

  “Yes, sir.” Nimue obeyed, pulling down the hood of her cloak, eyes on the dentist’s muddy boots.

  “Where are you from?” the Red Paladin asked.

  Nimue tried to keep her voice light and steady. “Born in Hawksbridge, milord. My mother’s a—a laundress for the lord of the keep, and I fetch the lye from the monastery. That is—that is, when my tooth’s not ailing.”

  “What tooth ails you?”

  Nimue hesitated before pointing to the right side of her lower jaw. “This—this one, milord?” She tapped the spot.

  The Red Paladin looked at the dentist. “The girl is suffering. What are you waiting for? Pull it.”

  The dentist cupped his ear. “Sir?”

  “The tooth. Pull it. Now.”

  The dentist shook his head, not understanding. “But I—um, I haven’t . . .” He
looked to Nimue for some kind of guidance.

  Her ears rang, and Nimue felt another panicked urge to run. She saw only one course. She shut her eyes and nodded to the dentist.

  The guard winced. “What, you want him to do it here?”

  “Shut up, fool,” the Red Paladin snapped at the guard. Turning back to the dentist, the paladin pressed, “Is that a problem?”

  “Not—not a problem.”

  Nimue watched numbly as the dentist fished out a pair of bloodstained pliers from his weather-beaten satchel. Nimue dared to look at the Red Paladin. His eyes bored into hers. She looked down again.

  “Let’s—let’s see what we have here,” the dentist muttered, almost having to pry open Nimue’s jaw.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Ah yes,” he called out. “Here’s the culprit.” He indicated one of Nimue’s molars.

  Nimue imagined herself in the brook by the broken statue in the Iron Wood. She thought of the cold water flowing over her legs as the jaws of the dentist’s dirty pliers clamped over her healthy tooth. The first twist tore several roots and a guttural sound of pain came up from Nimue’s throat. The dentist’s hand was strong, and he worked fast. He wrenched left, then right. Nimue’s head tried to jerk back, but the pliers held her. She heard the dentist somewhere say, “This will give you relief, milady.” Blood filled into a vacuum in her mouth as the pliers did their work and the tooth came free. A rag was stuffed into her mouth. Nimue opened her blurry eyes to the repulsed guard and the smug Red Paladin. The dentist’s hand was on her neck and his lips close to her ear. “All done now, child.”

  The guard waved them on, reclaiming his authority. “Enough already. Away with you.”

  The dentist whickered his horse, avoiding eye contact with the paladin as Nimue moaned into the cloth, her cheek throbbing. The Red Paladin kept his eyes locked on Nimue as they passed, daring her to look back, but she did not, and she managed a slight breath as they cleared the gate.