Cursed

by Frank Miller

  TEN

  NIMUE SLIPPED OFF THE CART and hurried into the crowd.

  Time was now in short supply. If she could not find Arthur, she risked being trapped inside the walls of Hawksbridge with Red Paladins guarding the city both inside and out.

  The shops were shuttering for the approaching evening, but the Raven Wing was filling up. Nimue squeezed between two farmers awaiting entry and shoved her way inside. She took a chair and stood on it, still holding the bloody rag to her mouth, and took in a view of the whole tavern. As she scanned the faces of the crowd, her heart slowly sank. The corner where Bors had fleeced local farmers was filled with sooty boys from the ironworks next door.

  “Oy! Get down from there!” Someone pulled at Nimue’s cloak. Another customer gave her a push. Nimue climbed down. At her height, a wall of shoulders surrounded her. There was nowhere else for her to go. Her thoughts went to the sword. Perhaps the ironworks could melt it down for coin? Or the bank might trade for it?

  Outside, the stars were coming out above the town square. Footmen were lighting torches. Nimue weighed the wisdom of visiting the ironsmith to cost out the sword. Revealing it in any way would surely provoke questions she could not answer. Her weary eyes began to search out doorways where she might sleep before the watch threw her out the gates.

  Then a bell rang and a town crier hurried into the square, accompanied by two Red Paladins. Townsfolk and shopkeepers gathered.

  “Oyez! Oyez!” the crier began. “By order of the Vatican, for crimes most foul, including infanticide, cannibalism, and the slaughter of the Lord’s servants in conspiracy with demonic spirits—”

  Nimue shrank away and searched for a place to hide.

  “—thirty gold denarii for the capture or death of the Fey murderess known only as the Wolf-Blood Witch! Any who offer aid or shelter to the witch are heretics punishable by torture and burning under Church law!”

  Nimue pulled her hood over her face and hurried in the opposite direction of the town crier, nearly slamming into the hindquarters of a gray charger. The horse lifted a rear leg to kick, and the rider looked back with an annoyed sneer. It was Bors.

  “Watch it, you dumb bastard!”

  He could not see Nimue’s face beneath her hood, and she hurried ahead of his horse, past the other sell-swords to Egypt, Arthur’s black courser. She touched Arthur’s hand. He looked down as Nimue pulled back her hood.

  “Nimue?”

  Between relief and exhaustion, her words caught in her throat. She wavered and Arthur swung his leg around and landed beside her to catch her arm before she fell. Glancing to his fellows, he led her a few yards away. They stood beneath a flickering torch.

  “I’m—” Nimue tried again, but could only sob.

  “What’s happened?”

  “They’re gone,” she managed, hating that she couldn’t stop crying.

  “Who is gone? You’re not making sense.”

  “All of them!” she snarled, rage and panic spilling over. She took his arm, fearing she’d scare him away.

  A shadow fell over them. Bors spun Nimue around. She could see him trying to place her, but with her hair shorn, he struggled.

  Nimue had no choice. She quickly wiped her tears and changed tacks: “I need to hire you. I’ll pay you.”

  Bors’s eyes widened. “You’re the witch.”

  “I’ll pay you,” Nimue repeated, “to help me find Merlin. I have business with him.”

  Arthur’s eyes flicked between Nimue and Bors. He had no idea what she was talking about. Nor did Nimue, really.

  Bors chuckled. “Merlin? Why, she knows Merlin, Arthur. You’re a batty little thing, aren’t you? I wager you haven’t got a pot to piss in.”

  “Well, I have. I have something of great value that I must deliver to Merlin. If you help me, he’ll pay you handsomely.” Nimue glanced across the square. The Red Paladins had to be nearby.

  Bors grabbed Nimue roughly by the collar of her cloak. “Witch, you’ve already got debts to pay.” As he grabbed her, he felt the outline of the sword. “What’s this?” He wrestled it from behind Nimue, who had strung it over her back.

  “It’s just a sword,” she sputtered.

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Nimue pulled it from Bors’s hands. “I’ll show you.” She drew the sword. The rune glinted in the torchlight.

  Bors rubbed his mouth greedily. “Give it here.”

  But Nimue hid the sword under her cloak again. “That’s enough.”

  “Where’s your friend Pym?” Arthur asked.

  “Dead, I think.”

  “Dead?” Arthur ran a nervous hand through his hair.

  There was no time to explain. “I have to bring the sword to Merlin. He’ll pay you more gold than you can imagine. But we have to go quickly.”

  “Maybe I’ll just take the sword and we call ourselves even, eh?” Bors grabbed Nimue’s cloak again, but she shook him off.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Bors—” Arthur started, but Bors jabbed his finger in Arthur’s face.

  “Know your place, boy. You’re far too friendly with this wench for my liking.” Bors turned back to Nimue. “Now see here, girl. Just give us the sword and be on your way.”

  “No.” Nimue felt the scars on her back scrape against the brick wall of the bakery.

  Bors took a step toward her. “Or . . . I can just take the sword, then drag you by the ankles to them Red Paladins. Your choice.”

  “Listen, I can—” Arthur interjected, but Bors turned and smacked him across the face with the back of his hand.

  “You can get back on your horse is what you can do! This don’t involve you!”

  Arthur stumbled back to Egypt, hand to his cheek. His horse snuffed and reared.

  “Now give it here, love.” Bors’s meaty hand reached for her.

  Nimue threw her cloak over her left shoulder. With her right hand she untied the sling knot that held the sword around her. She cradled the blade in the crook of her arm, her hand passing over the iron cross guard.

  Bors’s eyes shone. “That’s a good girl.”

  The Fingers of Airimid crept up her cheek, and the hum in her belly turned into a sizzling hiss that boiled her blood through her arms to her fists. Nimue tightened her hands around the leather grip, pivoted quickly, and cut Bors’s hand cleanly off at the wrist. The force of the blow cartwheeled the severed appendage through the air until it landed in the square thirty feet away. Bors howled and stared at the air above his wrist where his hand used to be.

  “Try again and I’ll have the other.” A wildness had her. Nimue felt ten feet tall and could crush Bors and his screams under her bootheel. The sword felt like a part of her arm, so light, so natural. A hot spring of power moved through her and through the sword. She couldn’t help but smile.

  Bors recoiled, clutching his bleeding stump, and bellowed, “Kill that witch!”

  Nimue shook off the euphoria, though her senses stayed sharp. She ran across the square, shoved Arthur aside, vaulted onto Egypt’s saddle, and reached back for him. “Come on!”

  “Arthur!” Bors shrieked. “I’ll string you up by the guts!”

  Arthur leaped onto the back of his horse behind Nimue as she kicked Egypt’s ribs and charged across the square.

  Townsfolk fled in all directions away from the bloodshed. Footmen ran up the alley from the eastern gate as at Bors’s command, the other sell-swords spun their horses around and chased after Arthur and Nimue.

  “Where are you going?” Arthur shouted.

  “I don’t know!”

  “Give me the damn reins!”

  Arthur reached over Nimue and turned Egypt in the opposite direction of the gate she’d entered.

  “What are you doing?”

  “The western gate! Fewer guards!”

  One of the Red Paladins ran up on foot, sword drawn, but Arthur swung his boot under the monk’s chin. The Red Paladin landed square in the sewer ditch as Arthur galloped
between two buildings. He took several switchbacks down alleyways to throw off his pursuers, finally emerging into a quiet square where the half-built cathedral loomed over them. A distant bell clanged.

  “Damn it. They’re sealing the gates.” Arthur spurred Egypt down another avenue. Torchlight threw the shadows of their pursuers onto the long walls of the buildings. The sell-swords galloped after them in a furious mass. The western gate was still fifty yards ahead. Footmen hurried to close it.

  Arthur spurred Egypt on. “Down!” he roared. “Down!” Nimue pressed her face to the saddle, and they soared toward the lowering gate. Arthur threw his arms around Egypt’s neck as they plunged beneath it. The gate’s teeth raked their backs and tore at their cloaks, but they cleared the city walls.

  They thundered onto the road lit only by starlight.

  ELEVEN

  RIVERS OF BLOOD WASHED DOWN the pathways of Castle Pendragon as an army of workers put buckets and brushes to the task of scrubbing the courtyard walls clean of the cursed rain. Many murmured prayers of protection as they performed the tasks, word spreading far and wide of the terrible omen and what it might mean for the king.

  No one felt this dread more keenly than Uther himself, who stormed through the castle in full plate armor. He knew the blood rain was a warning, so he surrounded himself with armored soldiers and the loyal Sir Beric.

  “Merlin!” Uther shouted. “Where in the bloody Nine Hells is he?”

  Sir Beric jogged to keep up with the king. “We don’t know, sire. We’ve looked everywhere. He’s not answering his door.”

  “Then break it down!”

  Uther led the contingent of torch-bearing soldiers to the inner courtyard of the massive castle. He marched up to Merlin’s cottage door and banged with a steel fist.

  “Merlin, damn you, are you in there?”

  He was.

  Merlin shivered in sheets that were soaked with sweat and sticking to the melted skin of the burn. To dull the pain, he poured wine down his throat, cuddling the hide.

  “Merlin!” The cottage shook from Uther’s blows.

  Finally Merlin sat up, grimaced, and staggered to the door, opening it a crack. He thrust his face into the king’s.

  “Your Majesty.”

  Uther wrinkled his nose. “Gods, man, are you drunk?”

  “All is well in hand, sire, tip-top. I just need a little more time to study the omens,” Merlin slurred.

  “Study the omens? It rained blood on our castle! Where is the mystery?”

  “Expect a full report very soon, Majesty. One mustn’t jump to conclusions.” And with that, Merlin slammed the door in Uther’s face.

  The king’s cheeks turned a very sour shade of purple. “Break it down. Break the bloody thing down and drag him out.”

  Two soldiers hurried to the task, ramming their steel shoulders against the oak door. The wood began to splinter.

  “Perhaps the rack will sober him up,” Uther growled.

  Sir Beric bit his lip. “Is that advisable, my liege? Merlin is a curious creature, of course, but he is our creature. Surely we do not wish to further antagonize any dark forces?”

  A splintering crack turned them back to the cottage. Soldiers stormed inside. King Uther followed them, only to discover that the rooms were empty and the shutters of the back window opened.

  Merlin was gone.

  Arthur caught Nimue by the arm before she slid off Egypt’s saddle. On instinct, she pulled her arm away.

  “You fell asleep,” he said.

  “No, I didn’t,” Nimue mumbled as she righted herself and weakly gripped Arthur’s tunic. Yet within moments, her forehead thumped against his back and her body went slack.

  Arthur elbowed her.

  “Knock it off,” she growled.

  “You did it again.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I should let you fall off and be done with you.”

  That Nimue couldn’t muster the strength to retort was a sure sign she’d reached her limit. They would soon have to make camp. Their pace was a crawl. They had ridden south for hours, toward the mountains and the Trident Peaks, deeper into the territory of the Red Paladins, rather than away. Egypt would push on until she collapsed, but Arthur felt her strain. Her lips were flecked with foam. The terrain would worsen from here and the roads would get more dangerous. Only now in the quiet blue darkness before dawn had the enormity of the night’s events begun to settle on Arthur’s shoulders.

  Where can I leave her? he kept thinking.

  Who in the Nine Hells is this girl?

  What was he supposed to do with her?

  He thought the convent at Yvoire might take her, but she was Fey Kind and hunted by Red Paladins.

  And she cut off Bors’s hand!

  Arthur was no stranger to bounties, gang wars and blood feuds. He could usually slip his way out of trouble, but this was different. His thoughts raced as he imagined Bors’s next move. There were two likely scenarios. First, an immediate pursuit, in which case they would be overtaken within the hour. Bors and his sell-swords were all strong riders and their horses fit, and though Egypt was a superior animal, she was carrying two riders and hadn’t had a good rest in over a day. Or, and this was his prayer, Bors’s wound would require a surgeon, and that would slow him by hours at least. The cut was clean. In a hundred swings, Arthur wasn’t sure he could match it. There was a chance Bors had bled out right there on the street, though Arthur suspected he wouldn’t be that lucky. Trysten could make a decent field dressing, and Bors was a hard fellow indeed. He would never forget this. He would never forget Arthur’s betrayal, and worse, that a farm girl had taken his sword hand. That tale would fill tavern halls with laughter from here to the North Sea.

  Arthur shook his head. He should’ve left well enough alone. This girl’s problems weren’t his problems.

  Bors’s hand flew thirty feet.

  Need to get another look at that sword.

  Nimue lurched left again and Arthur reached behind to catch her by the cloak. She murmured a protest and tried to sit up.

  An hour later, a small fire did its best against the cold mist. Arthur had put a copse of trees between them and the road and prayed their fire was small enough to avoid attention. Nimue slept against a tree, curled up like a child, using her balled-up cloak as a pillow. Arthur bit off some hard cheese and eyed the sword. He rose, careful not to wake her, and eased the frayed cloth sling over her sleeping head.

  He drew the blade and turned it in the firelight. A weapon of art, soft, yielding, yet the blade’s tip was weighted with a perfect balance of iron and steel for a lethal thrusting strike.

  But more than that, the sword hummed in Arthur’s fist. His heart quickened. He swung it slowly in the air and crouched to block an invisible blow. He turned faster and the blade whistled past his ear. Arthur studied the nicks in the blackened blade. This sword was a veteran of ancient battles. The strange rune on the pommel, the silver engraving: he’d never seen the like. A royal sword? A ceremonial sword? He did not recognize it as Germanic or Mongol. It wasn’t Roman or Genoan. Didn’t matter, it was a weapon that would command respect. A weapon of inestimable value.

  Arthur glanced at Nimue.

  This sword would get him onto trade ships and safely to distant shores. This sword could negotiate with Viking lords, either cutting deals or cutting throats. This sword could buy him his own sell-swords, quality fighters, not dungeon spillovers, and audiences in the courts of barons for respectable work.

  Were he to claim it, this sword could return his honor.

  Nimue stirred. She turned to Arthur and saw the sword in his hands. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing—I was—”

  “Give it back!” Nimue was on her feet. She wrested the sword from Arthur’s hand and thrust it into its scabbard, slinging it back over her shoulder, which pulled the peasant shirt down around her shoulder, exposing her back.

  “I was just looking at it—”


  “Your ‘looking’ looks a lot like ‘stealing.’ ”

  “Are you mad? Do you even know who your friends are?”

  “What friends?”

  “The friend who just hung out his neck to save your hide!”

  “Was it me you saved or the sword?”

  Nimue turned her back to him and flopped down by the tree. She wrapped her arms around her knees.

  “You’re hurt,” he said, walking toward her.

  Nimue turned around. “What? No, I’m not.”

  He sees the scars. Nimue’s cheeks flushed as she glanced to her exposed shoulder and quickly pulled up the shirt to cover the wounds. “It’s nothing.” She could barely think for the throbbing of her pulled tooth.

  “It’s not nothing. You’re wounded.”

  “I’m fine!”

  Arthur softened his tone. “I can try to dress them. I have some wine left. Some wrapping. If a rot sets in, you’re done for.”

  Nimue was silent for a long time. “They’re not fresh. They just look that way.”

  “What does that mean?” Arthur sat down by the fire.

  “They’re just scars. Old scars.”

  “Scars that never heal?”

  Nimue nodded.

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does”—Nimue hesitated—“if the wound is caused by dark magic.” She saw unease wash over his face, and it annoyed her.

  “Because you’re a—you’re um, a—?”

  “A what? A witch?” Nimue finished sharply.

  “No, I’m just, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think—”

  “No, you don’t think, do you? What does that mean to you? That word?”

  “Look, forget it.”

  “I am Sky Folk. My clan was born in the first light. Our ancient queens were summoning the rain, harnessing the sun, and giving life to the harvest while your kind were playing with rocks.”

  Arthur held up his hands. “I yield.”

  Nimue rolled her eyes at him and returned to a principled sulk. Ignorant man blood, she thought. But the embarrassment ran deeper. She could never escape them. The scars. She was forever marked and forever an outcast. Her own clan feared her. Why shouldn’t Arthur? She could see it in his eyes. He wants to be rid of me. I don’t blame him.