by Frank Miller
“By giving it to a human king?” Nimue said incredulously.
“By destroying it!” Merlin shouted, pointing to the green flames. “In the Fey Fires of the ancient forge. By consigning it to oblivion so that its reign of blood can end forever.”
Nimue hesitated. “Destroy it?” She looked at the sword in her hands. “If there is no sword to barter with, then what is to be the fate of my people?”
Merlin sighed. “It was never your charge to save an entire race, only to bring me the sword. And against unthinkable odds you have done this. You are free of your obligation. Now you must trust me as you trusted your mother, to do the right thing.”
Nimue stared into the light-swallowing blade of the Devil’s Tooth, unsure.
Outside Graymalkin Castle, Morgan paced, eyes locked on the castle. “We should go in. We’ve waited far too long.”
“Wait.” Kaze took in the horizon with her inscrutable eyes from atop her chestnut courser, Maha, who grazed on the tall grasses. With her keen senses, Kaze felt the tremble in the ground first, but the rumble came soon after, growing louder than the crashing surf.
Morgan heard it too. “What is that?”
Kaze spun around as an army of soldiers on horseback, flying the banner of Pendragon, crested the nearest hill, less than a mile between them and the castle.
“Nimue!” Morgan shouted as she leaped onto her horse.
Kaze turned Maha, spinning her toward the drawbridge. Leading Nimue’s horse, she put her fingers to her fangs, and a piercing whistle echoed off the walls as they charged through the gatehouse and into the wide bailey with its permanent fog.
Nimue and Merlin appeared at the entrance to the keep. Morgan fought with her anxious horse. “Nimue, hurry!”
Kaze pointed her staff toward the hills. “Soldiers!”
Nimue turned on Merlin, dread creeping up her throat. “Who knows we’re here?”
“No one,” Merlin assured her, though his face was tense. When he saw a flash of Kaze’s eyes, he frowned, recognizing her. “You,” he whispered.
But events were moving too fast. Morgan threw her hand out to Nimue. “They are Pendragon soldiers! I told you! I warned you!”
Nimue lurched away from Merlin as though by an invisible force, a repulsion. “You lied,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “You lied to me.”
“Nimue, this is not my doing!” Merlin insisted.
“How could you?” she screamed at him, as she turned and ran to her courser and pulled herself into the saddle.
Merlin ran after her, protesting, “I’ve been deceived! Nimue, please!”
But Nimue pointed the sword at Merlin, freezing him in his tracks. “You will pay dearly for this!”
Morgan’s eyes gleamed with pride.
Kaze gave Merlin a strange, knowing smile before spinning Maha around and galloping back through the gatehouse. Morgan and Nimue followed after. Kaze dug in her heels and the wind flew through Maha’s white mane as she leaned her neck forward and they tore a path across the fields, galloping in a horizontal line against the wall of steel barreling down the hill toward them. Even from a quarter mile they heard calls of “The sword! Get the sword!” as dozens of riders peeled away from the main cavalry.
Kaze drove them into the thickest, darkest heart of the forest to lose the soldiers. The trees grew in tight clusters, and Nimue ducked her head and clutched her courser’s neck to prevent being ripped from the saddle by reaching branches. But Maha was an extraordinary animal, barely losing a step as she made switchback after switchback, blazing a trail for Morgan and Nimue but confusing the same for their pursuers. They plunged down a steep hill, until they reached a wide stream. Maha stepped easily into the shallow water, further muddying their path.
Soon the soldiers’ voices faded in the distance and the forests opened up to the stormy cliffs of the White Hawk Sea. The three women allowed their horses to rest and graze, their coats covered in sweat and mud.
Nimue walked to the cliff, where the waters’ namesake raptors dove for the crabs exposed by the retreating surf. She slung the sword from her shoulder as thoughts of betrayal and lies churned her guts. That she had opened her heart to Merlin in the slightest galled and enraged her. She was stupid. Stupid and naive. Why did she think she knew better than Gawain or Yeva or Morgan? Why would she ever think she could trust that drunken monster?
The memories of her mother and Merlin together disgusted her to her core. What cruel point had Merlin been hoping to make? He was only planning to steal the sword in the end, so why torture her with memories? And why in the name of the gods would Lenore send Nimue to Merlin? She’d been tricked as well. She was as big a fool as her daughter.
Nimue felt more lost than ever, the unwilling custodian to the Sword of Power, the Devil’s Tooth, the Sword of the First Kings, sacred relic to the Fey Kind. She stared at her fist clenched around the frayed leather grip of the sword and imagined her flesh seared to the metal, imagined slowly consuming the sword until its sharp sides sawed at her guts as she, too, devolved into a muttering, murderous wraith. She hated the sword for stealing everything from her. Lenore might have lived had she not felt compelled to protect it. The sword tore her parents apart and poisoned her father’s very soul. The sword had made Nimue a murderer. She could still taste the drop of Red Paladin blood that had fallen on her lips during her slaughter at the glade. Maybe Merlin was right about one thing. Maybe they were the same. A murderous father, a murderous daughter. But no, she would make a better offering to Ceridwen, Goddess of the Cauldron.
Nimue took the sword in both hands and swung back to heave it into the White Hawk Sea when a pair of strong hands stopped her. She turned angrily to Kaze. “Let me go! This is none of your concern!”
“That is the sword of my people, so it is my concern,” Kaze said calmly.
“Take it, then!” Nimue threw the sword at Kaze’s feet. “It has brought me nothing but misery.”
Kaze shook her head and walked away, passing Morgan and muttering, “This witch is not right in the head.”
Morgan picked up the sword and then presented it back to Nimue, pommel first. “Perhaps you won’t suffer so much if you stop trying to give it away.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?” Nimue asked, exasperated.
“What did you want Uther Pendragon to do with it?”
“Save the Fey!” Nimue shouted. “Proclaim himself First King and stop the slaughter!”
“And why not do this yourself?”
Nimue scoffed, “Because I am no king.”
“Of course not. You are a woman.”
Nimue hesitated, a mocking smile frozen on her lips. “Are you saying I should proclaim myself queen?”
Morgan did not laugh. “I am saying the sword came to you. Not to me. Not to King Uther or Merlin. Not to Kaze and certainly not to Arthur. If you want a great leader to save the Fey Kind with the Sword of Power, then I say: do it yourself.”
“But I don’t want it,” Nimue whispered.
“I don’t believe you. I think you fear the opposite is true. That not only do you want it but you might actually have the power to achieve it.”
Nimue was quiet at Morgan’s words. The gulls called and the wind buffeted them both.
Morgan took Nimue’s hand and put the sword in it. “Now we must ride before the soldiers catch up to us.”
Without another word, Nimue slid the Sword of Power back into its sheath and slung it over her shoulder.
THIRTY-SEVEN
DRUUNA TILTED BACK IN HER chair and rubbed her shaved head as she considered Arthur with a gold-toothed smile. “Still easy on the eyes you are, boy.”
“And that gold truly becomes you. Is that a new pinkie ring?” Arthur flashed his easiest smile and leaned over the table, letting his hair fall over his eyes.
“It is indeed.” Druuna waved her gilded fingers at him. She wore a great deal of jewelry, mostly gold. She wore rings on every finger, men’s breeches held up
by a Germanic belt buckle carved with a golden octopus, a silk blouse, high leather boots, and four gold rings in her nostrils.
“What happened to Bors? Thought you had a good thing there.”
“Yeah, falling-out. Left him a bit shorthanded, I’m afraid. Looking for a new crew, maybe some sword work?”
“Are you square with Bors?”
“Square?” Arthur repeated.
“Do you owe him money? Any debts? I don’t need any of that trouble.”
“No, Druuna, we’re good. All clear.” Arthur regretted lying to Druuna, but he needed coin and needed it fast. He’d ridden south for days in hopes of outpacing word of his run-in with Bors or dead paladins. He took no pride nor joy in his flight. He felt sick most of the way. But he’d grown used to the gnawing in his guts every time he ran when the fire grew too hot. A dull disgust with himself. He’d felt it ever since he was a boy. Ever since he let their uncle, Lord Hectimere, take Morgan away from him to put her in the convent. Arthur could still hear her beg and scream. But Arthur had been ten years old and saddled with his father’s debts. What could he do? But Morgan never forgave him.
True, this was different. He owed nothing to the Fey. He felt terrible for their lot, but that was the end of it. He was a “Man Blood” and not even accepted by their kind. Why should I put my neck on the block for them?
He tried not to think about Nimue. I tried to save her. I asked her to come with me.
“I might have something,” Druuna said, fingering a gold denarii. Druuna was a priceless resource in the trader port of Rue Gorge, placed strategically between the foothills of the Iron Peaks and the River of Fallen Kings. Her area of expertise was acquiring sword escorts for illegal caravans. “I’ve got some wagons of exotic items, dyed silks, rare spices, I don’t know where from and I don’t want to know. Need to cross the Peaks. They’ll only pay for one sword, so it might be dangerous. Leaves tomorrow. Interested?”
“Done,” Arthur said without hesitation. He wanted nothing more than to put the Iron Peaks between him and his shame.
That night he drank too much ale and slept poorly.
The next morning he met the traders he was meant to accompany, Dizier and his wife, Clothilde. They were travelers, judging by their colorful foreign clothes and their heavy accents, and talkative about all things but the contents of their five wagons, which were heaped with blankets and straw.
Arthur couldn’t have cared less. He was eager to get moving into the mountains before nightfall. Most thieves were too lazy to climb into the Peaks and would instead ambush on the road out of Rue Gorge. He and Bors had done it a dozen times back in towns like Hawksbridge.
Luckily, Dizier seemed just as eager to get on the road, and by midday they had loaded their supplies, left Rue Gorge, and were only ten miles from Doroc’s Cross, which spanned the River of Fallen Kings and marked the journey into the Iron Peaks.
From his position at the back of the convoy, Arthur spied two Red Paladins atop a wagon—a checkpoint—down the road. Red bastards are everywhere, he thought. He noticed Dizier’s posture change and a series of nervous looks between him and Clothilde.
A squeak turned Arthur’s head to the wagon beside him, the last wagon. Was that a sneeze? He sidled closer to the wagon, drew his sword, and with the flat end of the blade lifted the corner of a set of heavy carpets.
A terrified Faun child looked back at him. Her small antlers had been sawed off in what Arthur assumed was a sad effort to make her easier to disguise. He looked back at the road and the Red Paladin checkpoint fast approaching. He looked at the five wagons he hadn’t bothered to inspect. Gods, are they all hiding Fey families?
Dizier glanced back at Arthur as though reading his mind. The traveler’s eyes were strained and worried. Arthur cursed his bloody luck. He turned and looked over his shoulder at the empty road behind him. If it came down to a pursuit, Egypt could outrace them. And that would leave Dizier and his cargo to the mercy of the Church, and there was very little question of how that would play out.
When Arthur turned back around, Dizier was waving his hat to two Red Paladins in a friendly manner. The paladins approached on their skinny horses. The caravan gradually rolled to a stop. Arthur missed the first bits of conversation as he numbly whickered Egypt forward toward the front of the convoy. There was little to distinguish the Red Paladins up ahead. They both seemed to be young and ugly. One of them had a tonsure that flowed into a patchy black beard filling his cheeks and neck. The other kept his brown locks neatly trimmed. Both of their exposed pates were sunburned.
“What goods are you moving?”
“Just carpets, my brothers. Very, very fine. A family tradition. Four hundred knots per finger. I can make you a very nice deal.”
“We don’t want your gypsy rags. Get down from your horse. We’ll have a look.”
“No need for that, my good man.” Arthur rode up. “I’ll vouch for them.”
The Red Paladins regarded Arthur with dead eyes and curled lips. “No one asked you, friend.”
Dizier watched them intently.
The bearded paladin turned to Dizier. “Get off your horse.”
“Don’t move, Dizier,” Arthur advised. He turned to the paladins. “Why doesn’t Dizier here make a Church donation and we’ll be on our way?”
“Here’s how it goes, boy,” the clean-cut paladin said to Arthur. “We look through these wagons, take what we like, and you shut that shithole of a mouth.”
The bearded paladin added, “There’s been a lot of hedge pigs and blood beaks getting secreted through these hills.”
Arthur knew those vulgarisms for Tusks and Moon Wings. “Well, that’s not us, brothers. Just carpets and a desire to reach the foothills before dark. These roads can be dangerous at night, as you know.”
“You’re a real funny one.” The clean-cut paladin drew his sword. “Lose the steel, boy.”
“I—I have gold,” Dizier sputtered.
“Aye, the field is yours, sir,” Arthur said as he unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it on the dirt road.
With a smirk, the clean-cut paladin dismounted and picked up Arthur’s sword. He snarled at Dizier and Clothilde. “Get down, both of you. Now.”
As the clean-cut paladin walked past Egypt’s saddle, Arthur drew a dagger from his boot, caught the Red Brother by the throat, and jammed the blade into the back of his skull, giving it a twist as he whispered, “I send regards from the Wolf-Blood Witch.”
The bearded paladin fumbled for his sword as Arthur yanked the dagger free, flipped it between his fingers, and threw it hard, spearing him under the chin. The bearded paladin gurgled and clutched his throat, blood flowing between his fingers, as his horse turned in nervous circles before rearing and dumping him onto the dirt.
Arthur dismounted in a flash and retrieved his sword. “Help me!” he shouted to Dizier as he grabbed the clean-cut paladin by the boots. Dizier helped Arthur drag the bodies to the side of the road. Arthur’s eyes darted in the direction of Rue Gorge, praying for time. He took Dizier’s arm. “Dump the saddles and take their horses. Get to Doroc’s Cross. Once you’re over the river, you’ll be safe in the hills.”
“Wh-what about you? You’re not coming?” Dizier asked.
“There’s no time. I’ve got to clean this up. Hide the bodies before the next shift and hope they assume the post was abandoned. If the Church hears that paladin blood was spilled here, they’ll tear down the Iron Peaks looking for you.” Arthur took Dizier’s shoulders. “Go. You’ll be safe.” His eyes drifted to the wagons. “And so will they.”
Dizier’s eyes welled with tears of gratitude. “Born in the dawn.”
Arthur smiled grimly. “To pass in the twilight.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
A TOP A HIGH CLIFF IN the minotaur Mountains, the Weeping Monk dipped his arrow into a bucket of pitch at his feet, then fed it to a burning torch stuck into the dirt. Arrow alight, he lifted his longbow and fired high into the air. The flaming arr
ow soared three hundred feet across the gorge and landed in a pasture of wheat far, far below, within a hundred yards of several more arrows, which had lit the entire field ablaze.
Drawing another arrow, the Weeping Monk repeated the process, pivoting his foot a few degrees to face another set of farms just to the west. Already, dozens of cones of smoke were visible across the Minotaur Valley.
Nimue felt a pit in her stomach when she smelled the burning wood. What at first appeared to be a thick mist in the rolling hills of the Minotaurs was, she realized, actually smoke.
“Something is on fire,” Nimue said, riding beside Kaze, who steered Maha to a promontory from where they could overlook the entire mountain valley.
Morgan rode up behind them. “Do you smell that smoke?”
Nimue nodded. She’d expected to see fiery crosses, but what they found instead was more confusing.
There were multiple fires raging over the wide pastures, filling the sky with a swollen, mushroom-shaped black cloud and giving the air a sickly yellow hue.
“A wildfire. Maybe from lightning,” Kaze offered.
Nimue sensed a greater malevolence at work. “No, those are farmlands. Barns. Look how the fires are spaced apart. Those were set on purpose.”
Nimue and Morgan shared a look.
“Our food,” Morgan said.
“They’re burning the farms.”
Kaze nodded. “They cannot find us, so they will starve us out.”
Nimue could taste the smoke on her tongue as tiny embers fell around them from the sky.
The population of the refugee camp appeared to have doubled overnight. There was no space on the floor for the new arrivals. On every rock and patch of dirt, three or four Fey Kind huddled, eyes tired and dull. The children were no longer singing, for there was no space to dance. The altar of the Joining ceremony had been broken and dismantled, the wood used for fires and to create new totems for clans to stake out smaller and smaller territories. The air was hot and thick with the stench of illness and blood and unwashed bodies. And unlike before, where the suffering was shared, there was a new sense of hostility as Nimue noticed frightened human families mixed in with Fey Kind. Nimue guessed they were farmers caught harboring Fey Kind. Regardless of their sympathies, young Snake males and young Tusk males, always quick to temper, paced around the Man Bloods in a threatening manner.