Enchanted Warrior Page 23

  The polished wood table was not, as some imagined, a solid circle. Instead, it was made in sections that fit together in a ring. Speakers could address the Round Table from the center, essentially giving each member a front row seat. That was where the Green Knight had issued his challenge, and where Lancelot had publicly taken Beaumains to be his squire. For many, many years Gawain’s life had been tied to the events that took place in this room. He stole a glance at his own seat at Arthur’s side, and for once was filled with hope instead of loss. They could build this all again, couldn’t they?

  They would have to build it better. Mordred had been a master of half-truths, pitting friend against friend until the company of knights fell to pieces. That couldn’t happen again. This time, they couldn’t swerve in their loyalty to king and cause. This time, they had to hold Arthur’s word above their own petty concerns. This time, the stakes were even higher than before. If they faltered, Mordred and LaFaye would crush the mortal world.

  “Gawain?” Tamsin stood in the doorway. “Is everything all right?”

  “Come in,” he said, and wasn’t surprised when she stopped in her tracks to stare. With the doors wide open, there was just enough light to glimpse the splendor of the room. He tried to see the place with a stranger’s eyes, but it was too close to his heart.

  “Everything is fine,” he said. “Or it will be, once we find the king. Look, the seeking spell stops right there.” Gawain pointed to a spot in the middle of the Round Table’s circle, where the pale blue thread shimmered to nothing.

  “I see that,” Tamsin replied, still turning in place to see all of the room. “This is amazing.”

  “Of course it is,” he said. “It’s Camelot.”

  They slipped through the aisle between sections of the table, following the spell to its end. Tamsin seemed to wind the thread of light around her wrist and give it a sharp tug. The signal for Hector to join them, Gawain supposed.

  He swept a foot through the empty air where the seeking spell stopped. “I don’t feel anything.”

  “You won’t,” Tamsin said. “If the tomb is truly obscured, it’s more than just invisible.”

  “Then how do we move it through the portal?”

  “We don’t,” said Tamsin. Then she reached inside her pocket and retrieved the tiny volume she’d used the night she’d awakened Beaumains. “There’s a much faster way. I don’t see why we should drag the tomb with us when all we need is your king. If I bring him back from the stone sleep, the cloaking spell will dissolve on its own.”

  Gawain laughed, drawing a surprised look from her beautiful dark eyes. He dropped a kiss on her sun-bright head. “Have I ever told you how truly magnificent you are?”

  “Not nearly often enough.”

  Tamsin began reading from the spell book, her light, sweet voice rising and falling in a language Gawain didn’t understand. His first impulse was to stand and stare at the space where the tomb should have been, hungry for the first glimpse of his king and friend, but that would help nothing. Instead, he went to the door and looked out, sword in hand and alert to any danger.

  The wash of magic behind him raised the hair along his arms, but he was growing accustomed to being around a witch’s power again. It stirred the dormant magic in his veins, heating it the way her beauty heated other parts of him. For the first time in many, many years, he yearned to reclaim that lost part of himself—and yet the very idea disturbed him in the extreme. Gawain had learned not to play with fire, literally or in metaphor.

  This time, though, the tingling power signaled that the quest for Arthur was nearly done. Gawain and Tamsin had kept their bargain, to the betterment of everyone. Did that not make this alliance with magic worthwhile? Was there not something here to learn? Gawain pushed the question away, but not as far as he might have done once upon a time.

  He felt rather than heard trouble arrive. A tapestry fluttered with a draft that shouldn’t have been there. Gawain spun, sword raised.

  “Hello, cousin,” said Mordred, his face puffy and bruised from the beating Gawain had given him. Tamsin cried out in shock. Gawain’s sword twitched, but he checked his blow. There was no way he could strike, for Hector was on his knees before Mordred, his head bloody and back arched in pain. It wasn’t hard to see why—Mordred’s fingers were wound in the older knight’s gray-streaked hair. As Gawain watched, his cousin gave the hair a twist, bringing a grunt from his prisoner.

  “Let my father go!” Tamsin cried.

  Mordred didn’t even look her way. He wore armor, the same blue-black steel Gawain remembered from so long ago. He was expecting a fight, and Gawain was happy to give him one.

  Mordred gave a serpent’s smile. Frost began to form on the weapons hanging in the room as Mordred’s power sucked the heat from the air. He was getting ready for more mischief. “I think we have a few things to discuss.”

  “Did you enjoy my beating so much that you came back for more?” Gawain lowered his arm. Any blow that would kill Mordred would hurt Hector. That was fine—Gawain could wait. “I honestly thought Nimueh might finish the job.”

  “She’s gone, the slippery fox.” Mordred fixed him with a bloodshot eye. “Bolted. Vanished. When I hunt her down, she’ll pay for letting you go.”

  Nimueh on the run? That was interesting news, but it could wait. “Tamsin,” Gawain said. “Keep reading the spell.” They needed Excalibur if he was going to finish Mordred once and for all.

  The room had filled with the golden brilliance of Tamsin’s magic, though the tomb was still invisible. Her eyes were wide with distress and fixed on her father. “But—”

  “But I say you don’t read the spell, or I slit the old man’s throat.” Mordred’s bruised smile was a leering mockery. “However, I do thank you so much for leading me to Arthur’s tomb. Hunting for it has been such a tedious business.”

  Relying on speed, Gawain slapped Mordred’s arm with the flat of his blade, praying surprise would be on his side. It worked. Mordred let go of Hector, who slumped to the floor without a word. Gawain glanced down just long enough to see the old knight was not bleeding, but in that split second he lost his advantage.

  Mordred lunged and snatched the spell book from Tamsin’s hands. Mordred laughed as she lashed out with a fireball. “Concentrate, little witch,” he sneered, batting it aside. “Gawain did better than that when he could barely reach the table.”

  The gibe made Gawain flinch, but he let it pass. The golden light from the spell was beginning to soften, a sure sign that Tamsin’s magic was unraveling. Mordred had used Hector to distract her, and it had worked all too well. Gawain adjusted his grip on his sword, calculating his odds.

  Gawain lunged, aiming not for Mordred’s heart, as his cousin would expect. Instead, he pricked the hand holding the spell book. The book fell, but the motion left Gawain’s defenses open. In a flash, Mordred’s sword—a black blade he called Viper—was in his cousin’s hand.

  “You want to do this?” Mordred snarled, his lean face mottling with rage. “Man to man?”

  “Gawain!” Despair filled Tamsin’s cry.

  The purity of it pulled at Gawain’s core, pleading that he come back safe. No one had ever called for him like that before, but there was nothing he could do to offer reassurance. Grabbing his shield from the back of his seat at the Round Table, Gawain rounded on Mordred, smashing the shield hard into Mordred’s half-prepared sword thrust. It wasn’t a regulation move, but it forced Mordred a step toward the door—and away from Tamsin.

  Gawain rained blows on Mordred, keeping him too distracted to throw a spell Gawain had no hope of blocking. He followed with a blow to Mordred’s breastplate that sent his cousin staggering back. Mordred’s heel slipped, making him stumble. For a moment, Gawain thought the fight was won, but Mordred was quick, whipping his sword around to parry Gawain’s next blow. Gawain kicked
him in the stomach hard enough to send him skittering into the courtyard, away from Tamsin and her father.

  Gawain grinned. He fought for her now, this woman who had called his name.

  * * *

  The moment the coast was clear, Tamsin dove for Hector, only to discover he was conscious and had pulled the spell book under the protective shield of his body.

  “You were faking it!” she cried.

  “Here,” he said, pushing the book toward her. “Not faking it. Securing the prize so that worm of a faery prince didn’t remember what he came for. I’m not as young as I used to be. I’ve come to appreciate guile.”

  Tamsin met Hector’s eyes. Whatever distance had been left between them was gone. “How badly are you hurt?”

  “He knocked me out and threw me on my horse,” Hector said gruffly. “I’ll be fine.”

  She took his arm, helping him to his feet. He moved stiffly, grabbing the Round Table for support. “Get on with the spell. Gawain will need Arthur’s sword if he is going to survive this fight.”

  “Then help me,” she said, taking up the book. “Two of us will make it go faster.”

  Hector gave a smile she remembered from childhood—warm and filled with mischief. He grasped her hand in his, kissing it. “Delighted to.”

  They began reading, their voices weaving together in a web of magic. Tamsin fell back through the years. It had been far too long since they had done this, father and daughter. It was like coming home and remembering who she really was all at the same time.

  The dome of gold had faded to a mist, but now it came back stronger, glittering like a fine rain. Hector’s voice rang low and firm while Tamsin’s made a softer invitation. The rain became a fall of diamond-bright sparks that began to cling and slide down a solid form. Tamsin’s words nearly faltered as she saw what the brilliant light outlined—a sleeping man, tall and broad shouldered, with a gleaming, wicked sword that reached from his chest to his heavy-booted feet. She made out a neat beard and fall of waving hair, a strong, handsome face and pointed crown. Just as it had with Beaumains, color seeped into the sleeping form, painting him in reds and golds, with the lions on his surcoat a brilliant yellow. Tamsin stared and stared, unable to take in what was before her. Every illustration, every painting of Arthur Pendragon had looked just like this man.

  She glanced up at her father, noticing the tears tracking into his beard. With a sudden ache in her throat, she realized her father had raised this king from the time he was a boy. Arthur was his foster son. In a strange way, he was almost her brother.

  The vine tattoo on her wrist warmed, channeling her strength as it had when she’d raised Beaumains. But even with Hector’s help, this awakening was harder. Maybe it was because they were breaking the cloaking spell, too, but the harder she pushed her magic, the more it seemed to resist her urging. Her head began to throb in a way that made her stomach queasy. Tamsin closed her eyes.

  And snapped them open again when she heard her father’s indrawn breath. At once she saw the tomb was nothing but a piece of stone. This time, she knew enough to look around. Arthur of Britain stood at the door, staring out at the courtyard. Although she could see only his back, she had no trouble taking his measure. He stood with confidence, a man surveying all that was his. With her inner sight, Tamsin perceived the golden aura of majesty around him, the power that was his birthright and his burden. It wasn’t witchcraft—she could tell at a glance that the king was fully human—but something just as old.

  “Your Majesty,” said her father.

  Arthur spun to face Hector, his ice-blue eyes snapping. He drew his sword, wielding its enormous size as if it were no more than a fork. “Sir Hector,” boomed King Arthur in a voice clearly used to command. “What, by all the devils, is going on?”

  Hector grabbed Tamsin’s arm, pulling her down so that they knelt before the king. Tamsin bowed her head, noting the supple leather of the king’s boots just before the tip of Excalibur swung into view. It caught Hector’s chin, forcing him to look up.

  “I exiled you. How dare you return to my castle?”

  * * *

  Finally free to move in the courtyard, Gawain launched into a furious attack. Mordred blocked every blow with easy expertise that spoke of magic more than practice—a dangerous shortcut. It was a fast way to burn through power only to have it fail at a crucial moment—but Mordred was the Prince of Faery. He had reserves most could only dream of. All Gawain could do was buy time, and it was clear Mordred was confident enough to play along.

  Mordred’s next blow shuddered against Gawain’s sword with inhuman force. Gawain staggered back, barely able to raise his shield in time to meet the next blow. He cursed as his vambrace bit into his arm.

  “What’s the matter, Mordred, trying to compensate for squandering your army on a demon’s breakfast?” Gawain taunted.

  Mordred cursed. “More where they came from. I have the whole of Faery at my beck and call.”

  “But will your mama let you have them? You always did break your toys.”

  Mordred countered with an upward thrust. Gawain moved to block it, but Mordred snarled and dropped the point of his sword just before it struck. Gawain didn’t have time to adjust, only twist to avoid it. The edge missed his breastplate but drove in behind. Gawain felt Viper tear through the mail of his shirt and score his ribs in a searing, white-hot bite that went down to the bone. His mind blanked with the agony as he spun and drove his shield into Mordred’s shoulder. They flung apart, reflexes alone keeping Gawain on his feet.

  The light in the Great Hall was almost blinding now, spilling golden rays into the courtyard like a wandering sun. The spell was nearly complete. Gawain only had to keep fighting for a little longer.

  And then he heard the raucous clamor of crows. Both opponents looked up at the sound, for both knew what it meant. A swirl of black birds was diving out of the sky, melding into one horrific raptor with a beak like a scythe.

  The demon had found them.

  Chapter 26

  The bird wheeled low overhead, opening wings that spanned at least twelve feet. The horses reared, screaming in terror. One by one, they broke free and bolted from the courtyard to the woods beyond. The bird’s great beak opened and spoke in the demon’s measured tones.

  “I see the thieves who stole my books, I see the wretch who sent an army to my doors and I smell deep magic. I see many, many nights of dark entertainment ahead.”

  Fast as lightning, it stooped like a hawk, diving straight for them. Gawain had fought the monster once before and he braced himself now, prepared to sell his life dearly. But Mordred was ready, too, blasting frozen fire right in the demon’s feathered face. The demon shrieked and flapped away only to dive again, the slashing claws inches away from Mordred’s flesh.

  Gawain leaped in, chopping at the demon between Mordred’s attacks. Together, they gave the creature no rest. His breath rasped as the battle went on, skirmish after skirmish. The two cousins worked in tandem, as equal partners as they had always been relentless foes.

  Sweat stood out on Mordred’s cheeks, yet he was in his element, turning the bright afternoon into a swirling mass of inky clouds. Fork after fork of lightning crashed into the demon, setting it alight in a corona of blue fire. The demon stretched its beak wide and belched down a blast of greenish flame. Mordred raised his hand, fingers spread wide, and forced the fire back. The collision of their wills shook the earth. Mortar rained down from Camelot’s walls.

  Gawain’s skin crawled from the after-burn of magic as the demon circled away, shrieking in pain. Mordred fell to one knee, his magic seemingly exhausted. His sword dangled from one limp hand.

  “Well, that was unexpected.” He gave a sharp grin. “This forest never was the best neighborhood.”

  Gawain braced his hands on his knees, breathing hard. For a fleet
ing instant, he saw what might have been—not Gawain and three brothers, but four, if only fellowship with Mordred had been possible. “We made a good team.”

  “Indeed,” said Mordred. His chin jerked up. “Damn and blast, here it comes again.”

  Gawain straightened, looking skyward. That instant of distraction gave Mordred what he needed. He drove Viper through Gawain’s mail, magic parting the steel like paper. If the slash to Gawain’s ribs had hurt, this was beyond pain. This was a white-hot forge inside his chest.

  Gawain fell to his knees.

  “Do you think I would ever willingly fight at your side?” Mordred murmured in his ear. “I would rather feed myself to my pet worms.”

  * * *

  The king held Tamsin and Hector at sword point, demanding answers. “Tell me again. What do you mean the knights have not awakened from the stone sleep?”

  Arthur seemed disoriented, as if his mind hadn’t caught up yet. Maybe the concealment spell on top of the stone sleep had been too much.

  “Only Gawain and his brother have awakened,” said Tamsin, still on her knees at Arthur’s feet. She’d answered the question at least twice before. “Something has gone wrong with the magic.”

  She cast a sideways glance at her father. He didn’t look well, and she worried about the blow he’d taken to his head.

  “Only two of my knights?” Arthur pulled her attention back his way. He was pale, his eyes filling with a mix of fury and panic. “Is there no end to the treachery of magic?”

  Arthur also seemed just a wee bit paranoid.

  Swords clashed outside, but he was oblivious. Maybe swordplay was a normal sound at Camelot, or maybe he was one of those people with amazing focus. But, unlike Arthur, Tamsin couldn’t tune out the noise of combat. She heard the horses whinny—they were frantic about something—but Excalibur’s tip did not waver from her father’s throat.