Camelot's Blood (40 page)

Names are powerful. Names reach deep. Mordred lifted his head, and saw himself alone in the pavilion. A single, black feather lay on the trampled grass before him.

“Lord Mordred?”

Durial again. He stepped hesitantly into the pavilion. Mordred could not turn to look at him. He could not tear his gaze away from the feather shining in his hand. Behind him, the pavilion opening flapped loose, and Mordred could see nothing but the solid wall of mist reflecting the brazier's feeble light.

“Lord Mordred, where is the lady?”

“She …” Broke into a thousand pieces, flew away as a flock of ravens. Died and came back to life again. “She goes to defend us from Merlin's treachery.” It sounded possible. It might even be true. “She told me we should not waste any more time.” He closed his hand around the feather. “Get the men together, Durial. Light the fires. It's time we made ready.”

Dawn. Harsh and bright, and life-giving. The sun touched Laurel's skin with warm fingers, searching for life. It touched her eyes gently, to find if there was still sight. She stirred, shifting from the night's cold into the day's warmth, unwilling to move, unwilling to be drawn from oblivion after all she had done. The kelpie, still beside her, as fresh and steady as it had been in the nighttime, whickered once.

Then, she heard the raven's cry.

It woke her like the sound of her own name. She sat up at once. Bruised and battered as she was, she felt triumph pouring through her. It warmed her from within as the sunlight warmed her without.

“Kelpie,” she said. “I need you to take a message to my grandmother.” The beast turned a displeased eye towards her. Its purpose was to be beside her, to speed her on her way and protect her in danger.

Laurel met its midnight gaze and told it what she needed. She could not do this without the last secret, the one the sea held so close that even Morgaine had forgotten it waited there.

The kelpie stamped its hoof, and whisked around. Without a sound, it sped down the hill, a blade of night cutting through the day.

Laurel was alone.

She knew what she must do. For the first time since the night of her marriage, she knew what she must do and knew she had the strength to do it. The water had washed away her doubts. Her communion with Morgause had taught her how Morgaine could be drawn out. For Morgaine believed she understood her own power, and the nature of her power, fully. Morgaine believed there was no one she could not deceive or seduce.

Not even her own sister who knew her best.

Laurel rose to her feet and turned her face towards the clear, blue sky.

They came from the east; a cloud of ravens, carrying the storm of war behind them. Morgaine had felt her sister's freedom, and now she came to wreak her revenge, thinking to find Laurel alone on this dry hilltop, far away from her blood's home and power.

“Come to me, Morgaine!” Laurel shouted. “Let us make an end, here and now!” She spread her arms, in summoning and in prayer. She felt the wind wrap itself around her, clothing her in its life and power.

“Are you the raven, Morgaine?” Laurel cried. “Then I am the falcon, soaring high to strike!”

The whole world changed then, and Laurel changed with it, rising up on her own wide wings.

Now. Now we make an end
.

• • •

With the sunrise, Agravain and his men descended into the mists. Cold fog surrounded them, muffling breath, footfall and the jingle of harness. The horses snorted, disconcerted. They whickered to one another, reassuring themselves that their mates had not suddenly vanished in this opaque, grey world. Beside Agravain, Ruadh carried the hawk banner that had been his father's standard. It hung limp on its pole, weighed down by the still mists.

As an omen
, thought Agravain grimly,
it cannot not bode well
. The empty scabbard rode uneasily on his shoulders, pressing him to vigilance.

Keade, headman for the holding at the rock's foot, led them down the treacherous path on a shaggy pony. The headman could guide the way down this hillside in the dead of night, and his sturdy mount trusted him. Seeing the pony's calm, Agravain's stallion followed willingly, and all the rest came after him, nearly nose to tail. They'd make a proper formation when the slope evened out.

If we're given the chance
. Agravain gritted his teeth.
Where are you, Black Knight?
He narrowed his eyes, willing his sight to pierce the mists farther than the rump of Keade's pony.

“Sire?” breathed Keade. He eased his pony up slowly, giving Agravain plenty of time to bring his horse around his right side. “Do you see?” He pointed out into the mists.

Agravain strained his eyes until they ached, and then he did see. Pale sparks wavered in the fog. Fires. Camp fires. Torches perhaps.

There you are
. A grim warmth spread through him.

“So now we know where we're going,” he murmured. “Eadan.” Agravain looked down. They'd taken the swift boy with them for a messenger. Nervous as he was, Eadan was holding steady. If they came out of this alive, he'd make Devi a good squire. “Pass the word back. We fan out as soon as the ground gets level and every man is to hold his tongue. The enemy is camped in the village, we do not want to give them any warning of our coming.”

• • •

Grey and white and storm wind. Laurel's limbs spread wide, alive to each current, each ripple beneath them. It was good. She knew the wind well and it had answered her need faithfully before. It lifted her high above the tiny, dark, paltry thing that was the raven below. Oh, it came in an unkind mob of its fellows, but there was only one she hunted.

One in the centre. One that shone more darkly than all the others.

She spread herself broad and her blood surged. She folded herself tight and plummeted down, beak open to grab warm flesh and warm blood, and the raven screamed in its pain.

But there was something else, something that had no place in this world where they wheeled together, hunter and prey.

Something that rent a sharp wound through her triumph.

Are you the falcon, Laurel of Cambryn? Then I am the eagle and my wings cast their shadow far above you!

Her prey was gone. Laurel spread her wings, catching the wind, just in time. She soared high again, suddenly bereft.

Alone and afraid she drifted on the wind.

Agravain caught the scent of smoke moving sluggishly through the mists. If he stared hard, he could see that the misted shadows around him were stone and thatched houses, and the lines of wicker fences.

And nothing had happened. He rode up to a fire that drove back the fog just enough to show muddy, trampled ground. He stood in the middle of straw stubble and the prints of dozens of feet, both human and animal. There waited a grey stone wall. There a stick fallen crosswise to their path.

All around them was mist and silence. Agravain's horse shifted uneasily underneath him. His company waited at his back, just as uneasily.

“Where are they?” For a moment Agravain thought he'd spoken aloud. But it was Ruadh, staring at the fire they could now see clearly.

The brightly burning, completely unattended fire.

In the back of his mind, Agravain heard the trap slam shut.

“Back!” he shouted, reining his stallion around. “Back! Everyone back!”

The sound of a strange horn shivered the mists. “Back!” he bellowed again.
Too late, too late
. The words sang in his blood even as he hauled on the reins and dug his spurs into his stallion's sides to send the beast leaping forward.

He heard the hoofbeats now, thundering against the ground. Hoofbeats enough to make the whole world tremble as the Black Knight's army poured out of the mist.

• • •

The falcon knew she was hunted. She felt it through the length of her body. The world was too dark, the wind too weak. She tried to flap her wings and gain some height, but it was too late, far too late.

This is wrong. Wrong. This is not how it should be. But she couldn't think. She was too small. Too afraid. Something waited above. It usurped the wind. She had to think. She couldn't think for the fear. She could only fly. She could fly far away, seek the broad salt waters. The waters were safety. They were part of something she had been once, before she changed, before all things changed.

Pain slammed against her neck and she screamed as hot blood ran down her feathers. Her body flailed and struggled and the world darkened before her eyes. And she remembered who brought the pain …

Eagle, I am the arrow loosed from the bow, and I fly to your heart, bringing you down!

• • •

Mordred leaned low across his stallion's black neck, baring his teeth to the rushing wind. The jolt and thunder of the mad ride drummed into him, setting his blood pounding in eager answer.

“Run! Run!” He laughed towards Agravain's fleeing form.

Here it began, here was the first great victory. Here was the hand of vengeance that had waited so long to smite down the bastard, traitor brood whose son fled before him.

He knew what they meant to do. Their outriders had seen the loose fence of sharpened pickets set in the shadow of the cliff. Agravain thought his men would impale themselves on those stout stakes, run up on their pikemen and their spear throwers.

Oh, no, Your Majesty. We will not be caught so easily!

Most helpfully, Agravain's men had set a course of flags up to mark the distance to the pickets. Blue, red and yellow; yard after yard of cloth hung from stout posts. It was as if they thought to mark a festival day rather than a war. A wealth of brightly dyed cloth to be wasted on the battlefield.

Durial had wanted to tear them up, deprive the enemy of their road. Why? Why not use it for themselves and deprive him of the dead he hoped to make with his little fence and pathetic surprise?

Agravain and his men were already dead. They were surrounded and they did not know it. This plain was just the killing ground. The Picts scaled the back of the hills to take the pass. The Dal Riata climbed the cliffs to take the narrow bridge that was the last retreat of the kings of Din Eityn. The mists made the war engines useless, because the operators could not see whether they aimed at their own king.

It was all over but to see Agravain's head rolling at his feet.

The red flag flashed past on his right. “Now!” cried Mordred to Durial. Durial reined up short and raised his horn to his mouth to blow three sharp blasts. As neat, swift and sure as any Roman guard, his horsemen wheeled. They turned to the right, running back and fanning out to make a living wall in front of Agravain's picket fence.

To make their battle line, and hold it there.

Mordred's grin broadened. The sun had lifted the mists just enough that he could see the picket fence from here. There dark and lumpish mass of pikemen arrayed before the shifting line of horsemen. One figure gleamed red and black in the grey fog.

Mordred urged his horse forward a few steps. “King Agravain!” he called out to that straight, proud, doomed figure. “King Agravain! Surrender now and I swear that none of your men will suffer for their allegiance to you!”

Agravain also moved his horse, coming forward to the very edge of the fence that was his chosen battleground. Mordred sat back in his saddle, waiting for whatever curse of defiance Arthur's kindred could muster.

But only one word came.

“NOW!”

Bronze horns, and the frenzied pounding of drums split the world. Mordred stood at once in his stirrups, staring wildly around to look for the attack, but there was nothing. No cloud rising from the fog, no blur of motion from the picket in front of him. Only the rush of wind, the blare of horns.

Then, the stars began to fall.

• • •

The arrow flew fast and flew high. It was long and keen, with one purpose only. Her shadow nemesis, her target, the focus of all her will, soared aloft. It thought itself safe on the winds, but these winds were her winds and they propelled her forward. They rushed and sang about her, keeping her path straight and true.

When at last the shadow saw her, it was too late.

She bit deep, sinking hard, revelling in the blood that flowed free. She was falling, falling towards the green and stony ground. She fell short of the surging waters. It did not matter. The shadow, her prey, her enemy fell helpless with her.

Arrow falling to earth, I am the badger, and I catch you up in my mouth and crush your body in my jaws
.

Earth beneath her. Green trees overhead. Light and shadow playing with the wind that glided over her body. The wind was weak here without the salt sea to strengthen it. She lay helpless on the soft loam.

She could not move.

• • •

The mists shifted and blurred before Agravain's eyes as he spurred his stallion on. The horse whickered its terror but it obeyed, racing forward half blind. The wind blew the stink of sulpher, piss and burning fleshto them. The horn sounded, again and again, urging the men to follow. For the first time since the battle began, Agravain could see as well as hear the men tearing along with him on either side. Fire burned ahead, terrifying the horses, terrifying the men. But the men swallowed their fear, and forced their beasts to do the same, and they ran.

The whooping, jeering cries burst out of his company, the sounds of courage and feral cheer, and his cold heart warmed as he bent low over his stallion's neck.

The stinking wind blew and the mists shredded, and he saw for one brief moment where they were, and the chaotic mass of the enemy that was before them. They ran from the fires, ran from the approaching enemy. Ran without thought or plan or command. Horses screamed and mud flew, men shouted to each other and to God and heaven and curses rang up with the sounds of the horns.

Cold calm descended, and Agravain lowered his spear.

“Gododdin!” he cried. “Gododdin!”

Digging his spurs hard into his horse's sides, he charged towards the darkest shadow, all the roar and thunder of his men echoing off the great rock at their back.

Battle in all its fury surrounded him in an instant. A confusion of shouts and clashes, men and horses careening in and out of thinning mists. The jolt of blow on shield, the jarring as his lance drove against shield, against flesh. The screams; triumph, fear, pain, the hoarse shouts of the crows. He could see nothing but the men around his knees, and Ruadh holding the banner at his right.

The arrow, spent upon the ground, could not move. She had no limbs, no will and the wind was not strong enough to lift her up.

Something, some animal snuffled nearby. Its nose touched her, wet, caressing, imperious, intruding. It cared nothing for her fear as it prodded and probed. Hot spittle dropped onto her rigid form. She could not even shudder at the burning breath that wafted over her, or the teeth that closed around her.