For Camelot's Honor (22 page)

Geraint dismounted and walked forward. Such was their attention to their labor, he was almost beside them before the old man noticed he was there. The man straightened up quickly, and the woman, gasping as she took in the new arrivals, did the same. They both bowed their heads humbly for a bare instant, then the old man examined him with narrowed eyes.

“What do you want here, Sir?” There was suspicion under the acknowledgement of rank seen in his horse and harness, if not in his clothes and arms, or lack of them.

“Shelter for myself and my wife,” Geraint answered. It felt odd to say those words aloud, and yet fresh pride stirred as he did. “For which we would be most grateful.”

“You shall have it and welcome, sir,” said the old man smartly. “That's our house there.” He pointed back toward the cluster of cottages still blurred by the mists. “Shout at the door and they'll let you in.” He moved to pick up his ropes again.

“Come, let us get out of this,” said Geraint, sweeping out his hand to indicate the way to the cottage. “I will lend my strength to yours as soon as it is fair again.”

The old man held his ground. “Another pair of hands would be most welcome, Sir,” said the old man, bowing his head humbly. “Who is it we have to thank for this help?”

“I am Geraint of Goddodin, Lot's son.”

“Ah!” the old man sighed, straightening.

“Ah!” the old woman echoed him.

Before a new question could shape itself on Geraint's tongue, both of them began to change. Their forms blurred, soft and insubstantial as the mists around them. They lengthened, broadened and rose up. Elen's horse whickered and stamped. Colannau shrieked. Donatus backed away, and Geraint too stepped away, his heart in his mouth.

Now he could see them clearly again. They had helmets on their heads, leather corslets covered with scales of steel and thick grey cloaks clasped with silver. One carried a spear. Both wore swords on their hips. Their horses were tall, but poorly fleshed. Geraint could all but count the creatures's ribs. The right hand one had horses decorating his helm and two gnarled scars on his wiry arm. That old wound must have affected his grip, because he held the reins tight in his left hand and wore his sword on the right, where his left hand could reach it most easily. Beside the sword, a knobby club of black thorn had been thrust through his belt.

“Well now, Sir Geraint,” drawled the oak-crowned one. “At last you've come. We were growing full weary with our waiting.”

Geraint swallowed fear and astonishment. “Who are you?” asked Geraint. Oak Helm sat back, but his grip on his spear did not change nor did it loosen. Elen still sat on her uneasy horse. The hawk shrilled and shook itself, preening frantically. Horse Helm looked over at them, frowning. His hand stayed on his club. No danger there yet, though. It was Oak Helm's attention he had to keep. He was the leader of the pair.

“I asked who are you?” he repeated the question, his voice ringing harshly in his own ears.

Oak Helm smiled. His teeth were grey and some broken. “We are the keepers of the gate. We are the ones who will take you to our lord and master.”

“And who is your lord?”

Now Oak Helm changed his grip on the reins. His horse felt its ribbons tighten and lifted its head and stamped. Horse Helm was trying to divide his attention between Cob, and Elen and Geraint.

“His name is my lord's business, Son of Lot, and none of yours.”

Geraint had no weapon. He had no armor. He was as good as naked before these two. He understood now the disguise, however it had been accomplished, had been a ruse to get him off horseback and leave him vulnerable. Even if he shouted to Elen to get away at once, she would be ridden down within moments. There was magic here as well as mystery. The wise thing would be to surrender now, to let them be taken to this mysterious lord, and look for their chance to escape later.

Even as the thought that, pride, bright and burning rose up in Geraint. These two on their starved mounts would not lay hand on Elen, nor yet on him. He was companion to Arthur. He was a man of Gododdin and the son of kings. They would not take him as a prize to their petty prince.

“Whoever your lord may be, let him come before me himself.” His voice was hot now, but steady. He felt Elen at his back. Felt the tension radiating from her even as he held his own arms loose and easy at his sides, ready.

Let them come. Let them try.

Let them learn.

Oak Helm's frown grew thunderous.

Incongruously, the first of the birds began to sing, alerting their fellows that the rain was done. Oak Helm raised the spear and tucked it under his arm so the point was levelled at Geraint's heart. Horse Helm moved his mount closer so Geraint faced a wall of man and beast, his eyes pointed over Geraint's shoulder. What was Elen doing that so distracted him? He could not risk a look back, for now Oak Helm angered and insulted, held his beasts reins with only his weakened hand. “Would you command the Great King, villain?”

Geraint lunged underneath the spear, grabbed Oak Helm's sleeve, and kneed the horse in the side. The horse reared and Geraint yanked Oak Helm toward him. The rider's foot caught in the stirrup and he dangled ridiculously over the horse's side. Geraint caught the spear as it fell from Oak Helm's grip. Oak Helm's horse whinnied high and frightened and danced in a tight circle, trying to throw off the struggling weight. Geraint and Elen's horses answered with snorts and whickers and both danced back. Elen fell onto her back with a hoarse shout. Colannau flew into the air, screaming in her anger. Oak Helm hollered and cursed, and Horse Helm shouted his own curses, trying to maneuver his beast past Oak Helm's to get a clear swing at Geraint.

Geraint lept backward. Elen scrambled to her knees. She clutched the stone axe from their gear. She scrambled to her feet and ducked quick behind him, heading for Donatus before it bolted.

Geraint thrust the spear at Horse Helm's mount. The beast had no taste for a fight and shied, coming down within an inch of Oak Helm's head. He hollered, and scared it again, making it shy again. Elen hauled Donatus up to Geraint, and Geraint swung himself into the saddle.

Oak Helm at last kicked himself free of his stirrup and landed on the ground with a thud. Horse Helm had mastered his beast, and urged him around his fallen captain. But it was not Geraint he headed toward. It was to Elen, standing on the grass, the hand-axe held tight in both hands.

Geraint put Donatus between Horse Helm and Elen and thrust again with his spear. Horse Helm knocked his blow aside with the club and turned his horse in time, passing by Elen, and wheeling about to try his charge again. Oak Helm found his feet and limped toward her, fighting to pull his own sword. Geraint made his choice and swung toward Horse Helm. Elen saw the opening he gave her and ran past. Horse Helm dodged Geraint's spear again and drew up short, landing a blow above Geraint's knee. The pain shot stars across Geraint's sight. The next blow caught his arm, and he dropped the spear.

Oak Helm howled and caught the spear up, swinging it around. Hoofbeats hit the ground. Elen had run only far enough to mount her little brown, and now she charged at Oak Helm, who levelled his spear and Geraint cried out, and only barely managed to duck the fresh blow from Horse Helm.

Elen veered off her course, swung the axe, and threw it at Oak Helm.

The axe spun end over end. Oak Helm ducked. Horse Helm stared. Geraint kicked his horse hard, sending it plunging forward. Holding tight with his knees, Geraint swinging out his good fist to catch Horse Helm hard on the temple, just below his cap. The man reeled. Geraint grabbed his club from his hand and slammed it down against Horse Helm's weak right arm, which was all the man had to guide the horse. He felt bone give and heard the crunch, and Horse Helm screamed and his horse reared and lurched and Horse Helm fell from the saddle.

Oak Helm had grabbed the sword and abandoned the spear. He thrust the weapon into his belt, the naked blade dangerously close to his leg, and his horse's side as he swung himself back into the saddle. But the fight seemed to have gone out of him and Oak Helm turned his horse about, sending it galloping up the narrow valley way.

Geraint, arm and leg weak and burning with pain urged Donatus to follow as best he could. Oak Helm shouted something Geraint did not understand. Thunder roared and the ground shook. Donatus screamed and stumbled. Geraint barely kept his seat. When his mount recovered, Geraint saw that one of the green hills now gaped open wide. Through the gap waited another valley where the sun shone bright and the air was clear. But he saw these things only for an instant, because Oak Helm charged through that ragged, earthen gate.

It shut behind him, and he was gone.

As soon as Geraint rode past her, Elen let go of Calonnau's jesses and grabbed up the spear. The fallen man had his knees bent and was struggling to rise. She shoved the spear at him until the point rested over his heart. Corslet or no, he had reason to fear the weapon held this close. For a wild moment, she had an urge to stab his chest, just to reach the heart that he did not deserve. She uttered no threat for she did not trust her voice. The hawk flapped awkwardly to the stone, and continued her frantic shaking and preening, and her complaining. Calonnau's distress mixed with Elen's fear for Geraint and the near-panic the battle raised. For all that, her hands and gaze held steady, and the man with the horse helm and the broken arm held still.

Calonnau shrieked. Elen heard the approach of a single horse. She did not let herself look up. Despite his injury, Horse Helm was watching her closely from where he sat, looking for his chance.

The horse stopped, and someone dismounted. She knew it was Geraint before he came into her field of view. He circled the captive until he stood opposite her.

“Who is your lord, villain?” he asked quietly.

Horse Helm turned his face away. Geraint knelt. He removed the captive's helmet and tossed it aside. Underneath, their man had a thatch of brown hair and one eyebrow made ragged by an old scar. But that was not all. Someone had burned the man's forehead with a brand, leaving behind a livid white scar shaped like a sealed knot.

Elen's stomach turned at the thought of the pain such branding must have caused.

Geraint did not pause for such matters. He drew his knife and held it to the man's cheek, right below his ear. “I have no time for quizzing. I know not whether you are mortal man, but I know you can be hurt. Tell me who you serve, or you will have much more to regret than the pain in your arm.”

There was no menace in Geraint as he spoke these words, only cold promise. Elen swallowed, but held the spear still. She thought she could feel the man's heartbeat making the shaft quiver like a harpstring. She gripped it tight and grit her teeth.

The captive ran his tongue over his lips. “My king is the lord of the hidden country and the narrow way. If you know him not, you will soon. You should fear the Great King.”

“Names and riddles again,” muttered Geraint. He looked to Elen. “Whoever he is, their lord will soon know what has happened here. I lost this one's captain.”

Elen could only shake her head. “He knew before we were coming Geraint. This was all a ruse.” She risked a glance away from their captive. The last of the fog had lifted, and now she could see the empty meadow. The cottages and burnt fields had vanished with the mists, leaving behind only the tall grass, the silent lake, and a fringe of young forest. Elen was not surprised. “The old ones were here to make sure we stopped. These two were sent to make sure we went no farther.”

“I know,” said Geraint ruefully.

“You saw?” It was as she was walking with the old woman that Elen had seen what was amiss. The illusion had been complete, except the brightening day showed no shadow under the woman's feet.

“Not soon enough,” muttered Geraint ruefully. He pressed the edge of his knife more closely to the flesh of their captive. “You spoke of the Great King, villain. Do you know the one called the Little King?”

This man between them was more than mist and expectation. Perspiration sprang out on his face. Yes, he feared both spear and knife.

The captive made to shake his head, but stopped as he felt the movement brush skin against blade. Then he smiled, a death's head grin.

“Kill me, then,” he said. “My king will raise me up whole and perfect again.”

Geraint pulled his head back, for the first time showing surprise. “You are a Christian knight?”

Horse Helm laughed, and there was a high edge to the sound. “I spit on your weak Christ. He swears some strange future day of fantastical beasts shall come and then you shall rise from ashes. My king will raise me up before I am even laid in the grave.”

The sealed knot on his brow seemed to glow whitely in Elen's sight as he spoke these words, and cold worry settled over her mind. Geraint's brows knit tightly together, but rather than try to answer this boast, he looked up at Elen.

“Elen,” said Geraint without looking up or letting his knife stir from its place. “Can your gifts make him speak?”

Elen considered. There were rumors, things her mother had spoken of late at night, of magics that were grey and black and had more than a little poison in their purposes. There was too the second of the three gifts mother's spirit had bestowed on her. “It can be done.”
If it must.

This declaration took all the boast from their captive and the blood drained from his face, leaving him pale. “No,” he whispered. “You cannot make me.” But that was spoken in hope, not in belief and his dark eyes were filling fast with fear.

Of his lord or my husband?
She felt her eyes narrow.
Both, and the Little King is a third. What warrior finds himself with so much to fear?

Geraint shrugged. “You will speak, villain, now or later, by pain or by enchantment.”

The captive's eyes flickered from Geraint to Elen and back again. His jaw moved back and forth and in the silence of the day, Elen could hear his teeth grind together. “You would truly go to the country where the Little King dwells?”

“Yes.”

He clutched his arm more closely to his torso. Elen's hands tightened their grip on his spear. “More fool you. I will show you the way.”

While Elen held the spear ready, Geraint relieved the captive of his arms and made him strip off his corslet. This, Geraint claimed along with the helmet and the grieves on his legs and guards on his arms. He dressed himself in the armor. The fit was tight for their captive was a slender man. For all that, Geraint seemed to relax a little more with each piece of armor he put on.

As if he's found his own skin again.

Geraint belted on the captive's sword. The grey cloak he offered to Elen, who accepted it gratefully and clasped it about her shoulders sinking into the warmth of the dry wool.

Geraint trussed the man's good arm behind him with rope from the saddlebag while Elen rigged a sling with one of their precious bandages for the broken one. Geraint mounted Donatus and took up the spear as Elen passed it to him, and Elen knew that for the first time since the welcoming banquet she saw Geraint whole and complete. He was a knight, a warrior on horseback. She had not thought what it was to be deprived of the tools to which he was so much trained.

All the while Horse Helm watched them with his dark eyes and said not a word.

Elen sheathed Horse Helm's knife at her waist and reclaimed Calonnau to her wrist, despite the bird's shrill protests. She mounted the captive man's dapple grey horse, which was of better blood than her little brown, and moreover had a real saddle. With Geraint levelling the spear at his back, Horse Helm trudged up the valley way. Elen rode behind, leading the spare horse and carrying Calonnau on her gauntleted wrist.

They came to the place where the hills bent and bulged, making a corner as neat as any on a highway built by men. The captive stopped there. He seemed to hesitate, but then he looked back at Geraint. To Elen's surprise, a smile twisted on his lips. The captive leaned forward until his mouth was almost kissing the slope before him. He whispered a single word three times, and straightened.

With a sound like thunder, the hillside shuddered. The ground trembled. The horses screamed and danced. Calonnau screeched and tried to fly. Elen fought to keep her seat and some control over bird and horse.

The hill split open, a gaping black hole tearing through the wholesome green. A moment later, sunlight and warmth poured through the cleft, as through an open door.

Geraint looked back to Elen, silently asking if she were ready to do this, and Elen, who had crossed knowingly into the fae's lands, found herself afraid. Premonition surged through her. There was danger beyond this doorway, danger of loss beyond death. She knew it and she could not keep that knowing from her eyes as she looked back at her husband.

There must be another way. They did not say this was the only way.

But there is no time to find another way.

So Elen nodded to show her readiness, and Geraint prodded their captive with the point of his spear. The man walked forward into the cleft, and Geraint followed him, and Elen followed her husband.

It was like walking through a ragged archway. It was dark and smelled of earth. The floor beneath them sloped down sharply, causing the horses to balk, and then step cautiously. Roots as thick as Elen's thumb dangled overhead. Then, they stepped out into the fresh sunshine of a summer afternoon with a broad green meadow sloping down before them.

Behind them, without a sound, the passage slipped shut, leaving only the wild hillside.

Whatever this place was, there was no returning by that route.

The captive giggled. Elen's head whipped around and she stared at him. He threw back his head and laughed to the sky, shaking in his mirth.

“You think you have come with open eyes,” he gasped. “You think yourselves wise and clever. You know nothing of my lord. You are his already and you know it not.” The man laughed even louder, and his laughter echoed off the hills.

Then, he was gone, melted away like ice, and the ropes they used to bind him fell on the ground in a useless heap.

Elen stared. Geraint made a gesture she had seen only rarely. He crossed himself.

“Are we in the place of the good neighbors?” he asked.

Elen shook her head. “There is the sun in the sky, and there are shadows around us.”

“Aye,” muttered Geraint. “That is the very truth.”

Elen smiled with dark amusement at the double meaning. “What would you that we do?”

Geraint sighed and scanned the way westward. “Will you send up Calonnau?” he asked. “Let us see what she sees.”

Elen nodded. Calonnau was itching to fly anyway, urged on by the sight of the clear sky after so long in the rain, and she was more than ready to spy out a wayward rabbit or pigeon. Elen wondered if she were moved by her hunger, or Elen's own. It seemed it had been a hundred years since Elen had eaten a decent meal.

Whatever the reason, the hawk took gladly to the sky. Trees and meadows passed under her. She saw narrow vallies and ragged, stony hills. She saw red deer, and foxes, bears lumbering through glens, wolves sleeping the day away in their packs. She saw a stream of brown trout, and she saw a huddle of huts in the middle of cleared fields, but there was nothing in those fields better than mice.

With some difficulty, Elen pulled herself back from the hawk's eyes.

“There's a village,” said Elen. “Due west of here. A few hours ride, perhaps.”

Geraint glanced up at the sun. It was an hour past noon, perhaps two. Already Elen felt like it had been a whole day. She was weary and she was hungry. They'd had only bread since the morning and the beer was not going to last much longer, and these might be the least of their worries.

“And between there and here?” Geraint asked.

“Wilderness only.”

Geraint lapsed back into silence. Elen did not blame him. She did not like this place where a man of flesh and bone could vanish from in front of their eyes. She did not like ignoring the premonitions she felt so strongly.

Nervous, Elen tried to call Calonnau back to her, but the hawk had decided that if mice were what was nearest, mice would be enough. She dove and she struck, and the sickening delight coursed through Elen and she tasted blood and as she did, she realized what else she had seen and horror rocked her backwards.

The mouse, the creature Calonnau was even now tearing to bits, the mouse had no front paws. Rather, it had a human's hands.

“Elen!” Geraint caught her, steadying her. “What is it?”

But Elen could not answer him. She pushed away, stumbling past the horses and was abruptly, violently sick. While she wretched, Calonnau finished her meal and launched herself again to look for fresh game.

Geraint knelt beside Elen, waiting for her spell to pass. He handed her a twist of grass to wipe her face. His eyes begged her to tell him what she had seen, and she did. Without a word, he folded her in his embrace.

“It is your heart within her, Elen,” he held her close. “Your heart.”

My heart but her desire.
Elen swallowed.
It does no good.
Helplessness pooled inside her, but anger poured in behind it.

Call her back. Call her down. You can do this thing. It is your heart. Whatever has been done to you, you remain yourself. You are Adara's daughter and you will not let your heart run wild.

She squeezed Geraint's hands and stood. She raised her gauntleted wrist and stretched out her will.
You will return. You will return now.

Anger surged through Calonnau. She fought, as she fought the jesses, but she wheeled on her wingtip, and soon Elen saw the hawk's shape approaching from the bright blue sky. She landed heavily on the gauntlet and scolded as Elen caught up the jesses again.

Endure,
she said silently to the hawk, using the word Geraint had used for her.
I will find a way to free us both as soon as I can.

But such promises meant nothing to the wild creature before her, and Elen felt only Calonnau's anger in return.

The light was dimming quickly. There was was no going further this day. They set their camp beside a broad stream. Geraint saw to the horses, removed most of his armor and took a thong, a crust of bread and a loop of fine wire worried out of her belt to try to catch them some fish. Elen could not bring herself to use Calonnau for hunting, not here, not now. She made a makeshift perch of Donatus's high-sided saddle and lashed the jesses down. Calonnau grumbled, snapped and complained. Elen ignored her as best she could and went to kindle a fire.