Stranger (15 page)

“Legend holds that the tor marks the entrance to Annwn.” Catullus turned to her, and the moonlight reflecting upon his spectacles transformed his eyes into ghostly silver mirrors. “The Otherworld.”

Her father’s tales of faerie realms beneath the earth echoed in Gemma’s mind. Hollow hills. The Fair Folk. Stolen brides and changeling children. Beauty—and danger. Mortals who strayed past the boundary and never came back. Or, if they did, they were never the same, wasting away as they pined for the distant land.

And she rode straight toward its entrance.

It didn’t escape her, either, that St. Michael the Archangel fought against the powers of hell and Satan. No coincidence that a church was built in his name. The monks
must have known that Glastonbury Tor marked the portal between worlds, and sought to hold back its magic with their own fragile beliefs.

Old habit made Gemma furtively cross herself as she, Catullus, and the others raced toward the odd hill. She’d take any protection she could get.

Though she had an idea that Catullus would protect her far more than prayer. He was a living man, and capable. Gemma wasn’t used to relying on anyone other than herself—but she couldn’t deny a sense of relief, knowing she wasn’t alone as magic collected to summon … she had no idea what it would summon, only that it would hold a power unlike anything anyone had ever seen before.

They sped toward the tor. The mists thickened, growing stronger. Dark fire scented the air. The horses began to struggle and shy as they neared. Lesperance leapt away as the animals lunged, dancing, their hooves nearly grazing him as he ran alongside. Astrid swore savagely, cursing her horse.

Gemma’s horse reared up. She fought to control it, clenching her teeth, pulling hard on the reins. She struggled to keep her seat.

Catullus immediately rode toward her, hand outstretched to grab her horse’s bridle. Then his mount, too, reared, tossing its head in fear. The horses grew more and more frenzied.

“No good,” Catullus gritted. “Jump clear.”

After gulping a breath, Gemma flung herself from her horse. She landed and rolled, arms covering her head from the stamping animals. A single blow from a hoof could split her head in two. Not how she wanted her English adventure to end, with her brains splattered at the base of Glastonbury Tor by a frightened horse.

She looked up to see all three horses charging away. The mounts ran off, thundering, until they fled into the night.

Two large, strong hands lifted her up until she stood, gazing up at Catullus’s concerned face.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Fairly soon, I’ll be an expert at jumping off moving things.”

“We can present our findings to the Royal Society together.” He offered a brief smile, and brushed her hair back from her face.

Astrid appeared beside them, with the wolf Lesperance protectively at her side. She looked pained, but not by the jump from her horse. As the mists thickened, they seemed to pull on her, too, tugging on something deep within. She kept one hand on Lesperance’s neck as she staggered. Lesperance rumbled, pushing himself against her for support.

The Englishwoman pointed up the hill. At the summit, the mists collected. They climbed up the tower like vines, and there was no way to know whether the moon made them shimmer or if they created their own glow. Didn’t matter. Not when they started spinning and swirling until the top of the hill became a vortex.

Astrid rasped, “It’s beginning.”

Catullus’s life in his workshop was a series of choices which he carefully studied, weighing the advantages and disadvantages, the potential outcomes, if the result merited the risk. He loved being presented with a problem or situation and then slowly, methodically analyzing it. As Astrid had said, the best part of invention was the process. Copper wiring, or gold alloy? Spring-driven, or hydraulic? All possibilities could be entertained, explored.

In the field, he didn’t have that luxury. Decisions had to be made in an instant. Lives, including his own, could be lost if he hesitated. So, he acted, using instinct and experience to guide him. His companions in the field were other Blades, trained, fully aware of the inherent risks of their calling. They all gambled.

He enjoyed the dichotomy, the two halves of himself. He went into the field more often than any other member of the Graves family, for that very reason, because he relished the balance between deliberate thought and instinctive action.

Here now arose a problem he couldn’t resolve.

Leave Gemma at the foot of Glastonbury Tor, away from
the danger at the summit. Or take her with him to the top. If he left her behind, she’d be alone and vulnerable. If he took her with him, he’d be leading her straight into the unknown—which was where danger usually dwelt. And the Heirs were still out there, somewhere, searching. Even now, the Heirs could be drawing closer in the darkness.

Torn. He didn’t know what to do.

Then he realized he didn’t have a choice. Astrid and Lesperance charged up the terraced hill. And Gemma was right behind them.

Damn that courageous woman.

At the least, he managed to keep his shotgun when he’d jumped from his horse, and he had one cartridge belt lined with ammunition. Everything else was lost when the animals ran off. With his gun slung across his back, he raced up the tor, his long legs making quick work of the slope.

He still wasn’t entirely certain what any of them planned to
do
when they reached the top, but he’d think of that when he got there.

Overhead, the moon seemed to grow larger, its cold light burning down over the mist-shrouded hill. Halfway up the hill, what had been a slight breeze down in the abbey turned now into a squall, pulling on Catullus’s coat and lashing the women’s skirts around their legs. Lesperance snarled into the gale, supporting Astrid as she staggered on her feet. Gemma, too, swayed from the wind buffeting her.

Catullus was at her side instantly. He pulled her against him, shielding her from the gale that tore tears from eyes and stole breath. She held tight to him but didn’t burrow or hide.

The mists disengaged from the tower. Serpentine, they shimmered into a tall column that stood level with the tower’s high, arched doorway.

The mists formed a distinctly human shape.

“Bugger,” said Catullus.

They were too late. It was happening.

He planted his feet then drew his shotgun, holding it with one hand and pointing toward the inchoate human form. At the same time, he thrust Gemma behind him.

“What do we do now?” Gemma cried above the frenzied wind. Her copper hair whipped around her face as she stared up the ridged hill.

Trouble was, there wasn’t anything
to
do, but hold on and hope. Catullus loaded two shotgun shells and snapped the gun closed. A bit of firepower could prove useful where hope failed.

The mists rioted with colors never seen in the known world. A figure coalesced within them—huge, but human. Massive legs, enormous arms. Easily twelve feet tall. God, had the Heirs summoned a monster?

More and more the mist solidified, until the moonlight revealed a giant, bearded man. His eyes burned like superheated iron, white and piercing. Atop his head he wore a golden crown the size of a wagon wheel. Around his colossal body, the mists formed into armor, a miscellany of chain mail, plate, and leather, all topped with a golden surcoat. As the moonlight struck the armor, it reflected back in dazzling beams that spread out from atop the hill like a beacon. Surely the Heirs would be drawn to such light.

Catullus squinted to shield his eyes from the glare. Astrid and Gemma did the same, holding their hands up against the blinding light, but none of them could look away.

“Oh, my God,” Gemma whispered, pressing closer to him. Catullus held her tightly.

There could be no mistaking who stood at the summit of Glastonbury Tor.

Arthur. The once and future King of England. Summoned by the Heirs of Albion to lead the nation back to glory.

He glowed, the light of myth and legend blazing from within, as he surveyed the kingdom he had left behind. Confusion furrowed his vast brow. He seemed to be searching for something.

Catullus, who’d spent much of his childhood immersed in books and read tales of chivalric adventure late into the night until his mother admonished him to put out the light and go to bed, could hardly believe he was looking upon the face of King Arthur.

This moment was horrible, or wonderful. Catullus couldn’t decide.

The mists dissipated, the moon dimmed, but Arthur remained.

Catullus turned to Gemma. “Stay with Astrid and Lesperance,” he said lowly. Gently, he disengaged himself from her.

“Where are you going?”

“To talk to him.” And he started up the hill.

He felt Gemma’s hand gripping his arm, staying him.

“Genius or madman,” she whispered. “You don’t know what he might do.” Her face was a pale oval, her eyes wide with apprehension as she took in the giant standing at the top of the hill.

“Only one way to find out.”

Acting on impulse alone, Catullus leaned close and kissed her, hard and brief. Her lips opened beneath his, he tasted her sweetness, the fierce energy of her that sent bolts of heat and life through him. Her hands came up to rest on his shoulders.

Much as he wanted to continue the kiss, there was such a thing as time and place. So he pulled back. “Stay with Astrid.”

Taking a breath, he strode up the slope, all the time watching Arthur, yet conscious of Gemma behind him. The king did not seem to notice him, his eyes focused on a distant point somewhere to the east. Catullus’s heart kicked against his ribs. Not from the exertion of climbing a steep hill, but because he was walking toward
King Arthur.

Catullus had experienced some exceptional moments in
his life as a Blade. Cutting free a feathered serpent from an enchanted net deep in the Central American jungle. Battling brigands and a golem in a Buddhist monastery high atop a mountain in the Gobi Desert. Yet nothing quite equaled climbing an ancient tor in order to speak with the most renowned, exalted figure in all of British lore.

The closer Catullus stepped to Arthur, the more he realized how unbelievably huge Arthur was. Twice Catullus’s own over-six-foot height, proportioned on a gigantic scale. Which made sense, considering Arthur’s enormity in the minds and imagination of England. Likewise, Arthur’s diverse armor proved that he was not the historical man—if such a man ever existed—but the mythological construct created by over a millennium of legends.

What Catullus would give in order to study him in depth! Just as Gemma’s mind rioted with possibility at hearing Arthur’s stories, Catullus wanted to unlock the mysteries of the king’s mind, to examine the various otherworldly metals of his armor. So much potential.

Suddenly, Arthur turned his forceful gaze on Catullus.

Catullus’s steps froze, and all scholarly thoughts fled. Twenty feet separated him from Arthur.

The king’s eyes blazed as he took Catullus’s measure. From the toes of Catullus’s admittedly less-than-pristine boots to the top of his head. Warlords crumbled beneath such scrutiny. Catullus made himself stand tall beneath this thorough perusal. He needed to show respect, but also his own strength. When Arthur’s gaze snared on the shotgun, Catullus slowly, deliberately slung the weapon across his back, then held up his empty hands.

How did one address a legendary king?

Possibly, one should kneel. But, having had ancestors suffer the yoke of slavery, Catullus could not allow himself to kneel before anyone, even King Arthur.

Respectful speech, however,
that
he could do.

“Greetings, Your Majesty,” Catullus said with a cautious bow. “You are welcomed back to a grateful nation.”

Arthur stared at him for a long time, still frowning. He said nothing. His arm lifted. Trails of mist gathered, collecting in his open hand. They flowed and twined, beginning to take solid form. A strong scent of lake water. Light shone off a surface, even more brilliantly than the armor’s reflection. A long, metallic shape—blade, hilt, pommel, guard. The blade itself was the length of a full-grown man.

A sword materializing.
The
sword. Excalibur. With which Arthur had forged a nation, slaying enemies and any who tried to undermine the glory of England.

Which meant—

Catullus whirled and sped down the hill. “Run!”

Gemma—looking very tiny and fragile compared to Arthur—stared for half a second, then turned to gather her skirts and flee. Astrid did the same. Everyone, including Lesperance in wolf form, bolted.

As he ran, taking the ground in long strides, a slash of heat grazed Catullus’s back. He chanced a look behind him to see that Excalibur had not fully materialized, and Arthur swung the half-formed sword.

Catullus dove forward as the ground shook. Clods of dirt rained down on him. He struggled to his feet, then felt two small hands pulling him up. Gemma. She’d turned back to help him.

The angry words at her foolishness died as they both stared at the trench in the earth hewn by the partially manifested Excalibur.

Arthur, ferocious and scowling, raised the materializing sword again as he bore down on Gemma and Catullus.

Seizing hold of Gemma’s wrist, Catullus ran as fast as he was able. Beside him, Gemma did not stumble, keeping up while they partly ran, partly slid down the rest of Glastonbury Tor. A mad plunge over the terraced slope.

Astrid and Lesperance dashed ahead. Her curses
about wearing skirts drifted back as Catullus and Gemma followed, racing over fields. The ground continued to shudder from Arthur’s pursuit. He shook the earth with his tread.

Even as he ran, Catullus angrily felt the futility of their retreat. Between Arthur’s enormous stride and the might of Excalibur, the king would destroy them utterly in moments. One couldn’t hide from Arthur, not
this
Arthur, formed of legend and fable.

There had to be some way to safeguard Gemma. A dense stand of trees marked the edge of a field, and Catullus turned toward its shelter. “Get to the trees!” he bellowed at Astrid and Lesperance. The two veered off toward the woods.

He might be able to secure Gemma in the thick underbrush, then provide enough of a distraction to Arthur to lead him off. It wouldn’t take long before Excalibur split Catullus into halves like a muffin, but it should give Gemma enough time to get herself to better shelter.

“Don’t … think it.” Gemma’s words came out a gasp as she ran, but beneath her spine of steel didn’t waiver.

Catullus scowled. “Don’t … bloody … argue.”

“So … you … can sacrifice … yourself?”

Almost at the edge of the trees. “Just—”

“Wait! He’s stopping!”

They skidded to a halt just at the limit of the woods. Arthur had, indeed, stopped his pursuit. Instead, he swung around and tilted his head, as if trying to hear something.

He threw a glance over his shoulder, toward where Catullus and Gemma stood, then, after a brief hesitation, turned away. With ground-eating steps, he strode away to the east.

Holy God,
that had been close. Terrifying, and incredible.

Catullus and Gemma watched Arthur go, both fighting
to regain their breath. Foliage behind them rustled, and Astrid and Lesperance emerged from the woods.

Gemma gasped quietly. Lesperance had shifted into his bear form—his most physically powerful—and made a huge dark shape beside Astrid. Gemma hadn’t seen this form yet. Although she knew that Lesperance could transform into a grizzly bear, knowing and seeing were very different experiences.

Yet she quickly collected herself. “I’m not complaining, but why did he stop?” She glanced in the direction which Arthur marched.

“Seemed as though he was being summoned,” Catullus mused.

“The Heirs,” said Gemma.

“Very likely.” Astrid looked grim. “Bloody hell … did you
see
him?”

“A myopic earthworm could see him,” answered Catullus.

Lesperance grunted, causing Gemma to jump a little. Even Catullus found Lesperance in this permutation to be intimidating.

“He swung at you without cause.” Gemma looked incensed at the idea. “Didn’t even speak. Just—” She mimed Arthur waving his sword.

Catullus mulled over this. “That, too, must be the influence of the Heirs. If they perceive Blades as a threat to the prosperity of England, Arthur would feel the same way.”

“And attack you,” Gemma concluded, grim.

This was bad news for all Blades. None of them were safe with an armed, angry giant stomping across England.

Catullus turned to Lesperance. “I need you to get to Southampton, tell the Blades what’s happening.”

Another grunt; then Lesperance shifted quickly into a hawk and perched on Astrid’s offered arm. Gemma stared in open fascination at the metamorphosis.

“One hell of a night,” she murmured.

Catullus gave Lesperance directions to Southampton, since the Canadian had never been there before. As Catullus did so, he pulled a notepad from one of his many pockets and began scribbling a message. “The Blades might not trust you, but say to them, ‘North is eternal, South is forever, West is endless, East is infinite.’” He tore the note from the pad. “And this should explain everything, just in case. Find a man called Bennett Day and give him the note.” Catullus moved to secure the message to Lesperance’s leg, but Astrid stopped him, taking the paper in her hand.

“Give us a moment.”