“It’s just a sword,” she sputtered.
“Let’s have a look.”
Nimue pulled it from Bors’s hands. “I’ll show you.” She drew the sword. The rune glinted in the torchlight.
Bors rubbed his mouth greedily. “Give it here.”
But Nimue hid the sword under her cloak again. “That’s enough.”
“Where’s your friend Pym?” Arthur asked.
“Dead, I think.”
“Dead?” Arthur ran a nervous hand through his hair.
There was no time to explain. “I have to bring the sword to Merlin. He’ll pay you more gold than you can imagine. But we have to go quickly.”
“Maybe I’ll just take the sword and we call ourselves even, eh?” Bors grabbed Nimue’s cloak again, but she shook him off.
“Don’t you dare.”
“Bors—” Arthur started, but Bors jabbed his finger in Arthur’s face.
“Know your place, boy. You’re far too friendly with this wench for my liking.” Bors turned back to Nimue. “Now see here, girl. Just give us the sword and be on your way.”
“No.” Nimue felt the scars on her back scrape against the brick wall of the bakery.
Bors took a step toward her. “Or . . . I can just take the sword, then drag you by the ankles to them Red Paladins. Your choice.”
“Listen, I can—” Arthur interjected, but Bors turned and smacked him across the face with the back of his hand.
“You can get back on your horse is what you can do! This don’t involve you!”
Arthur stumbled back to Egypt, hand to his cheek. His horse snuffed and reared.
“Now give it here, love.” Bors’s meaty hand reached for her.
Nimue threw her cloak over her left shoulder. With her right hand she untied the sling knot that held the sword around her. She cradled the blade in the crook of her arm, her hand passing over the iron cross guard.
Bors’s eyes shone. “That’s a good girl.”
The Fingers of Airimid crept up her cheek, and the hum in her belly turned into a sizzling hiss that boiled her blood through her arms to her fists. Nimue tightened her hands around the leather grip, pivoted quickly, and cut Bors’s hand cleanly off at the wrist. The force of the blow cartwheeled the severed appendage through the air until it landed in the square thirty feet away. Bors howled and stared at the air above his wrist where his hand used to be.
“Try again and I’ll have the other.” A wildness had her. Nimue felt ten feet tall and could crush Bors and his screams under her bootheel. The sword felt like a part of her arm, so light, so natural. A hot spring of power moved through her and through the sword. She couldn’t help but smile.
Bors recoiled, clutching his bleeding stump, and bellowed, “Kill that witch!”
Nimue shook off the euphoria, though her senses stayed sharp. She ran across the square, shoved Arthur aside, vaulted onto Egypt’s saddle, and reached back for him. “Come on!”
“Arthur!” Bors shrieked. “I’ll string you up by the guts!”
Arthur leaped onto the back of his horse behind Nimue as she kicked Egypt’s ribs and charged across the square.
Townsfolk fled in all directions away from the bloodshed. Footmen ran up the alley from the eastern gate as at Bors’s command, the other sell-swords spun their horses around and chased after Arthur and Nimue.
“Where are you going?” Arthur shouted.
“I don’t know!”
“Give me the damn reins!”
Arthur reached over Nimue and turned Egypt in the opposite direction of the gate she’d entered.
“What are you doing?”
“The western gate! Fewer guards!”
One of the Red Paladins ran up on foot, sword drawn, but Arthur swung his boot under the monk’s chin. The Red Paladin landed square in the sewer ditch as Arthur galloped between two buildings. He took several switchbacks down alleyways to throw off his pursuers, finally emerging into a quiet square where the half-built cathedral loomed over them. A distant bell clanged.
“Damn it. They’re sealing the gates.” Arthur spurred Egypt down another avenue. Torchlight threw the shadows of their pursuers onto the long walls of the buildings. The sell-swords galloped after them in a furious mass. The western gate was still fifty yards ahead. Footmen hurried to close it.
Arthur spurred Egypt on. “Down!” he roared. “Down!” Nimue pressed her face to the saddle, and they soared toward the lowering gate. Arthur threw his arms around Egypt’s neck as they plunged beneath it. The gate’s teeth raked their backs and tore at their cloaks, but they cleared the city walls.
They thundered onto the road lit only by starlight.
ELEVEN
RIVERS OF BLOOD WASHED DOWN the pathways of Castle Pendragon as an army of workers put buckets and brushes to the task of scrubbing the courtyard walls clean of the cursed rain. Many murmured prayers of protection as they performed the tasks, word spreading far and wide of the terrible omen and what it might mean for the king.
No one felt this dread more keenly than Uther himself, who stormed through the castle in full plate armor. He knew the blood rain was a warning, so he surrounded himself with armored soldiers and the loyal Sir Beric.
“Merlin!” Uther shouted. “Where in the bloody Nine Hells is he?”
Sir Beric jogged to keep up with the king. “We don’t know, sire. We’ve looked everywhere. He’s not answering his door.”
“Then break it down!”
Uther led the contingent of torch-bearing soldiers to the inner courtyard of the massive castle. He marched up to Merlin’s cottage door and banged with a steel fist.
“Merlin, damn you, are you in there?”
He was.
Merlin shivered in sheets that were soaked with sweat and sticking to the melted skin of the burn. To dull the pain, he poured wine down his throat, cuddling the hide.
“Merlin!” The cottage shook from Uther’s blows.
Finally Merlin sat up, grimaced, and staggered to the door, opening it a crack. He thrust his face into the king’s.
“Your Majesty.”
Uther wrinkled his nose. “Gods, man, are you drunk?”
“All is well in hand, sire, tip-top. I just need a little more time to study the omens,” Merlin slurred.
“Study the omens? It rained blood on our castle! Where is the mystery?”
“Expect a full report very soon, Majesty. One mustn’t jump to conclusions.” And with that, Merlin slammed the door in Uther’s face.
The king’s cheeks turned a very sour shade of purple. “Break it down. Break the bloody thing down and drag him out.”
Two soldiers hurried to the task, ramming their steel shoulders against the oak door. The wood began to splinter.
“Perhaps the rack will sober him up,” Uther growled.
Sir Beric bit his lip. “Is that advisable, my liege? Merlin is a curious creature, of course, but he is our creature. Surely we do not wish to further antagonize any dark forces?”
A splintering crack turned them back to the cottage. Soldiers stormed inside. King Uther followed them, only to discover that the rooms were empty and the shutters of the back window opened.