He began the muddy climb, the mud-slick rope slowly slipping through his fingers. His boots dug into the slime as he clawed for the distant glow of the dull gray sky, while hundreds of lepers filled the tunnel, squeezing and squirming after him like a rat plague.
Merlin spilled into the light, and waiting for him there, tied around the neck with the other end of the rope, was a black horse with eyes as white as milk, a gift from the Widow. Merlin leaped onto the horse, grabbed the reins, and dug his heels into her ribs. The horse reared and kicked, then surged forward, trampling lepers under her hooves and galloping across the desolate valley, which was swarming with more and more pursuers who were falling farther and farther behind their prey.
After a day’s ride through brackish swamps, Merlin found himself back in Harrow’s Pond, where, as he expected, twenty soldiers, wearing the seal of Uther’s three crowns on their tunics, awaited him.
Merlin took no joy in having left Uther in a state of such fear. The blood rain was a chilling omen but only the first breeze of the Great Storm gathering across the sea. The world could not withstand another War of the Sword, so Merlin was bound and determined to destroy the infernal blade before its blood thirst could topple another civilization, no matter the consequences, no matter the rivals scorned or kings defied.
He would be the first to admit he had been a poor counselor to Uther Pendragon. Notwithstanding the unending schemes of Uther’s ambitious and ruthless mother, the Queen Regent, Merlin himself had spent the last sixteen years in a waking sleep of regret and recrimination and disinterest. And Uther paid the highest price of all, Merlin thought. But the rise of the sword had awakened his senses. And though his loss of magic left him largely blind to his enemies, he could still read the pieces on the chessboard better than most. Without his intervention, he saw how this would play out. Death and fire would not be his legacy. Not this time. No matter the cost.
Still, he knew Uther’s temperament well enough to avoid a direct confrontation. Like any king, when Uther learned of the Sword of Power, he would demand it for himself. Merlin had to control that information and manage the king’s expectations. The final cut between them was yet to arrive. Until then, Merlin would be walking a tightrope above a floor of cobras. He could only hope that his rivals had not exploited his absence.
As he approached, he tucked the Snake clay with the Fey Fire into the saddlebag of the Widow’s horse.
He bent over and whispered in her ear, “When I dismount, fly like the wind, my girl.”
The horse snuffed.
At the sight of Merlin, the guards opened the barred door of a dungeon wagon. Several hurried over to take the reins of the Widow’s horse as the captain of the guard drew his sword. “Merlin the Magician, you are under arrest by order of the king.”
As Merlin climbed down from the saddle, the mare rose up in a kicking fury and knocked the soldiers to the ground. She turned and flew into the narrow swamp trails as though chased by devils.
TWENTY-FOUR
A GUST OF COLD WIND FLAPPED the gray robes of the Weeping Monk as he rode across the cattle field of a wealthy dairy farm taken by the Red Paladins as a temporary encampment. Tied to his saddle was a rope pulling a small mare and her riders, a bound and bloodied father and son. The monk knew them as “Tusks,” creatures marked by their dark, bristled hair and the stubby horns that grew from below their ears. Their unique prints and musky scents made them easy to track, but that didn’t make them easy prey. Far from it. The Weeping Monk took pride that he’d brought in two alive. They were the toughest fighters of the Fey Kind, and capture was a great dishonor in their clan. He had seen more than a few cut their own throats rather than be taken alive.
A group of paladins, bloody to the elbows from the slaughter of the dairy cows, stopped what they were doing to watch the monk. He paid them no mind.
A scouting party kicked up clods of dirt as they galloped into the distance at the command of Father Carden, who smiled and hailed the monk upon seeing him.
“My boy, my dear boy,” Carden said as the Weeping Monk dismounted into the priest’s fierce embrace. Carden held the monk’s shoulders and looked at him with his piercing blue eyes. “Are you well?”
“I’m well, Father,” the monk whispered.
“This is very good,” Carden replied, still searching the monk’s face, but for what he did not say. It was an appraisal as cold as the gusts blowing in from the east. Whatever he saw tightened Carden’s jaw. “We’re being tested now. All of us. We must be strong. The Beast has awakened and shown his banner. Our resolve must be total. It wants to sow our doubts and our fears. It feasts on these things.”
“Yes, Father.” The monk nodded.
Carden tightened his grip. “But our love is stronger than its hate. Eventually love wins. It is our unbreakable chain—our bond—that will choke the Beast in the end.”
He smiled. The Weeping Monk bowed his head. “Yes, Father.”
A tremulous wail of agony carried on the wind from the distant stables. The monk noted a spiral of black smoke arising from the same set of buildings. The next gust of wind brought a sharp, acrid scent to the monk’s nose, a familiar scent of burning flesh. Carden noted the curl on the monk’s lip and took a deep, satisfied breath.
“The smell of confession. We are very fortunate to have Brother Salt hard at work in his kitchen. Arrived from Carcassonne a few days ago.”
The Weeping Monk turned his hooded face toward the stables. His muscles tensed ever so slightly at the mention of Brother Salt.
It was enough for Father Carden to notice. “I need my very best weapons on the front lines. The steel and the fire. Together you are God’s flaming sword.”
The monk did not respond.
“Now tell me about the Wolf-Blood Witch.”
“They went south into the Minotaurs.”
“They?” Carden pressed.
“She rides with someone. The injuries on our slain brothers were from sword and ax. They were ambushed.”
“She has allies,” Carden spat as he paced in the mud. “The sword is a beacon. And every sunrise that passes, every day that she is not nailed to the cross, is a day this plague spreads. Do you understand?”
The Weeping Monk nodded.
All kindness left Carden’s face as he said, “I pray you do.” With that, he regarded his prisoners. “Now then, what have you brought us?”
“These two”—the monk turned his hood to the wretched father and son on the mare—“were hiding in the brush by the lake.”
“Were they?” Carden sized them up. “The Beast’s little spies. I’ve seen their kind before.” Carden walked up to the prisoners. “Ah, yes.” His thumb wiped the dried blood from the boy’s cheeks. “We’ve been hearing about this. They’re painting their faces with animal blood to honor her.” Carden turned back to the monk, his lips tight. “To honor her.”
The monk did not respond.
Carden patted the boy’s knee.
At this, the wounded father managed the strength to drive his boot into Carden’s arm. The priest stumbled backward.
In a flash, the Weeping Monk’s sword was drawn and—