The soldiers turned to their captain, who was bloodied from a tussle with a few Cliff Walkers. He nodded to his men. Swords were thrown into the square. But the citizenry were panicking, some farmers grabbing pitchforks and fallen swords to protect their children from the “monsters” in their midst. Wroth snatched a spear from one of the farmers and broke it in two with his bare hands. He was about to gore the poor farmer when a murmur rippled through the crowd of Fey Kind, soldiers, urban workers, and peasants.
Nimue entered the gates of Cinder trailed by dozens of Fey Kind: Fauns, Snakes, Cliff Walkers and their kin, Moon Wings, and Man Bloods.
Arthur staggered out of the smoke, exhausted, sword dragging in the mud. Nimue stood in place and said, “You’re here.”
“Aye. I’m no knight, that’s clear enough. But if you’ll have me, I pledge my sword. And my honor. To you. I think there’s still some good left in Arthur.”
“There is.” Nimue took him into her arms. She could smell the blood and smoke in his hair. She wiped the grime away from his eyes and cheeks and kissed his mouth.
Arthur held her face in his hands. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Nimue turned to the frightened populace. She could feel the violence about to erupt. They knew who she was and they feared her. She climbed onto a toppled wagon. Her heart raced.
“I am Nimue of Dewdenn from the clan Sky Folk! Daughter of Lenore, Arch Druid to my people! To my enemies”—she searched the crowd for Red Paladins—“I am known as the Wolf-Blood Witch.” She softened. “But I am not your enemy. I want you to know that as of this moment Cinder is free! You are free to live. To raise your families in peace. To work. To love. And to worship the gods you choose, so long as those gods seek no dominion over any other.” Nimue felt her mother with her, guiding her words. “All we want is peace. To return to what’s left of our homes and rebuild. We did not ask for this war. But that does not mean we cannot fight this war! That does not mean we cannot win this war!”
“QUEEN OF THE FEY! QUEEN OF THE F EY!”
The Fey Kind roared their approval; even a few farmers slapped their hands on the wagons, drumming their support.
Nimue lifted the Sword of Power to the sun. “This is the sword of my people, the sword of my ancestors, forged in the Fey Fires when the world was young. Let this sword be our courage, our light in all this terrible darkness, our hope in all this despair. They say this is the Sword of the First Kings! But I say the kings have had their chance! For I claim it as the sword of the First Queen!”
“Queen of the Fey!” Wroth bellowed. His clansmen followed suit: “Queen of the Fey! Queen of the Fey! Queen of the Fey! Queen of the Fey!”
Arthur watched with amazement as the chant spread across the square, a rising tide of voices, Fey Kind and human, farmers, families, even some of Lord Ector’s soldiers. He turned back to Nimue, holding the sword aloft like an avenging goddess, beautiful and frightening. Despite his reservations, Arthur pumped his fist with the rest. “Queen of the Fey! Queen of the Fey!”
FORTY-ONE
GAWAIN AND HIS HORSE WOVE between small, leafy trees in pursuit of a fleeing Red Paladin. He squeezed the saddle between his legs and released the reins to grab his longbow and nock an arrow. He targeted the flapping red robes, aimed for the center, and fired. The Red Paladin’s arms flew wide and he arched in a way that Gawain knew he was dead. The horse rode on, the paladin bobbing in the saddle before finally crashing into the brush.
Gawain slowed his charge. His horse was coated with sweat. He followed the sound of a stream to a small stone bridge, its walls blanketed in soft moss. He led the palfrey to the stream below, where she could drink before he saddled up for the ride back. Gawain knelt and drank the cool water in handfuls. Out of the corner of his eye, in the reflecting mountain stream, he caught a glimpse of spectral gray robes above him and lunged to the left as a barbed arrow sank into his right hip. Gawain scrambled for tree cover, knowing from the wound’s depth that it was a swallowtail arrowhead, used to hunt larger game, designed to maximize bleeding and injury. He threw himself against a crooked ash tree and snapped the arrow in two. He heard the shing of a sword being drawn and spun around to see the Weeping Monk vault the bridge wall and land silently in the mud. His sword was long and thin, its slight curve reminding Gawain of the sabers he had seen on the belts of Asiatic warriors in his desert travels, but more elegant, the hilt shorter and more square, a weapon of finesse and speed.
Ignoring the fire flaring down his right leg, Gawain drew his long sword and ran onto the stream bank, roaring and slashing with two hands. His leg buckled slightly on the charge, but it was enough to force the monk back on his heels, though he wasted no movement and sidestepped into a cut that Gawain barely got his blade up to block. The Weeping Monk took the advantage, and steel on steel rang through the forest as he lunged and swung, pushing Gawain into the stream, where his bad leg gave out on the slippery rocks. It was only his green pauldron that prevented him from being cut in half by a savage blow. All the same his skin split under the damaged armor, and he felt warm blood trickle down his shoulder. He rolled in the water away from multiple blows. Gawain had never met a fighter as fast.
He finally braced himself against a rock and took his blade in hand, blocking the monk’s sword and clubbing him with the pommel. Gawain used his height advantage to drive the monk up against the high stream bank and tried to force him down into the mud, but the monk grabbed the edge of the broken arrow in Gawain’s hip and twisted. As he cried out, the monk pivoted free and slashed the back of his thigh, hobbling him further.
The monk took him by the ear and reared back for the fatal cut when Kaze dove from the trees, with a leopard growl, tackling the monk into the water and rocks and knocking his sword loose. They fought wildly. Her tail whipped the air as she slashed with fang and claw. The monk kicked her off but she fell onto him again, teeth at his throat. Somehow the Weeping Monk slipped her grip and scrambled on top of her, his arm locked across her throat, choking her. As she struggled, her claws dug deep grooves in the monk’s cheeks beneath the strange birthmarks around his eyes. He held fast. Her fingers made spell forms and she tried to speak conjuring words, but her cat eyes rolled back into her skull and she slumped in his arms. He threw her against the rocks. The Weeping Monk picked up his sword, flicked it dry, turned, and stabbed Kaze through the back.
Gawain wrenched himself to his feet. “Kaze!”
Then the monk came for Gawain, who pulled himself onto the bank by the branches of an overhanging elder. He clawed through the dirt, up to the bridge, the Weeping Monk walking steadily behind him, smoothly, with no urgency.
Gawain fell onto the ancient wall, his hands sinking into the moss. His slashed thigh would take no weight. His armor was soaked in blood and a chill racked his body, yet as the air whistled he got his sword up in time to parry the Weeping Monk’s cut. They clinched, and Gawain, locking his sword grip against the monk’s, swung him against the bridge. They fell into a test of strength, Gawain trying to force his blade across the monk’s throat. The monk threw his hand against the moss to brace himself. Gawain’s eyes darted to the hand, anticipating attack, but instead what he saw stunned him.