“That’s a mercy,” one of them murmured.
Nimue put one hand on the tortured prisoner’s shoulder and took his hand with the other. The vines of the Sky Folk on her skin lit the dark cell silver. She whispered her mother’s prayers as the Northman’s breathing deepened. She bade the Hidden to surround and embrace the dying man. His limbs relaxed. His comrades bowed their heads and murmured words to their warrior gods. After several minutes, the prisoner’s breathing slowed and then gradually ceased.
“He drinks from the Horn now,” one of the raiders said.
Nimue struggled not to betray emotion, though the death of the prisoner had moved her. “You are far from home.”
Their leader with a long blond ponytail nodded. “Aye, we came to these shores with the Ice King. Fell into some trouble with these monks. They dragged us south to here.”
“You are welcome to join our cause,” Nimue offered.
“Wait, they are?” Arthur asked, incredulous.
“The Northmen are no friend to Tusks,” said Mogwan. “Father will not like this.”
Arthur subtly pulled Nimue aside. “I’m with Mogwan. These raiders are murderers, pirates, and thieves. They kill everything. You don’t want the fate of the Fey to be in the hands of the Ice King, I assure you.”
“We could use some murderers, pirates, and thieves,” Nimue said. “An enemy of the Red Paladins is a friend of ours.” She turned back to the raiders. “Will you join us?”
“As you say, we’re far from home. And besides, our dead brother is relation to our captain. We should return him to the sea.”
Nimue nodded. “Then we wish you safe travels. We can spare a week’s rations and two horses.”
Arthur started to interrupt, “A week’s rat—?”
But Nimue cut him off. “I’m sorry we cannot offer more.”
“That will suffice,” the blond raider answered.
Nimue ordered the Vikings freed. Mogwan unchained them. They thanked Nimue, and as they left the cell, the blond raider turned to Arthur and clasped his arm. “You’ve earned the thanks of the Red Spear, brother.”
Arthur eyed the raider warily. “If you say so,” he said, grasping the raider’s arm in return.
The Vikings bowed their heads to Nimue. Then frightened voices rang down from above. “My queen! Milady!”
Nimue and Arthur hurried past the raiders.
They were quickly led out of the keep and a few hundred yards into the town square, where a group of Fey Kind huddled around a bloodstained horse and a mound of purple robes on the ground. Nimue pushed her way through the crowd and got down on her knees to Kaze, who was covered in blood.
“Kaze? What’s happened?” Nimue assumed the worst.
“They took him, milady,” Kaze whispered, fluttering in and out of consciousness. “They have Gawain.”
Nimue’s hand went to her mouth. After what she had just witnessed, capture by the Red Paladins seemed a far worse fate than death.
FORTY-THREE
THE ENERGY IT TOOK TO open his eyes made Gawain want to go back to sleep. The steady movements of the horse sent shock waves of pain through his ravaged leg and hip. His lungs felt heavy when he breathed, and his clothes and armor were cold and damp. Looking down, he realized they were wet with his own blood. He realized he’d fallen unconscious in the saddle. His hands were bound and the Weeping Monk rode his own horse to his right. They were at least a few miles from Cinder, judging by the position of the Minotaurs peaks, and out of the fire zone given the taste of the air. He knew they were headed to a Red Paladin encampment.
“Why?” Gawain asked.
The Weeping Monk rode in silence.
“You’re one of us. How could you?”
“I’m nothing like you,” the monk answered.
“I saw your hand change. What are you? An Asher? There haven’t been Ash Men in these lands for centuries. They had marks too. Like your eyes—”
Instantly the monk’s sword was under his chin. “Say it again, devil.”
“Do it, Asher,” Gawain said through clenched teeth, the blade still at his throat. “Kill me if you’re so brave. Or better yet, free my hands and we’ll see how good you are. I took your arrow, coward. Why was that? Were you afraid to face me up close?”
The Weeping Monk considered Gawain’s words, then returned his sword to its sheath. “In a few hours, you’ll wish I’d killed you.”
Gawain felt numb at the sight of the first Red Paladin torches flickering a dull, hazy light. The forest had been sheared with clumsy haste, leaving jagged stumps, like a field of broken teeth, for hundreds of yards in all directions. A noisome odor of burning flesh shook Gawain’s bold countenance as they entered the muddy field of tents. Dead-eyed, tonsured monks standing around campfires followed their progress until the Weeping Monk slowed to a stop. Gawain followed the monk’s eyes to a small army, a hundred or more black-robed warriors. They were the Trinity, Gawain surmised. He’d heard the rumors of their fighting prowess and cruelty. Their golden death masks gazed impassively at the Weeping Monk as he resumed his ride, pulling up to a larger tent, where, judging by the scowls and puffed-out chests, the tension was thick between Father Carden’s Red Paladin guard and the Trinity soldiers.
The monk dismounted and dragged Gawain from his palfrey. Against all his efforts, Gawain screamed when his feet struck the ground and he buckled to his knees, his wounds tearing wider after the long ride. At the monk’s orders, two Red Paladins grabbed Gawain roughly by the shoulders and dragged him into the large tent.
Father Carden stood at a table covered in maps, next to a man in Trinity robes with a shaved head and a black beard worn in a French fork. Brother Salt was also present, swaying in the corner, ever smiling, stitched eyes turned to the ceiling.
Even in his wounded state, Gawain could feel the edge in the air. Carden’s face was pinched, but upon seeing the Weeping Monk and his prisoner, some blush came to his cheeks. Relief, it seemed.
“My son, you are a sight for sore eyes,” Carden said.
“Is this him?” the man with the forked beard asked, circling around the table. “Is this the famous Weeping Monk?”
The monk turned to Father Carden with a look of confusion at their new visitor. “This is Abbot Wicklow. He’s here to . . .” Carden trailed off.
“Observe,” Abbot Wicklow finished for him.
The Weeping Monk bowed his head respectfully. Wicklow folded his arms behind his back and studied the monk’s face, studied his eyes. “I’ve heard a great deal about you. A great deal. They say you’re our best fighter. Possessed with unnatural speed and grace—”
There was something in the way Wicklow said “unnatural” that made Carden stiffen. He interrupted. “Speak, my son. What have you brought us?”
“The Green Knight, Father.”
Wicklow turned to Carden, surprised. “The rebel leader?”
Carden came forward. “This is welcome news.” He put his hands on his hips, taking in Gawain’s condition. “The Green Knight. Well? What do you have to say, hmm? Perhaps if you tell us where to find the Wolf-Blood Witch, you can save yourself.”