“Let us assume then, for the sake of argument, that you actually do have a military strategy. Was it wise to send your dreaded Red Spear against paladin camps along the Granite Coast, given that Pendragon forces already outnumber you by a hundred to one? One might assume it best to encourage Father Carden to remain neutral in this struggle rather than antagonize him.”
“Now, that is a fine question, Merlin. Bravo. Who does command the Red Spear, Father?” Calder smirked.
Cumber turned to his youngest son. “Shut your hole, boy, or my ax handle will.” Then, turning back to Merlin, Cumber growled, “What the Red Spear does is none of your bloody concern. Now, I am a simple man. I’ve no desire to play games or match wits with dark creatures like yourself. Speak plainly your reasons for coming here, and for your dear sake I hope they please me.”
“I would like to know the character and intellect of the man I am about to put on the English throne,” Merlin stated simply. “Is that plain enough for you?”
Cumber paused, then set the pup down on the floor. “Bold words,” he said. “You’ve turned on your Liar King.”
“I am my own man,” Merlin countered.
“A traitor is always a traitor.”
“If only the world were so black and white,” Merlin mused. “I suspect you waver here on these frigid shores because you enter a land unknown to you and ignorant of your claim as the true Pendragon—a charge that can be proved only by the one living witness to the stillbirth of the Queen Regent’s son.”
Cumber stood up, stunned. “Is this . . . the midwife?”
Merlin nodded gravely. “She is. And now we shall discuss what you will give me in return.”
FORTY-SEVEN
NIMUE STARED DOWN FROM LORD Ector’s throne at a sullen Tusk by the name of B’uluf, slender for his kind, with a broken horn beneath his right jawbone. His arms were held behind his back by Arthur and two Faun archers. Wroth stood to the side with a fearsome glower, arms folded over his broad chest, and across from him stood Lord Ector. Morgan stood to Nimue’s right.
Nimue and B’uluf were the same age, and his unimpressed smirk told her that he was among the few Fey Folk who still viewed her as a willful girl and not a queen. She knew him from their battle in the marshes, where he had distinguished himself for bravery. She also knew him as a troublemaker who saw signs of disrespect everywhere and caused a lot of headaches in the caves.
He stood before her now for the murder of a Cinder resident, a carpenter, from the poorer section of town. B’uluf and three other Tusks had beaten the man to death outside his home in full view of his wife and children. Nimue could see the man’s blood on B’uluf’s furred knuckles. The mood in Cinder had already been dry tinder seeking a spark. This wasn’t a spark, Nimue thought, but a torch and a barrel of oil. That evening alone, Arthur and his ragtag guard of Storm Crafters and Fauns had broken up a group of Cinderians trying to force their way into the armory for their confiscated blades.
“What could possibly have possessed you to do this?” Nimue asked B’uluf, her voice shaking with rage. She yearned in that moment for Gawain’s steady temperament, for she could feel the Sword of Power hanging beside her, compelling her hand to reach for it.
B’uluf shrugged without remorse. “He made comments to us many times,” he said in his thickly accented English. “And has the cross painted on his door. He is not one of us, he is one of them. One less of them.” B’uluf glanced at Wroth, who turned his baleful eyes on Nimue. She knew the young Tusk was confident of Wroth’s protection. The Tusks were their best fighters, and they were already stretched woefully thin.
Nimue could not afford to lose any of them.
Lord Ector wore an equally furious expression.
“You are aware that the Red Paladins took this city first, are you not?” Nimue asked him sharply.
Again, B’uluf shrugged. The conversation did not seem to interest him.
“And that non-Christians were singled out and hanged on stakes and burned to death? As a result, most of Cinder’s people painted crosses on their doors to protect their families.”
B’uluf’s attention drifted.
“Look at me,” Nimue demanded.
“This outrageous crime must be answered blood for blood,” Lord Ector spat. “More violence will result if this is not dealt with swiftly and harshly.”
Before Nimue could answer, Wroth spoke up. “Deh moch, grach buur. Augroch ef murech.”
As always, his son Mogwan interpreted: “Wroth says Tusks have ‘war blood.’ It flows hot long after a battle.” He listened to more of his father’s comments, then added, “He says he will discipline B’uluf.”
“By doing what?” Nimue asked.
Wroth glared at Nimue. “Negh fwat, negh shmoch, gros wat.”
“We give him less food, less water, more work.”
Lord Ector scoffed, “That’s it? Unacceptable!”
Wroth barked something at Lord Ector.
Nimue shouted, “That is enough!” The hall grew quiet. Nimue’s head throbbed.
She heard the sword whisper to her. She refused to listen. Her skull felt like it was going to crack.
“Bring him forward,” she said in a low voice. Arthur and the Fauns led B’uluf to the steps of the throne. “I made it clear when we took this city that no human blood was to be spilled. It was not a request but a command from your queen.” B’uluf glared at her with defiance.
The sword hissed in her mind. She fought it off. Rubbed her temples. She blinked, trying to clear her eyes and her thoughts. Her eyes drifted to B’uluf’s hands. “What is that on your fingers?” she asked him. “Hold them out,” she told Arthur and the Fauns. They held B’uluf’s bloody hands out for Nimue to see. “What is that?” she asked him again, pointing to his rust-colored knuckles.
“Man blood,” B’uluf said with a sneer.
“You wear your guilt on your hands. Along with your defiance.”
B’uluf shrugged.
With effort, Nimue said, “You will spend a week in our dungeons and then be given over to Wroth for what I expect will be severe punishment. That is all.”
Lord Ector cursed under his breath.
Wroth nodded, satisfied.
B’uluf held out his hands. “Man Bloods have to know their place.”
At that, Nimue turned, drew the Sword of Power, and in a single stroke severed both of B’uluf’s hands at the wrist. The Tusk’s mouth was open a full second before his guttural scream, and he fell back into Arthur’s arms.
“Defy me again at your peril!” Nimue screamed.
Wroth lunged at Nimue, and the Fauns threw themselves in his path only to be tossed aside like rag dolls. Only Mogwan had the strength to hold his father back as Wroth spat every Tusk invective he could at Nimue. As B’uluf wailed on his knees, Arthur drew his own sword and swung it around at Wroth. Nimue held the Sword of Power in both hands, aiming the point at Wroth, who struggled against Mogwan before relenting. He marched over to B’uluf, yanked him to his feet by his unbroken horn, and stormed out of the hall.
Morgan took Nimue by the shoulders as the sword dropped from her shaking hands and she muttered, “I—I can’t—I’m sorry—” Her thoughts exploded. I’m a monster. You are Queen of the Fey. A monster. I’m a monster! Your people need you. They need you. It’s just blood. He’s just a stupid boy. I can’t. I don’t want this. You wield the Sword of Power. I don’t want it!