“You are the Wolf-Blood Witch?” he asked her.
“I am.”
“I am Sir Royce of the king’s personal guard. Have you the sword?”
Nimue forced herself to look Sir Royce straight in the eyes. “I do not.”
The soldiers exchanged looks at this. Sir Royce frowned. “Is this a jest, madam? The king has kept his word to you. Have you been false to His Majesty?”
“The sword is near. But I have conditions of my own.” Nimue hated the way her voice shook.
Sir Royce’s face contorted with anger. “You’re a bold wench, aren’t you? Where is the sword?”
“Grant me an audience with King Uther. To him only will I share its location.”
Sir Royce twisted his reins in his gloved fist. Nimue assumed it was her neck he was imagining. “This ends poorly for you, girl,” he warned. “Keep up.” With that, he wheeled his horse around. The soldiers fell in around her as they rode to Camp Pendragon.
Nimue’s saw the ocean of black-and-gold tents reaching across a vast plain and speckling onto the low hillside. She had never felt quite so small or unimpressive as she passed glowering soldiers with muddy faces, some regarding her with suspicion, others making lewd faces or gestures. A cold hand squeezed her guts when the sprawling royal pavilion came into view and she saw six Red Paladins and six Trinity guards stationed outside. Her heart was thudding as Sir Royce dismounted, took her palfrey’s reins, and allowed her to climb down. Her legs were weak, but she straightened herself and glanced into the paladins’ murderous eyes as the flap was opened and she entered.
She wondered if they would grant her some water. Lush carpets covered the ground. There were tables of abundance and luxury all around her: heaping bowls of fruits and cakes and breads, jugs of wine and golden candlesticks. King Uther sat on a throne, a thin golden crown over his narrow forehead. He was younger than she’d expected. Standing to his left was the man she knew as Sir Beric. Next to him was a small and dark-eyed man in exquisite black church robes, and across from the king was Father Carden, tall with a warm, round face that belied the evil that lived within. He gazed upon her with thin pity.
Sir Royce brushed ahead of Nimue and knelt before the king. “Your Majesty, the witch requested an audience. She doesn’t have the sword. She claimed she would only reveal its location to you, sire.”
“She mocks your kindness, Your Majesty,” Father Carden said. “Why waste another breath on her? We are more than capable of drawing out the sword’s location from her. Indeed, it would be a privilege.” Father Carden turned and smiled at Nimue.
“I concur, King Uther,” the little man in the rich robes offered. “Give us the witch and the Sword of Power will be yours by sundown.”
“Girl, we fear you presume too much mercy from us,” the king said to Nimue. “You are aware what awaits you should we hand you over to the Red Brotherhood?”
“Aye, very aware, Your Majesty,” Nimue said. She looked at Father Carden. “He had my mother killed. My family. Those who raised me. My best friend. He burned them all. Burned our village down. I know him well.”
Nimue saw Carden’s jaw clench while she felt a heat rising through her.
“We will humble you before Almighty God, child, I swear it,” Carden replied.
“That’s what your boys in the glade thought,” Nimue heard herself say.
Father Carden took an aggressive step toward her, and on instinct, Sir Royce stepped in his path. Nimue turned back to the king, a fury building.
King Uther studied her. “You promised us the sword. Now where is it?”
“I will deliver you the sword, Your Majesty, when the Green Knight is released and returned to me.” Nimue turned to Father Carden. “Alive,” she finished.
Father Carden scoffed, “The Green Knight is ours, and we will continue to purify him until his soul is clean.”
“Then you will never have the sword,” Nimue promised Uther. “And you will never be the one true king.”
Sir Beric’s eyes grew wide. “How dare you speak to the king in this manner?”
“Please, Your Majesty,” the man in black robes implored the king, “it pains me to see this witch degrade you so.”
“I believe you are fair,” Nimue said to Uther, “and merciful. You would not have sent your ships for my kind were you otherwise. You have me. I will pay for whatever crimes I must. But in return for my life and the sword I beg you, free the Green Knight.”
“More lies,” Carden said.
“I am ready to die. Are you?”
“Is that a threat, girl?” Carden asked.
“Torture me all you like, strip me to the bones, I will never reveal the sword. It will never be found. Never,” Nimue said directly to the king.
Uther sighed. “Gods, it will give us great joy to be rid of you all.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. “Royce, take the witch to a tent while we deliberate.”
Steel hands took her arms and led her away as heated voices erupted behind her.
Arthur stood on the beach, suffering through the interminable wait as the rowboats transporting the Fey Kind to the two-masted hulks offshore fought the wintry tide. Over and over again, the waves bashed the boats back ashore and the Fey passengers would need to unload into smaller groups. Complicating matters still more were the Fey’s unfamiliarity and discomfort with the open seas. Many panicked as the rowboats left the sands, and it was only fear of Wroth and his war hammer that made them scurry back to the boats. In twelve hours, they had only loaded half the refugees, and the rest shivered on the beach, huddling near the large rocks by the cliff wall.
Arthur hurried to corral two crying Faun children who were nimbly avoiding efforts to get them into the rowboat. He scooped up one from behind, enduring a series of jabs from the young Faun’s budding antlers, and plopped him into the arms of a Faun elder. As Arthur fought to keep the boat steady through a series of strong waves, shouts arose above the rush of the surf. Arthur glanced to the hulks, where people were rushing toward the bow, which was pointed out to sea. He heard them scream, “Raiders!”
Arthur’s heart sank into his belly as the shadows of Viking longships appeared like wraiths in the fog. They peeled out of the mists like predatory sharks, flying the white axes of Eydis, encircling the hulks and volleying hooks and arrows onto their decks. Mass panic ensued aboard the already overloaded hulks. Arrow-filled bodies began to leap from the decks into the frigid waters, where it was easier for the Viking archers to finish them off.
Arthur and dozens of Fey Kind floundered into the ocean to receive the survivors, many of whom washed up drowned and riddled with arrows. There was absolute mayhem aboard the Pendragon hulks as panicking sailors held up a weak defense against the dreaded Vikings, who were as at home in sea battle as they were curled up beside a warm hearth.
Arthur was swallowing gouts of seawater, dragging heavy bodies ashore, when a shaft struck the sand beside him. He looked up at the cliffs at another cohort of raiders firing arrows onto the beach. We’re ducks in a barrel, Arthur realized as another two arrows thudded into the sands, dangerously close. Fey Kind scattered blindly, fleeing in all directions, and Arthur watched several cut down, Viking arrows in their backs. His eyes searched desperately for cover. He spied an outcrop, nearer to the raiders’ cliff, but its proximity would actually make them harder targets.