Pym grunted, giving in to fatigue, and pressed the side of her face to Nimue’s back. Nimue had no illusions about the two-hour ride ahead of them. Dusk Lady was no warhorse, and wolves could easily panic her. And it was no secret the glades were a sanctuary for thieves eager to sack the vendors fresh from market day with their pouches full of new coin.
Nimue’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a horse approaching from behind. Pym stirred. “What is that?”
“Quiet,” Nimue hushed her, and spun Dusk Lady in a circle, searching for a place to hide. Her heart pounded, but Dusk Lady chose that moment to turn stubborn, standing fixed in the middle of the road as Nimue dug her heels into the horse’s ribs and a lone figure rode into the moonlight. Desperate, Nimue fished out a cheese knife she had hidden in the saddle. “Come no closer!”
Pym gripped her shoulders.
“I surrender,” spoke a familiar voice. A black courser stepped out of the gloom. The young man held up a familiar piece of clothing. “Does this belong to one of you?”
At Arthur’s presence, Nimue again felt the hum inside her. Her hand went to her throat, and for the first time she realized she’d lost her cloak.
“You came all this way just to return a cloak?”
“It’s a nice one.”
“Are you alone?” Nimue glanced into the darkness over Arthur’s shoulder.
“Aye. Except for Egypt here.” Arthur patted his horse’s long neck.
Nimue urged Dusk Lady forward until she was close enough for Arthur to hand her the cloak.
“Never seen anyone treat Bors like that,” he said, though Nimue couldn’t tell if he was impressed or frightened of her.
She flung the cloak around her shoulders, loath to admit she was as afraid. “Pity. He could use more humility.”
“You should be more careful.”
“I don’t need your advice,” Nimue said, doing her best to sound confident but conscious that she’d taken things too far back at the tavern.
Arthur smiled, shaking his head. “Really? You have it all figured out, do you?”
Charming smile or not, his tone annoyed her. “At least as much as a young sell-sword who just does as he’s told and keeps his mouth shut.”
“Thank you,” Pym interjected, “for the cloak. You didn’t have to.”
“I haven’t met your kind before.”
“And?” Nimue asked.
Arthur held up his hands. “Maybe you haven’t seen as much of the world as you think. For example, there’s a fellow name of Ring Nose, likes to set ambushes past the hook turn up the road.” Pym looked alarmed.
“And let me guess: you know that because he works for you,” Nimue said.
Arthur’s ears reddened. “For Bors, on occasion.”
“True knights,” Nimue scoffed.
“Listen, these are dangerous days for Fey Folk to be witching men in broad daylight.”
“We’re not witches,” Nimue shot back.
“Men like Bors are one thing,” Arthur continued, “but the Red Paladins are another. I’ve seen the burning fields. Have you?”
“I’ve seen plenty,” Nimue lied.
“You don’t forget the smell. It hangs in the air for miles. The Southern lords keep inside their walls and give the paladins the run of—”
Nimue hushed Arthur. She listened. There had been a sound on the breeze.
All was quiet.
Then they heard the murmur of voices approaching from the glades.
“Someone’s coming. Off the road.” Nimue took the reins of Arthur’s horse and spurred Dusk Lady down an embankment and into a dark pasture. She made breathy whistles to Dusk Lady, and she instinctively sought shelter in a huddle of young trees, not enough to hide them completely, but far enough. They waited in silence. Dusk Lady huffed and Nimue stroked her neck to shush her.
After an eternity, four riders came into view, pausing at the spot where they’d just stood. One of them held out a lantern and looked around.
“Friend of Ring Nose?” Nimue whispered.
“I don’t know them,” Arthur said in a low voice.
His hand slid down to the pommel of his sword, and his blithe countenance turned to stone. His muscles tensed.
More wolf than pup, Nimue realized.
A sudden hum welled up inside her, and she fought it off. But there was something inside Arthur, a reservoir of energy, barely checked and almost primal, burning like some deep internal furnace. It was unlike any aura Nimue had ever felt, and it made her both curious and deeply afraid. This was no ordinary boy.
Cold laughter brought Nimue’s attention back to the road. She could tell by the men’s rough voices and poorly fed horses that they were not Red Paladins. After a few moments, the riders moved on. Their lantern light faded and Arthur’s muscles slowly relaxed again.
“Follow me,” Nimue whispered to Arthur and Pym. She rode into the darkness, farther away from the road.
“Where are you going?” Arthur asked.
“To make camp. We aren’t taking that road tonight.”
Half a skin of wine later, Pym snored quietly in the grass.
Lit silver by the moonlight, Nimue circled Arthur, aiming the wobbly blade at his nose. Arthur laughed. “What are you doing?”
“Stalking you,” Nimue whispered.
Arthur frowned, his short sword dragging in the grass. “Have you held a sword before?”
“I’ve killed hundreds.”
Arthur slid his foot toward Nimue.
“Be careful,” Nimue swung with gusto, but Arthur kept creeping forward.
“To the death, is it?”
“If you’re careless.” Nimue held the sword with both hands.
Arthur feinted left. She swung again, but only sliced air.
“You’re fighting with just the blade,” he told her. “That’s a waste of a good sword.”
Nimue lunged forward and Arthur barely dodged. “You talk too much.”
But Arthur pivoted inside her reach. “A sword is more than a blade.” He stepped between Nimue’s legs as she cut at him, but he caught her blade in his cross guard. “It’s the cross guard.”
With their swords locked and pointed to the ground, he mimed striking Nimue in the chin with his pommel. “It’s the pommel.”
He bent his knee into the back of hers. “Legs.” And then he turned his elbow to touch her cheek. “Body weight.”
Nimue sulked.
Arthur smirked.
Then she head-butted him right in the nose.
“Gods!” Arthur stumbled back, pinching his nose to stop the trickle of blood coming from his right nostril.
“Head,” Nimue said.
He looked at the blood on his fingers and chuckled. “Tavern brawler, eh?”
Nimue lunged and Arthur raised his short sword in time, deflecting her blow. With two hands, she swung again, too close to Arthur’s face. He shook his head. “You are dangerous.”
“That is the first intelligent thing you’ve said all night. Yield?”
“Hardly,” Arthur snorted, jabbing the short sword. Nimue pivoted to block him but missed. He slid his blade to the pommel of her sword and spun it hard, flinging Nimue’s sword into the grass.