Camelot's Blood (43 page)

• • •

Swing again, and again. All art, all science gone. Only bloody, brute force left. Hammer hard, like a smith breaking iron. Wear the other down, beat him, break him until he fell. The whole world had come down to this; blow for blow, ducking, wheeling, fighting pain, struggling to see, to sense the next fall of the enemy's blade. Struggling to bring his own arms up, again and yet again.

But the ground underneath was mud and stone. The horses were as overtaxed as their riders, and had no fury or fight for life to sustain them. The black war horse stumbled, and its foreknee buckled, just for a moment, but it was enough. The Black Knight lost his seat, sliding hard to the ground, landing with a squelch and a thud.

Agravain slashed down, but his reach was not long enough. He swung out of his saddle and stumped over to his enemy.

It ends, here and now it ends
.

He took aim at Mordred's exposed throat, and stabbed down.

Mordred moved. A flash, a ringing clang as the Black Knight's blade knocked his own aside. Jolted into awareness, Agravain tried to step back, but fire lanced through his knee, and he fell. His shoulder hit stone and pain burned, robbing him of the ability to roll aside for a crucial instant. Mordred was above him, his teeth flashing white beneath the black guard of his helm. Mordred's sword flashed down, burying itself deep into Agravain's chest.

And pulling out again.

There was surprisingly little pain. Just a strange pressure. His hands were warm and wet from the dark blood fountaining over them. It was hard to breathe. Very hard. The darkness was coming. Agravain was not so confused as to think it night. No. This was a darkness far older and eternal, and it laid itself down lightly on him.

Laurel
.

The darkness closed down and took all thought with it.

Darkness surrounded Laurel; cool, calming darkness that was infinitely familiar to the deepest part of her soul. The deeper they dived, the more familiar, more intimate that touch became, the more clearly she heard her name in the currents that whispered past her ears. It was the arms that held her that felt wrong. This was a stranger's touch, it had no belonging here. It borrowed the flesh of a beloved and mischievous daughter. It was an abomination. It would be cast out.

Grandmother was angry. Laurel stretched, holding the form she had been given with difficulty, as the sea's grip closed.
Where are you taking me, Morgaine?

Down to your brothers and sisters. Down to where daylight will no more trouble you
.

Pride. It poured from her in ripples. Laurel made the babe in her arms go limp.
Are we almost there, Morgaine?

Almost there, little one
. It was so gentle. So much like what a mother would say to soothe a restless child. Laurel could bear it no more.

Yes. Yes. Here we are, you and I Morgaine. And we are not alone
.

Morgaine laughed, flinging herself wide.
You think your grandmother will save your mortal flesh, little one?

I do not speak of the bucca-gwidden, Morgaine. I speak of the other ones. You called them my brothers and sisters, but you never knew their names
.

Names. Names were powerful. Names cut deep. Her grandmother knew the names of all the souls who rested in her body, and she whispered them in Laurel's ear.

Shall I call them for you? Bran and Tor, Caden, Austell, Masin, Piran, Daveth, and Ian
.

Laurel felt Morgaine's pride and certainty waver.
What are you doing?

Calling my brothers, Morgaine,
she answered calmly.
You brought me here. Made me one of them. One more babe drowned to buy your son's life. How can you refuse to see the others who you murdered in this darkness? Garen and Eloweth, Worth and Rhys and Kevern …

More shadows, shapes made of a darkness beyond darkness, but as the list of names tolled they grew clearer.

The ghosts of the children came.

They walked on thin legs. They were bloated and black-eyed, heavy with the water their skins had drunk. Their mouths hung slack from the choking screams that had been their last sounds. The remains of their clothing and the coils of their hair swayed in the current like strange water weeds.

Come, my brothers. Come, my sons. Come and meet the one who brought you here. Come meet Morgaine the Sleepless, Morgaine the Goddess, Morgan the Fey
.

Fear. Fear, deep and black as the waters that surrounded them boiled out of Morgaine. This she had not seen. This she had never looked for.

Morgaine, Morgaine,
the little ghosts' whispers were filled with wonder.
We never knew your name before. We called and called, and you could not hear, because we did not know your name.

Morgaine
.

Morgaine
.

She rallied, anchoring herself to the strengths that had held her so long. She drew deep on the bottomless well of hate and need that had sustained her heart and soul and strangling power for all the long years.
You cannot call to me. I accepted this deed long ago. My soul will pay when I die, and I am not dead yet!

You accepted this deed, but we did not, Morgaine. You never asked us. It was not with our consent you made us sacrifice. We said this to you over and over, but you never heard us. Because we did not know your name
.

You did not hear us call our mothers and our fathers
.

You did not hear us cry for the cold and the sound of the thunder overhead
.

You did not hear us weeping all these long years in darkness
.

They closed, those dreadful ghosts, grinning grins that belonged to no child. These were the ghosts of hate and fear. These were the last, lost wishes of the human soul. They wanted to know why this had happened, to find the hand that bore them down.

To strike back. Even a child could wish so very hard to strike back.

No!
Morgaine cried, cringing.
These are baptized children. God took them!

He reaches out His hand, Morgaine but we do not go. We cannot forgive, Morgaine. We waited here in the dark for you, to show you what you have done
.

No!

She tried to run, tried to fly. But this was not her place. This place belonged to Laurel, and to the White Spirit of the Sea who had sheltered these smaller spirits for so long. There was no escaping them. They permeated the element all around her.

Hear the storm, Morgaine. Hear what we heard
.

Feel the cold, Morgaine. Feel the cold arms that take you from all you know
.

Know that you are sacrifice, Morgaine, to another's need. To another's hate, another's fear
.

Come down into the dark, Morgaine, down where all your fear and all your sorrow mean nothing

Come down, Morgaine
.

Come down to us
.

They rose up, light as the foam on the waves far overhead. They knew her name and she knew not one of theirs. She could not call out, not really. She had nothing to hold them with, nothing to bind them, but they held her chains tight, and she screamed, and screamed and screamed again until they smothered her. Smothered her and dragged her away.

She was gone. Gone. And Laurel was alone.

Laurel swayed back and forth. She was blind and cold, her self both fully at home and utterly lost.

Where am I?
she wondered dazedly.
Where am I really? Is this flesh or spirit here?

Grandmother?
She whispered. Perhaps it was not flesh. Perhaps she could still find herself again

I'm sorry, Laurel
. The sorrow was as gentle as the spring rain. It washed away her hopes and fears as easily as that rain would have washed away her tears. She had made her bargain willingly. She had purchased a victory, for herself, for her family and her husband. Like Morgaine, she could not refuse to pay the price

Love and understanding carried away the pain, making the rest easy. All she had to do was let go; let go of breath and mortal being. All her work was done. She could sleep now. Slip into easy dreams. She could remember another pair of arms around her, lean and strong, sheltering her and taking shelter. Remember eyes looking to her and seeing beauty and precious trust.

Remembering, Laurel Carnbrea drifted down into the further deeps.

• • •

Mordred watched Agravain drop into the mud, and fall still. Panting, aching in every muscle, he wiped sweat and rain from his face. It was not victory, not as he had hoped, but it would become victory in time. When they found their new king was dead and without an heir, these northmen would tear themselves up trying to replace him. Arthur might even come and wear himself down in the conflict.

All he had to do now was bide his time. He had done that before. It would be a hard thing to turn now and leave so many dead, and this rock unbroken, but he could do that because he must. He must remember the greater prize, the greater battle yet to come.

Mordred heaved himself to his feet.
You almost won
. He picked up his sword that Agravain's fall had wrenched from his hand.
You almost won because you fought with the whole of your wit as well as your heart
. He looked down at the corpse, the blood pooling on its breast and on the sodden ground beside it.
I will not forget that
, he promised.

But I will have your head. I'll need to prove you are dead, and my mother will have her own uses for you
. In the pit of his heart he added.
And it will buy me her forgiveness for this debacle
.

Mordred raised his sword. Its swing sent a giddy wave of anger and mischief through him. But as that swing reached its apex, Agravain sat up.

Mordred froze, sword aloft. Slowly, trembling, Agravain climbed to his feet. His blood made a blacken stain across his chain mail and soaked the torn leather underneath.

Reason vanished, stolen by the irresistible force of fear that must take hold in the face of the terrible and the impossible. Agravain faced him, arms loose, weight forward, in a wrestler's stance. Agravain faced him, silent, implacable, his life's blood drying on face and hands, death's own darkness like shadows in his gaze, the chaos and the fires of his victory rising up behind him.

Agravain, whom he had struck dead, stood and faced him.

The last shred of Mordred's courage melted away. He dropped his sword and vaulted onto his sweating stallion. He wheeled his horse around hard, and fled. Tears streamed down his face, stabbing into his soul like spurs. But he could not stop, could not turn and face the man he had killed.

You've lost! You've lost! You failed!
The voice gibbered in the back of his mind, each word stabbing straight to his heart.

Driven by shame and by fear, Mordred rode away.

• • •

Agravain rode, abandoning the waning battle. There was no doubt of its outcome now. Discarding reason, he whipped his horse forward, racing to catch his enemy, racing to put the last of death's smothering shadows behind him. The scabbard was a blaze of warmth at his back, and he lived, he lived, he lived.

He could feel his stallion's exhausted breathing, feel the killing strain in its muscles as the foam flew from its ravaged mouth. He was running it to death, and it did not matter. All that mattered was catching Mordred, stopping this here and now.

The horse's drumming rhythm missed a beat. The world slipped. A vision of Uncle Kai leaning on his crutch warned Agravain what was happening half a heartbeat before the saddle lurched and turned beneath him. His horse screamed, and Agravain threw himself sideways, slamming full-length — shanks, back, head — against the ground.

Stunned, he couldn't move, even though he clearly heard the fading sounds of Mordred's fleeing hoofbeats.

“No!” he screamed to the steel-grey heavens overhead. “No! Why would you do this! Why bring me back to this!”

There was no answer, save for the soft fall of the rain. Shaking badly, Agravain slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. His horse lay on the ground, not even bothering to try to rise. If the creature was not dead now, it would be shortly. Agravain scrubbed at his scalp, and waited for his men to come to find him, to take him back to his castle and his kingship and leave his battle unfinished.

But he was alive. He was alive, and he had won. He could seek Mordred out another day. He was alive.

Laurel. Where are you? I need you to give me good advice. I need you to chide me for my arrogance. For believing that this could be done in one day
.

Where are you my wife?

He looked up, letting the soft rain bathe his fevered face, waiting for Heaven and earth to bring him some sort of answer.

• • •

He did not have long to wait. It was Devi and Ruadh who came to find him, the men and their mounts battered and bruised, and with the bemused air that is the shock of finding oneself still alive.

They dismounted as soon as they came near, and looked at each other, uncertain. Beyond pride, Agravain held out his hand and let Devi help pull him to his feet. He could be king later. Right now he was too tired for ceremony.

“How does Din Eityn?”

“We held, Sire.” A world's worth of weariness could not keep the echo of pride from Devi's voice. “We took some losses, but we held all the same.”

“Who?”

“Pedair,” answered Ruadh. He was holding back his grief with all his remaining strength. Tears would come later, beside the fire, as they drank to the dead and the living in equal measure.

“He will be honoured,” said Agravain. It was all the promise he could make for the good old man who had stood for so long.
I deserve none of this
. His hand strayed to the strap that held the scabbard.
None of this
.

“Sire?” said Devi softly. Agravain realized he was staring back towards the rock.