Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3) (22 page)

Smort halted before the gate and sat in the saddle for a time as if trying to work through a dilemma.

Axel grew impatient. “Why do we not simply go around it?”

“Because one does not sidestep a gate,” the goblin returned with a look of pique. “Gates are made to pass through.”

“Is it locked?”

“Of course it is.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s always locked.”

Axel raked his fingers through his hair and stroked his beard. “Do you happen to know the whereabouts of the key?”

“There are many keys, one of which is hanging on a cord around my neck.”

Smort got down and unlocked the gate, and when they both had passed through, the gate closed of its own accord. The unaided click of the lock sent another troop of cold-footed spiders marching up Axel’s spine, adding to the chill created by the sudden drop in temperature and the palpable increase in creepiness.

“There,” the goblin said. “We’ve now officially entered the Borderlands.”

A backward glance showed Axel only black trunks, white mist, and the odd freestanding gate. Up ahead, the profusion of trees looked almost human. The trunks were their bodies; the leaves and hanging moss, their hair; the knotholes and burls, their features; and the gnarled roots, their feet. He’d heard the trees in the Borderlands moved about on their own.

“Are the stories true?”

“I know not which stories you mean,” the goblin returned, “but if you’re referring to the horde swooping down on unsuspecting travelers and stripping them to skeletons, I can tell you they’re dead accurate.”

Axel did not like the sound of that at all. “I meant the stories of the trees walking about as though they have no roots. But since you’ve brought up the goblin horde, I’d like to ask a question, if I may.”

“Go ahead. You’ve paid for the privilege of inquiry.”

Axel licked his lips, which all at once felt as dry as sun-bleached bone. “Is the horde a danger to me with you as my escort?”

“Only if they see us together and suspect I’m in league with the faeries and vampires.”

His answer was of little comfort to Axel. “And the trees? Is it true they can move?”

“They can and sometimes will hem a body in. Mostly, though, they merely watch—or grab.”

Axel shifted in his saddle and swallowed hard. “Grab?”

“Indeed. With their branches. They all do it on occasion, but the willows are the ones you really have to watch out for, as they’re not above hanging a man with those long, wispy tendrils of theirs.”

Gut tightly coiled, Axel glanced around. There were oak, ash, rowan, pine, and gum trees, but, to his great relief, no willows in the immediate vicinity. “Are there any other dangers I should be aware of?”

“In the Borderlands, everything you see is dangerous.”

As they moved deeper into the forest, the trees got taller, darker, thicker, and more menacing. The thudding of hooves, squeaking of saddles, and occasional plop of gathered moisture dropping from the leaves overhead were the only sounds.

Axel’s dread increased exponentially as they picked their way along the trail, carefully avoiding the snares of gnarled and interlacing roots. He got the unsettling sense the trees were watching them with growing animosity. The uncanny feeling of eyes ever on them mounted until he found himself glancing backward every few moments. Sometimes, a tree had moved across the path. Being in such a threatening place with no way to defend himself made his wame hard and his heart hollow.

After a while, to ease his discomfort, he began to sing an old Viking song he learned in his youth: “I dreamt a dream last night of equality and honest measure…”

“Och, och!” Smort pulled his pony to an abrupt halt, nearly causing Axel’s horse to stumble.

“What is the matter?” Axel demanded, unnerved. “Why are you shouting? Why did you stop so short?”

“You must not sing,” the goblin told him with a glower that could smelt iron. “For we despise singing as much as we adore gold.”

“My sincerest apologies.” Axel feigned contrition to cover his delight. Unwittingly, Smort had given him a weapon to use if they should be set upon by the horde. “I shan’t sing again if you find it so abhorrent.”

The horses started moving again and, after they’d gone another few miles, the sun grew gradually brighter. When at last they came out of the trees, they found themselves in a wide circular glade filled with rough grass and assorted plants. Thistle, hemlock, feverfew, wormwood, wood-garlic, and pennyroyal, among others. It was not a particularly cheerful clearing, but something about its aspect reminded him of Faery Glen, and that small remembrance loosened another.

For one fleeting instant, his mind’s eye showed him a woman with emerald eyes, a freckled nose, and hair all the colors of autumn foliage. She was as beautiful as a woodland nymph, and he knew he had loved her once and very probably still did.

More recollections broke through the clouds obscuring the memory of her. His hands cupping her lovely face, her petal-soft lips pressed against his, their bodies locked in mutual passion on a fur bed under the stars, him placing a runic ring on the third finger of her left hand.

These glimpses provided clues—keys that might unlock the chains Morgan had wrapped around his mind. The starry sky in the vision told him he knew her from the Hitherworld, while the ring told him he cared enough to want to protect her.

Whoever the mystery lady was, his queen had separated him from her the same way Grimhild had separated Sigurd and Brunhilde. Morgan’s magic elixir might have worked, too, if not for one thing she had not counted on: his heart still held the roots of what she’d harvested from his memory.

Like a word on the tip of his tongue, the red-haired lass’s name would come to him eventually. And, when it did, he would find her again—or give up his life in the attempt. For having finally tasted love, he would rather die than live on without its sweet flavor.

“How much farther to Brocaliande?” Axel was eager to complete his quest and get back to Avalon. Queen Morgan might never let him return to his post, but at least the portal was there. If he ever got the chance, he would steal across the vale to look for his lady love.

“Not far.”

Encouraged, Axel looked up at the daylight sky, letting the sun warm his face as they rode across the meadow toward a break in the circle of trees. The path picked up a wee ways beyond and wound through the woods, wide in some places and overgrown in others. As they drew closer, the warmth he had absorbed in the glade left him. This new stretch of forest felt even more hostile than the one they’d lately come through.

Heart in his throat, Axel followed Smort up the path. At intervals, the trees drew nearer, narrowing the passage and casting cold shadows. Now and again, skeletal black boughs grabbed at his hair and clothes. Farther off, twigs snapped and leaves crunched periodically, tripping his internal warning bells. The air seemed heavy, suffocating. Despite the shade, he was sweating under his tunic.

Right behind them, something crashed. Turning swiftly, Axel saw a large branch had fallen across the path. Beyond the fallen limb, several trees had moved to block the path back to the channel.

Doom’s icy fingers tied knots in his intestines as he returned his eyes to the forward position. He had fallen a few paces behind his escort, who was just rounding a bend. As the goblin disappeared from view, Axel’s gut warned him something was not right. As he pulled his horse to a stop, a strangled cry broke through the obscuring trees.

“Smort? Are you all right?”

In the moments of silence that followed, he narrowed his options to two: go forward and try to help the goblin or flee into the forest and leave the poor creature to his fate. Deciding both alternatives were equal in danger, he chose the braver of the two and dug in his heels. The horse snorted, shook his head, and bolted forward.

With a cannonball of dread lodged in his gut, Axel searched the gaps between the trunks for watching eyes or signs of movement. Though he saw nothing, his trepidation did not decrease. The trees themselves might be the cause of the goblin’s misfortune.

As Axel rounded the bend, his suspicions were confirmed. There was Smort, hanging high in the cascading branches of a sizeable weeping willow. The frozen expression of surprise on the creature’s face, coupled with his limp posture and the awkward angle of his neck, told Axel he had come to the goblin’s aid too late. Assuming his death had not been instantaneous.

Axel halted his horse and remained on his guard as he considered his next move. No sooner had he made up his mind to leave the body where it hung, than he remembered the key.
Curses.
He might need it to cross into Brocaliande—or to return to Avalon when his assignment was complete. If he could not get through the gate before the ticking-clock potion took effect, he would die before he found the red-haired lass.

So, like it or not, he had to get that key.

Stroking his beard, he tried to work out how best to go about it with the limited tools at his disposal. There was a penknife in his saddlebag. Perhaps he could use it to compel the tree to drop the goblin.

He dismounted, tied his horse, and, giving the willow a wide berth, set about looking for a twig he could use to fashion a fire wand. Finding one he deemed suitable, he retrieved the knife and began to carve.

When the wand was ready, he pointed the tip at the tree. “Drop the goblin, Brother Willow, or I shall be forced to light you up.”

“Of what use is the goblin to you?” asked the tree through a gash in its bark. Above this “mouth” was a pair of knots and a nose-like node, creating the illusion of a face.

“None in his present state,” Axel replied, hiding his surprise that the tree had spoken. “But I may require the key he wears about his neck to cross into Brocaliande.”

“The druids are the friends of my kind,” the willow said. “If you wish for my help, you must first disclose the nature of your business with them.”

“My business is not with the druids, but with a fellow knight who they harbor. He has stolen something of great value and broken his vows. I have come to bring him and the pilfered object back to Avalon—so that justice may be served.”

“How do I know you speak the truth?”

“I swear to you on the sacred wood of
Yggdrasil
, the cosmic tree of the Nine Worlds, that my declaration is honest and my aims are true.”

“You are familiar with
Yggdrasil
?”

“I am indeed, Brother Willow. For my ancestors came to Scotland from Scania aboard the long ship of Harald Hálfdan.”

“I see. But, far from heartening me, the knowledge you are descended from Viking raiders only multiplies my distrust.”

Alex stroked his beard as he considered what to say next. “If there is anything I can do to convince you of my forthrightness, name the deed and it shall be done.”

“You might start by lowering that wand,” the tree told him, “as fire is an even greater enemy of my kith and kin than are the goblins.”

Axel eyed the tree warily. “If I do as you wish, do you promise not to harm me?”

“I will not harm you unless provoked to do so for my own protection. It is the goblins we despise, not all who walk on two legs.”

Curiosity drew Axel’s eyebrows together. “May I know the reason you loathe the goblins in particular?”

“They cut us down and sell our wood for no better reason than to put more gold in their pockets.”

Axel, understanding more than the tree had stated, raised an eyebrow. “As opposed to being grateful for the shelter and shade you provide and only taking what they need to keep themselves warm and cook their food?”

“Precisely.”

Satisfied by the willow’s answer and logic, Axel lowered his wand. “There. I have done as you asked. Now will you give me the key?”

As if assailed by a strong and sudden gust of wind, the tree’s drooping branches began to sway. The movement spread outward to the other trees, filling the air with a symphony of rustling leaves. Then, the goblin’s body dropped to the ground. Keeping one eye on the tree, Axel stepped over the corpse and removed not only the key, but also the pouch containing the coins and gems and the jewel-handled dirk he found hidden in the belt of Smort’s plaid.

He slipped the weapon into his belt before stowing the other two items in his saddlebag. After thanking the tree, he mounted his horse. “Now, may I impose upon you further and ask the way to Brocaliande?”

“Follow the path until you come to the gate,” the willow told him.

Axel, eager to be on his way, thanked the tree again and kicked his horse. The stallion reared and pawed the air before charging down the path, heedless of what hazards might lay ahead or underfoot.

When the horse tired of running and slowed to a walk, Axel began to sing an air from his days with Robert the Bruce—partly to ease his troubled mind, but mostly to keep the goblin horde at bay.

His crooning must have worked because he traveled unmolested all the way to the second gate. This one, like the first, spanned the full width of the path. Unlike the first, however, this gate was attached to a towering iron fence stretching as far as the eye could see in both directions. The tight spacing of the sharply pointed bars comprising the barrier made one thing abundantly clear: faeries, which were repelled by iron, were unwelcome in the druid forest.