Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3) (26 page)

They hadn’t seen the smoke, it seemed. But she might not be so lucky next time. She had to put out the fire at once and never light another—however cold the nights might become.

* * * *

When the day arrived to return to Avalon, Axel rose early and, having said his good-byes the night before, set off toward the Borderlands on foot. A feeling of cold dread crept over his heart as he came within view of the gate. What awaited him on the other side? Would he die at the hands of the goblin horde? Would he be cruelly tortured in Avalon? Would he ever see Jenna again?

In that dark and friendless moment, he fully felt, for the first time, the precariousness of his predicament and wished bitterly that the gods had left him in peace. Life in the glen had been good enough.

As he approached the gate, the thunder of approaching hoof beats reached his ears. Turning, he saw Bran and Leith riding toward him with a riderless horse on a lead.

As they stopped in front of him, Bran hopped down and held out a pouch. “I made you a nawglen to aid your return.”

“Thank you.” Axel took the pouch. “But you must know my chances of coming back are slim at best.”

“Maybe so,” Leith said from atop his horse. “But long shots sometimes pay off. Just look at me. A few months ago, my situation looked dire, and now, I couldn’t be more contented. My curse has been lifted, I’m happily married to the most wonderful lass in creation, and I’ve got a bairn on the way—and the same good fortune might just as easily find you. God knows, you deserve it, Axel, given all you’ve borne—and with the grace and patience of a bloody saint, I might add.”

“We’re not put on this earth to make ourselves happy, my friend,” Axel told him glumly. “We’re put on this earth to find peace in the midst of suffering and chaos.”

“Be that as it may, I wish you joy along with serenity.”

Axel was not going to argue with that. He would gladly take all the felicity the gods saw fit to lay at his door—especially if that felicity had hair all the shades of October leaves.

Looking from Sir Leith to Bran and back again, Axel said, “It was good of you both to come all this way to see me off.”

“We’ve not come to see you off, my brother.” Bran cuffed his shoulder. “We’ve come to accompany you to the edge of the channel.”

Warm, weightless gratitude expanded Axel’s heart. “All the better, for surely the three of us will stand a better chance of besting the goblins than I could on my own.”

“Indeed.” Sir Leith grinned. “And the three of us will stand an even better chance with this.” He tossed a sword to Axel, who caught the weapon by the scabbarded blade.

Axel examined the jewel-encrusted golden hilt. “What’s this?”

“Unsheathe the blade and see for yourself.” Bran released his shoulder and stepped back.

As Axel drew the sword, the blade shone with a silver-white radiance far brighter than the mere glint of sunlight on polished steel. Realizing what he held, awe and disbelief flooded his mind. It could not be—and yet, he could not conceive of another explanation for the sword’s uncanny brilliance. As a lad, he had heard from his father and uncles many tales of the sacred glaive he was almost sure he now held.

Swallowing hard, Axel re-sheathed the blade, dousing its blinding luminance. “Surely this is not the Sword of Light that was brought to Ireland by the Tuatha de Danann, along with the Stone of Destiny, the Cauldron of the Dagda, and the Spear of Lugh.”

“It is one and the same,” Sir Leith said. “And the only sword in existence capable of besting a goblin horde.”

Keeping hold of the sacred sword, Axel unlocked the gate before swinging into the saddle of the riderless horse. With knees and heels, he urged the shaggy-maned bay forward, taking the lead as they crossed into the Borderlands.

To his surprise, the sky was dark. Not from nightfall, but from storm clouds. The same menacing feeling hung in the air and a bitter wind swirled around him, making him shiver. Eerie sounds could be heard in the distance, adding to the foreboding. He was now gladder than ever Leith and Bran had come along.

They moved along the path in silent thought, keeping close. An hour passed, then another. Axel’s hands grew so stiff with cold they felt like claws loosely clutching the reins. All around them the wind howled. Or was it something else?

Shifting in his saddle, he looked around him. He shuddered when shining yellow eyes looked back at him from among the shadows of the treeline. There had to be at least a dozen of them.

“We have company,” he told the others. “In the form of a pack of hungry wolves.”

“Those aren’t ordinary wolves.” Bran came alongside Axel “They’re wargs.”

Wargs were in league with goblins, who rode them like horses. Their appearance in these woods could only mean the horde was alert to their presence.

Axel’s horse whinnied, threw his head, and pranced nervously under him. On either side of him, the other two ponies seemed equally anxious. The howling was all around them now, sometimes very close and sometimes farther off—as if the wargs were talking to each other. In the gap between a pair of trees, two topaz eyes peered at them from the grizzled silhouette of an enormous canine animal. A mournful wail broke from the beast’s upturned snout. He had to be the alpha, summoning the others to the feast.

Axel stood in his stirrups and drew his gleaming sword. “Leave us be, or I shall skin you alive with my enchanted glaive.”

Snarling, the warg sprang toward him. As Axel swung his blade, Bran drew his bow. There was a twang, followed by a piercing yelp. The warg collapsed beside the road with the druid’s arrow protruding from his withers. His pack mates’ lambent eyes began to disappear from the shadows two by two, like lanterns being extinguished in pairs.

Axel, though shaken by the encounter, sheathed his blade and endeavored to calm his skittish steed. They had to get out of here and, the quicker, the better. The hunting pack might have fled the scene, but the goblins were almost certainly still lurking in the undergrowth.

“Lead the way, Axel,” Leith said.

Axel tightened his grip on the reins and dug in his heels. The horse pawed and fought the bit, but eventually obeyed. No sooner were they underway than they were showered by arrows. One struck him on the arm and another lodged in the flanks of his mount. He nearly lost his seat as the animal bucked beneath him.

A terrible commotion drew his gaze rearward. There, pouring from between the trees, was a horde of goblins, some mounted on wargs, others on foot, and all brandishing weapons.

As the calamitous swarm drew nearer, Bran turned and pulled an arrow from his quiver. As he drew the bowstring, his horse reared. The druid, fighting to keep his seat, dropped the arrow. He plucked another from the quiver and sent it soaring. With a satisfying thwack, the arrow struck a goblin between the eyes. Riotous cries of outrage rose from the horde. All but the felled goblin kept coming, wielding spears, clubs, axes, and every other kind of crude armament imaginable.

Axel kicked his steed hard. Despite the arrow in the beast’s haunches, the horse took off at a full gallop. Leith and Bran followed, hard on his heels.

“Sing,” Axel screamed into the wind. “For all you’re worth.”

“Sing what?” Leith’s question was barely audible over the pursuing melee.

“Anything. Singing repels them.”

Axel belted out the song he had sung before while the other two men chose different tunes. The inharmonious result sounded more like a drunken row than singing. Consequently, the horde was not deterred.

Mounted goblins were hard on their heels, their wargs snarling and snapping at the hind legs of all three horses. Another shower of arrows rained down from behind. As one struck Axel in the shoulder, pain radiated through him.

Bran, riding hard beside him, was firing arrow after arrow into the horde. Screams of pain revealed his efforts were having an impact. The wargs, some now riderless, had nearly caught them up. Axel was too exhilarated to be afraid. This was what he missed, what he lived for, what made his blood pump and his heart pound. This, and his love for Jenna Cameron. If he could find a way to be with her and join the rebels, his life would be complete.

Out of the corner of his eye, Axel saw grizzled fur, gnashing fangs, and yellow eyes. The warg-riding goblins were within striking distance. He drew the White Glaive of Light. Radiance bathed the trees lining the path. Gasps of fear and awe arose from the horde. Clearly, the goblins knew what he held and the threat it posed.

Gripping the hilt with both hands, he squeezed his thighs firmly to keep his seat as he swung the blade. As the sword claimed its first victim, it cried out like a woman in the throes of ecstasy. The severed head flew backward, into the horde, which had slowed the pace of its pursuit.

Another warg-riding goblin came alongside. This one was covered in warts and wielding a mace. Axel swung the sword. A thrill crackled through him as the sword cried out. The goblin’s head went flying, but the warg kept running beside his horse. Changing his grip on the sword, Axel thrust the blade outward and downward. The sword cried, the warg yelped, and the whole company of goblins fell back.

The three men pushed their horses hard for another mile until their pursuers had given up. Axel felt drained, but also drunk on euphoria. They stopped and dismounted long enough for Bran to remove the arrows from Axel and his mount. To distract himself from the pain of the extraction, he thought about the dream he’d had of fighting the vampire army in a carse.

He winced as he said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Is the Baron of Barrogill still among the living?”

“I’m sorry to say that Goldilocks is indeed alive and well.” Sir Leith’s words were edged with disdain.

Axel turned his gaze on his friend. “You sound as if you don’t care for the man. May I know the reason?”

“I don’t particularly care for how easily he seems to attract good fortune.” Leith shrugged. “But, other than that, I have no grievance against him.”

“Lord Lyon is still in the Hitherworld,” Bran explained with more neutrality, “keeping watch for the celestial sign signaling the time of the rebellion is at hand. When it comes, he will return to Brocaliande to join the fight.”

Axel pulled on his beard. Callum Lyon being alive raised his hopes that the dream had indeed been a premonition.

They remounted and rode on. The trees on either side became younger and less dense. As the path climbed a gentle hill, Axel caught a glimpse of turquoise water. They were almost to the channel, which meant he would soon be back in Avalon, facing the consequences of his failure to bring back Sir Leith and the Cup of Truth. He had a reasonably good idea what punishments lay before him and would endure them gladly if the pain led to eventual freedom.

Axel urged his horse to move alongside Bran, who was riding out front. Pulling the pouch containing the nawglen from inside his tunic, he held it out to the druid.

Bran’s blue gaze pierced Axel like a dirk. “Do not lose hope, Brother Axel. You might yet need the nawglen.”

“I have not abandoned hope. I just fear Queen Morgan will strip me of everything when she locks me in her dungeon.” Pressing the pouch into Bran’s outstretched hand, Axel added, “Perhaps it would be better if you bury this somewhere among the standing stones—and mark the spot with
Teiwaz
, the rune of Tyr. Are you familiar with the runes, Brother Bran?”

Bran’s smile warmed Axel’s soul. He liked the druid, who he regarded as a kindred spirit. “I am, Brother Axel. And will follow your instructions to the letter. Now, I must ask for the return of
Claiomh Solais
, to ensure our safe return through the Borderlands.”

Claiomah Solais
was Irish for “Shining Sword.” With a glimmer of regret, Axel withdrew the cumbersome glaive from his belt and surrendered it to the druid.

“When the time comes,” Bran said, “the sword will be given to the drone of the prophecy—the rightful king of Avalon.”

“I cannot think of a better person to have it.” Axel pushed the words past the lump in his throat.

They continued down the path until they came to the gate, beyond which stretched the white-sand beach Axel first landed upon four days ago. His future, too, lay on the other side—for better or for worse. With a hard swallow, he bid his fellows goodbye, hopped down from his horse, and, using his tunic to protect his flesh from the iron key, opened the gate.

He passed through the gateway alone and on foot. As if sealing his fate, the gate clanged shut behind him. Striding through the sand to the water’s edge, he looked out toward the cliffs of Avalon, now barely visible through the distant mists. Only hours remained before Morgan’s spell stole his life and there was no way to get across the channel under his own power. It was too far to swim, he was unable to shift, he had lost his wave-walking pony, and there was no boat anywhere within sight.

That left him with only one alternative. Lifting his face to the sky, he spread his arms. “Father Odin, far-wanderer and sage, share with me your great wisdom, courage, and strength. Please shower me with your generosity, benediction, and compassion. Please watch over and guide me in the commission of your will.”