Wicked Games (20 page)

The wind shifted, bringing the scent of death and blood and shit to Arthur's nose. And something else, a smell he recognized.

He whirled, to see Mordred's narrow, hate-filled gaze blazing at him over the arc of his sword swing.

Right at Arthur's neck.

•   •   •

H
er husband had closed their Truebond down to a bare whisper, but Gwen's ferocious concentration locked on to that ghostly voice with all her strength of will.

She only hoped it would be enough to guide them in.

As Nimue had instructed her, Gwen poured magic into a point in the air, watching in sweating anxiety as it expanded into a wavering doorway.

Morgana, mounted on a bay gelding next to her own white mare, shot the queen an excited grin. “You're doing it!”

The gate wavered a moment, seeming to fight her control before it finally stabilized, revealing a landscape that was all too familiar.

Gwen's heart sank. She'd been right. It was her dream brought to life—a hellish landscape of men locked in battle to the death, killing and dying in a writhing tangle of blood and steel. Behind her, one of the watching witches breathed an appalled, low-voiced curse.

Gwen ignored her. Unless they moved quickly, Arthur was dead.

If he's not already
.

D
igging her heels into her mare's side, Gwen clucked to urge the horse forward. But before they passed through the gate, the beast's head flew up as if she'd struck something nose first. Rearing, she bugled and twisted aside so violently, it was all the queen could do to keep her seat. She dragged at the reins and jerked the mare's head around, determined to force her through despite her resistance.

Gwen had to get to Arthur. Excalibur blazed in the scabbard hung across her back, its buzzing magic a silent goad.

“Wait!” Morgana said urgently. “There's something wrong with the gate. It looked like your mare ran into some kind of barrier.”

“We'll see,” Gwen murmured grimly, and thumped her booted heels against the horse's ribs. This time, however, there was no mistaking the impact of Snowcap's nose with whatever blocked the gate. The outraged mare started to buck, but the queen gestured, settling her with a calming spell. Biting her lower lip, Gwen examined the gate in frustrated anger. “I don't understand this! I conjured a gate not an hour ago, and it worked fine. What's gone wrong?” And why now, when she could least afford delay?

But as she stared through the doorway, she saw it appear to slide aside. A man's wide-eyed, horrified face suddenly stared back at her through the opening just before the gate rolled off into the crowd like a child's ball. Nimue's gates had never had such a problem. “Why is it doing that? What's going on?” They had to get through that gate before Arthur fell, or all was lost.

“Maybe there are too many people around it,” Morgana suggested. “Perhaps they're interfering with it somehow, something like stones in the path of the river.”

Hands tight on Snowcap's reins, Gwen nodded thoughtfully. “That does make sense.”

“What if you try it somewhere closer to the edge of the battlefield, where the crowd isn't as thick?” Diera suggested. “You'd run into less interference that way, and maybe we could get through.”

“Good idea,” Gwen said, even as she realized that would also put them farther away from Arthur.

Unfortunately, they weren't well blessed with alternatives.

She let the gate collapse and tried again farther from Arthur's current position. Again the gate shivered and slid, but this time she noticed that there did seem to be some kind of resistance that fought her spell.

Allowing that gate to collapse, Gwen tried a third time, forcing herself to be patient, despite the voice in the back of her head chanting
Hurry, hurry hurry hurry hurryhurryhurryHURRY!

•   •   •

A
rthur thrust up his shield, blocking Mordred's sword blow with a thunderous THOCK of impact. The king swung his own weapon with lethal force, but his son's shield deflected it at an angle, sending the blade glancing away. Arthur brought the blade back into line as he blocked Mordred's next attack with an inhumanly fast sweep of his shield.

“I laid the . . . snare for you, and you stepped . . . right into it!” Mordred bellowed over the din of battle as he blocked Arthur's sword strokes. “Did Isolde manage to kill Tristan before she sent you running to Camlann?”

“Do you really think that pitiful creature could murder a Knight of the Round Table? Tristan slew her!” A fresh bolt of rage shot through Arthur, and he cursed himself as his bastard's plot became blatantly clear. Mordred had sent Isolde to assassinate her husband, thinking Arthur would question her and she'd “confess” the details of the plan to destroy Camlann. When they rode to defend the town, Mordred's army would wipe them out through sheer numbers. And Arthur should have seen it coming, just from the nighttime attack alone. What intelligent commander would take the field in the damned dark?

“Ahhhh, too bad.” Mordred smirked. “Either way, it worked. All that's left is shoving you into a hole and shoveling in the dirt.”

“Don't start digging just yet, boy. Each of my knights is worth ten of yours.” Unfortunately, they were too far away to do him any good, scattered over the battlefield protecting his loyal lords.

The only Table knight Arthur had kept with him was Lancelot, who had his hands full keeping the rebels from swarming the king. The champion's sword swung like a scythe in the moonlight, all stunning strength and an utter lack of mercy.

For his part, Arthur had to keep his attention on his bastard as Mordred probed for an opening in his guard. He was definitely better than he'd been when they'd dueled in June, faster, stronger, and certainly more battle hardened. Enough so, in fact, to keep Arthur on his toes despite the advantages he enjoyed as a Magus.

Arthur had the ugly suspicion that if he'd still been human, Mordred would almost certainly have killed him.

He wasn't human now, of course, but remembering Gwen's dream, he found himself wondering if even that would be enough to save him against odds like these.

•   •   •

G
wen had finally created a stable gate. But as she stared through it at the scene beyond, her heart sank.

“Saints and devils,” Lady Lynet moaned, echoing her thoughts. “Look how many of them there are! They'll kill us before we even find Arthur!”

“So we kill them instead,” Iblis said grimly. “Enough fireballs and lightning bolts, and . . .”

Gwen's stomach twisted at the thought of the agonized screams of burning men.
Arthur was right. I could never have used a fireball on Mordred
. Aloud, she said, “We can't kill those men. Half of them are peasants.”

“So?” Iblis demanded. “Forgive me, my queen, but given the circumstances, I don't see what difference that makes. Not when all our lives hang by a thread.”

Gwen shot her a cool glance. “All lives on that field are valuable to their loved ones. We must think of a way to accomplish our goals without excessive loss of life, if we can. Besides, if we kill too many peasants, there won't be enough manpower to bring in the full harvest in the fall. Thousands will starve before spring.”

“Well, we must do something,” Morgana said, her eyes grim. “Otherwise they'll drag us from the saddle long before we reach Arthur and his knights.”

Gwen's nails bit into her palms. Desperately, she stared into the gate, wracking her brain for a solution. She had to get to Arthur. Her head was so empty of ideas, she could swear it echoed.

She wanted to throw up.

How many of Arthur's loyalists had been overwhelmed by the sheer mass of Mordred's forces—and how could Gwen keep even more men from joining them? Frantically, she tried to come up with a plan, an idea, something.

Perhaps Iblis is right. Perhaps we have no choice except to ride through the gate and start shooting fireballs into the crowd . . . I can take Excal- ibur to Arthur in the light of screaming men burning like torches. He'll love that.

In that instant, the idea burst into her mind as if God himself had whispered it in her ear.
Fireballs . . .

A broad grin spread across Gwen's face.

•   •   •

C
ome, my knights, my warriors!” Mordred bellowed. His green eyes met Arthur's, cold with vicious purpose. “Help me slay this monster who calls himself High King of Britain!”

They hit him in a wave of flesh and bone—fifty men, easily—half of whom Arthur recognized as Mordred's hangers-on, the pack the prince had once caroused with.

Sorry, you bastard, I have no intention of dying today.
Bellowing, the king met them in a blur of sword and shield.

But it was going to be a close thing. Weapons probed and slashed at him, seeking to break through his guard. His Magus speed saved him as Arthur knocked aside spears, axes, and swords, using his shield and his blade simultaneously in furious sweeps. Sweat ran down his armored ribs, itching under the ringing chain mail, stinging his eyes and gluing his hair to his skull under the heavy metal weight of his helm.

If he were human, he'd be dead.

Mordred hung back, the coward, watching him fight for his life with calculating eyes and a snarling mouth. Arthur shot him a look of lethal promise that made his eyes flicker.

As he fought, the king was aware of Lancelot maneuvering until they were fighting back-to-back. Lance, his relentlessly loyal cuckolder, would defend Arthur to his last breath.

A trio of warriors lunged at him, three men who had obviously fought together before, judging by their precisely coordinated attacks. One man came in high, the second low, the third swinging left-handed from the opposite direction. Arthur swept his shield up and to the side, catching the first two blades and forcing them aside as he blocked the third with his sword.

Mordred, watching, spotted his opening and struck, snake quick, swinging his weapon at the king's head. Arthur brought his shield up and around with Magus speed, simultaneously twisting to drive his blade at Mordred's throat. Somehow the bastard raised his shield in time to block the blow. Arthur's sword struck it like a hammer.

And the king's sword shattered.

Chunks of steel cartwheeled away, glittering in the moonlight—and taking Arthur's last hope of survival along for the ride.

•   •   •

G
wen's horse was on fire.

Blue flame licked along the white mare's neck like a mane, raced across her barrel and flanks, then burned down the beast's legs. Yet the horse didn't seem to feel the flames as she leaped through Gwen's gate.

The other ladies thundered after the queen on mounts blazing with the same heatless magical flame that left the animals untouched.

Morgana, bringing up the rear, heard the rebels cry out in superstitious terror at the sight of them. “Demons! God save us, they've summoned demons!” someone shouted, and others picked up the idea, repeating it until it became a chorus that menaced with its very terror. “Demons! They're demons, run!”

Men began to push and shove, trying to escape the women on their burning horses, trampling each other in their haste to flee the battlefield.

Just as Gwen had intended.

But listening to those screams, Morgana felt a chill. Yes, the queen had been right to focus on how to save Arthur while sparing the most life on the field. But looking beyond that, Morgana imagined what the world would think of Arthur if he did emerge victorious—if they believed he'd done so with the help of demons.

But before Morgana could come up with a solution to that problem, she heard Gwen's anguished scream.

Looking past the queen's shoulder, she saw something glitter over the hill ahead, flying through the air as a mob of soldiers shoved and fought beneath it.

For just a moment the crowd parted, and she saw Arthur Pendragon in the center of it, a shattered blade in his hand. There was nothing left but a jagged metal stub.

Then the mob surged, dragging him down under a wave of screaming men.

“It's my dream,” Gwen shouted in a voice raw with anguish. “And we're too far away!”

•   •   •

G
wen's dream was coming true, just as she'd been warning him it would for months.

I've been a fool
, Arthur thought as the mass of soldiers smashed into him, their weight bearing him down into the mud with a thick, liquid splat. He bucked and fought, but men knelt on his arms and chest, pinning his thighs, his shins, and his feet, their victorious howls blowing the smell of beer and rotten teeth into his face. One son of a bitch actually had the gall to grab Arthur's helmed head, despite his snapping fangs.

“Give me room!” Mordred barked. The one who'd grabbed the king's head released him and backed hastily away. He must know Mordred would go right through him to kill his father.

Arthur looked up into his son's nasty grin as the bastard raised his sword, preparing to behead him. “Goodbye, old man! I'm finally going to get what I deserve!”

Then Lancelot fell out of the sky.

One moment Arthur was straining to throw off the mass of men pinning him as the bastard's blade flashed downward.

The next, du Lac crashed down on someone's back, smashing the enemy soldier flat and running him through. Mordred's blade hit Lance's shield with a thunderous clang, and the two began to fight, savage as badgers.

Arthur kicked men off him as he sought to rise and guard his champion's back, but more rebels crashed down on him, joining those who held him down. Strong as he was, he couldn't find the leverage to free himself of their suffocating weight.

So there was no one to watch Lance's broad back as he'd watched Arthur's. As the champion went after Mordred, the rebels hit him from behind, driving a dozen cowardly blades into his back, his ribs, his arms and shoulders, some deflected by his mail, most not.

A hauberk was not designed to withstand so many assaults. Lance's knees buckled. The knight gasped a curse as he went down, collapsing across the pile pinning Arthur before the rebels shoved his pierced, bleeding body away, kicking and cursing it.

With a roar of grief and fury, Arthur shifted, as he damned well should have thought to do to start with. Hauberk and armor vanished in a burst of magic, leaving him with four furry legs and a muzzle full of sharp teeth. Going for the nearest throat, he sank those wolf fangs deep, twisting his head to break the man's neck. Screaming, the rebels surged backward, trying desperately to get away from the devil king in their midst.

Then he was on to the next coward, and the one after that, and the one after that, ripping out throats and leaving dying men gagging and convulsing as he tore through the massed traitors. Some stabbed at him, screaming, but most turned and fled in howling confusion. They streamed down the hill, shouting about demons and a king become wolf.

But the one he really wanted dead was Mordred. Mordred, who'd just cost him his finest knight and dearest friend. Unconscious and bleeding, there was no way for Lancelot to shift and heal his injuries, and no time for a healer to reach him.