Chapter 14 #3
With a deep breath, Mordred forced himself back into that cold, unfeeling space within his mind, tacking Rook up with practiced, mindless movements.
And then he was back on the tourney field, swinging onto Rook’s back, his mail glistening in the mist. He was just a weapon.
Nothing more. Perhaps it had been a mistake to grow close to Guinevere.
To think he had any ability to change the violent whims of the High Court or his own bleak fate.
Mordred gathered up Rook’s reins in one hand and sent him through the gate into the tournament field, which was still a mess with muddy ruts and deep puddles.
He frowned, peering through the gray light to find Merlin beside Arthur beneath the king’s awning.
A spike of sickness and pain told him that Arthur wore Caledfwlch.
Alarm slipped into his blood, pulling him from the waters of that placid lake.
Perhaps it was only the shadow of the heavy canvas awning, but he could not see Guinevere.
He would at least expect to find her on Arthur’s opposite side, fighting for influence.
Because she never gave up, not even when it was hopeless. Not even when she should.
But then the herald was announcing the next match, which happened to be his mounted sword fight against Lancelot.
A stupid tradition, making the King’s Champion and Queen’s Champion fight each other.
Mordred was supposed to lose, some not-so-backward way of saying the king always had more power.
As if that fact were not already apparent to everyone.
He nodded to Lance, who was mounted on his pale golden charger on the other side of the field.
Then Mordred reached for his sword, greeted by the sight of Nyneve’s green hair ribbon still tied around the hilt.
He gritted his teeth, ignoring the way his heart beat faster, an open-mouthed hunger unfolding in his chest.
The Druid girl was dangerous, yes. But for some godsforsaken reason, she was dangerous to him, specifically. Like she had found the crack in his armor long before arriving at Camelot’s gates and intended to pierce him with dagger after dagger until he fell to his knees at her feet.
Mordred sighed, dropping his reins for a moment to adjust his helm.
Rook stood still beneath him. The warhorse had always been rock-solid when it counted.
Arthur leaned over the railing despite the mist, making some speech to the crowds huddled on the damp wooden stands.
Mordred drowned it out, gathering Rook’s reins back up and flipping the blade in his grip.
Then Arthur held up the red silk pennant, and Mordred pulled himself together, sitting up straight in his saddle.
Rook responded immediately, setting back on his haunches to prepare for a charge.
Though this match was little more than theatre, intended to show off the power of the throne’s champions, he was well aware that Lance would absolutely kill him given half the chance and the opening to make it look like an accident.
Mordred might have been destined for the grave like a mere mortal, but he would not be dispatched to his funeral pyre by the likes of Sir Lancelot du Lac.
Arthur dropped the silk, and Mordred closed his legs around Rook, sending the warhorse forward in a furious charge.
He met Lancelot with a clash of swords and a roar from the crowd.
And then he fought. It was easy to slip deep inside himself with a weapon in his hand and blood in his mouth.
That was his natural state: violence and death. No room for much else.
Mordred pressed the inside of his calf to Rook’s flank, and the charger swung to the side, circling in on Lance.
The older knight leveled his sword straight at Mordred’s breastplate and sent his horse flying toward them.
Mordred sighed. Terribly boring fighter.
Rather hard to make everything as dramatic as Arthur wanted with an opponent as bland as Lancelot.
He just waited, holding Rook in place, intending to send the horse elegantly dancing to the side at the last moment.
But then a flash of red caught his attention, even though nothing should catch his attention besides his enemy and the hum of their blood.
His gaze snapped to the slip of auburn to find Nyneve directly in his sightline, leaning on the railing of the stands, her eyes locked on him.
Her mouth moved, though he could not make out the words.
Then she winked at him. Apprehension gripped the back of his neck with a cold hand, but Lancelot was nearly upon him.
He could not deal with the Druid girl and the King’s Champion at the same time.
So, he shifted his weight, cueing Rook. The warhorse obliged, offering a series of fast, elegant, lateral strides before bursting into a hard gallop toward Lancelot.
The knight barreled down on them, adjusting for Rook’s movement, his sword gleaming in the weak light of the sun.
Mordred’s saddle suddenly tilted hard to the side, like a strap had been snapped by some hidden knife.
He fought for his balance, trying to kick his feet out of the stirrups, but his boot caught, and Mordred plummeted toward the earth—and the two warhorses trained to bludgeon anyone foolish enough to find themselves beneath their hooves.