Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Nyneve
Nyneve drew in a strangled inhale, her hands shaking as she clutched the rain-slick bow.
Mordred Pendragon stared up at her for a long, breathless moment, the black warhorse dancing beneath him, perfectly and undeniably alive.
Some idiotic lutist was still playing during a siege, the looping notes of his instrument wandering onto the parapet, infuriating her further.
Gods’ blood.
She’d just saved the life of the man she’d been desperately trying to kill.
Nyneve lowered her bow, breathing heavily.
The wind buffeted her in fierce gusts, and arrows fell around her like rain, but she hardly noticed any of it.
She stood numbly, her mind tumbling. Moments ago, she’d snuck onto the ramparts, hoping to better understand the situation at hand.
She’d seen the raiders, mad as a hornets’ nest, and was just starting to get her mind around the spelled weather when magic bloomed on the battlefield, so powerful that it made her bones rattle.
It had come from the faerie-bound knight, and it had made Nyneve so afraid that she’d screamed his name, finding him on the field below just in time to see the raider and their axe.
Without a second thought, she’d snatched a bow off a dead archer, nocked it, and felled the Northman.
As if something deep within Nyneve compelled her to protect him.
A strange, errant thought pierced her mind:
As if she’d been born to save him.
“No,” Nyneve snarled, telling herself it was only the heat of the moment.
It wouldn’t help her to have Camelot breached by raiders, and the gods knew she hated to admit it, but Mordred was an incredibly gifted warrior.
Camelot needed him—and she needed him to make sure Camelot existed so its queen could give her what she wanted.
Nyneve resettled her weight and nocked an arrow, letting it fly to take down a raider who had broken past the main defensive line.
As she restrung the bow, Nyneve’s attention slipped to Mordred.
Fury flooded her like a tide, her hands shaking with it.
Every time she found an opening to slip through, there he was, smirking and beautiful and blocking her way.
She bent the bow and felled another raider, imagining it was Sir Mordred Pendragon with her arrow lodged in the weak spot of his hauberk.
The wind rose in another great gust, driving rain directly into Nyneve’s eyes—and those of the other archers, apparently, because the entire line ducked behind the rampart wall for a heartbeat.
Beginning to shiver in her summer-weight kirtle, she twisted to look through the narrow archer’s slit, gaze sweeping across the battlefield below.
Something was wrong with the Northmen, she realized.
She’d seen their people fight—ferocious warriors, happy to die gruesome deaths if it meant eternal glory in the halls of their gods.
But the scene before her was maddening. She watched a woman run herself through on a knight’s blade just for the chance to swing her axe at him.
In the distance, more Northmen ran at the shield wall Camelot’s knights had formed with no strategy, no thought, just pure viciousness.
She cursed as more broke through, stringing another arrow and pushing against the wind to rise to her feet. Down on the grassy, blood-soaked slope, Mordred and the other knight she often saw with him—Palamedes, maybe—shouted commands to the head archer on the rampart.
“Flank them, for fuck’s sake,” Nyneve gritted out from between her teeth. Camelot had a significant standing army; there was no reason not to send some of them through Merlin’s hidden doors and cut the raiders down the moment they emerged from the fens.
She drew a deep breath, the smell of death and rain barreling into her nose, and shoved a damp curl away from her face.
All at once, the air changed. The coolness of the rain faded and the breath in her lungs turned as dry as parchment.
Nyneve coughed, nearly choking, and found that her next inhale brought little reprieve.
Eyes watering, she dropped behind the stone wall, movement catching her eye.
Onto the ramparts strode Merlin, six monks trailing behind him.
He held his arms aloft, long, dark cloak buffeted by the wind.
His eyes shone with something that Nyneve didn’t think was unfair to equate to madness.
Around his neck hung a large golden cross, heavily encrusted with what looked like garnets.
As he reached the edge of the ramparts, he pressed his hands together in the gesture of Christian prayer.
The archers held their fire, confused, while Nyneve desperately tried to look like she was not choking.
His magic was just as wrong as the Northmen—twisted and corpse-like, desiccated, and yet somehow still scuttling across her skin.
“It is good I have returned,” Merlin boomed, his voice carrying unnaturally far, worming its way into Nyneve’s ears. She flinched, resisting the urge to clamp her palms to either side of her head—but at least she found she could finally breathe again. “Dark tides are rising. Camelot needs me.”
On the hill below, some of the knights turned to look up at Merlin, though the Northmen fought on with the same unrelenting determination.
Arthur appeared from the gloom of the archway, marching onto the rampart walls.
Three knights followed him, appearing terrified and baffled at once—probably because they’d unsuccessfully tried to stop their regent from walking into the danger of an active raid.
“Lower your bows,” Arthur called. Nyneve’s mind swam. As the king came closer, she noticed a small golden cross on a chain around his neck. Her stomach flipped, gaze tracking back to Merlin. “We have all the power we need.”
On cue, as if this were some play or pageant, not a real raid where knights sworn to Camelot were bleeding on the ground below, Merlin raised his arms again.
He brought them above his head in a completely unnecessary gesture to work any kind of magic Nyneve was acquainted with—which were many—and spoke a single word, loud as a thunderclap.
On the southernmost hill that spilled out like a green quilt at the base of the rampart walls, every single Northman still standing fell to the ground. Nyneve leaned over the wall, clutching the bow against her chest, eyes wildly searching for any real kind of answer.
But all she found was Sir Mordred Pendragon astride that massive destrier, his gaze locked on Merlin. Nyneve tilted her head, taking in his expression.
Hatred. Rage, too, but the cold, long-simmering kind—no white-hot coals or impulsive strikes.
“There,” Merlin said with a shrug, turning away from the wall.
“No need for all this fuss. All we must do is call upon the one true god.” He paused, scanning the archers, his eyes lingering on Nyneve for too long.
“I’ll require a few men to assist with the wounded.
” And then, without another word, he turned and strode toward Arthur.
He bowed to the king with a flourish. Arthur clapped the sorcerer on the shoulder, commanding Merlin to rise, before beginning to walk with him back into the keep.
Nyneve’s mind raced madly, but her instinct was bright as the sun. Now, she supposed, was as good a time as any. Dropping the bow, she broke into a run, following Merlin and the king. Without thinking about what she’d do next, Nyneve dodged between two monks and grabbed hold of Merlin’s sleeve.
The sorcerer turned, one brow arched, looking at her expectantly, as if he knew this would happen.
“My lord,” Nyneve breathed, letting her bust strain against the laces of her kirtle. “How . . . how did you do such a great thing?”
She closed down her aura, making herself as small as possible, as Merlin paused to take her in. Even Arthur halted, but his eyes were on the sorcerer.
“The power of the Resurrected God, of course,” Merlin told her as though he were speaking to a child. His long, spindly fingers brushed the garnet-encrusted cross about his neck. “What is a lovely little thing like you doing out on the ramparts during an attack?”
Her skin hot despite the rain, Nyneve pretended to act flustered, though she also permitted just a bit of her power to seep through her defenses. With glee, she watched Merlin’s attention become sharper, like he’d found a rare gem hidden within unremarkable ore.
“Yes, Lady Or’Afon,” Arthur interrupted, coming to stand beside Merlin. “What are you doing out here? You are a ward of Camelot, and it is my duty to keep you safe.”
“My liege, I—well, I . . .” she stammered. She hardly had a good answer anyway, so she might as well play a pretty idiot.
“Perhaps you did not understand the danger,” Arthur said, taking Nyneve by the elbow and beginning to guide her back into the keep. “We are very lucky to have Merlin.”
Nyneve began to walk when the king applied light pressure—because she had no real choice—but she moved sluggishly, tripping over her own feet.
Merlin caught her other arm. She nearly cried aloud at his touch, which felt like a hot branding iron on her bare skin.
The sensation of insects swarming over her flesh with a thousand tiny legs returned.
When Nyneve swayed, it was not entirely feigned.
“A ward, you say?” Merlin asked, looking toward Arthur. “No family, I presume? What a shame.” He rubbed Nyneve’s back, and she suppressed another whimper of pain. “But a brave girl, quite clearly. Perhaps she only needs her curiosity to be guided.”
They passed under the archway, back into the keep, which thrummed with energy. One of their escorts jogged ahead to inform a stern-looking man that the threat had passed but the wounded needed help. Another knight asked Arthur a question, pulling the king’s attention away from Merlin and Nyneve.