In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy) (12 page)

She added her voice to his, soft but true, and they worked their way through the story of the woman lured from her home by the Elvish queen.

The trees thinned, and the road dried, but the way grew steeper and more rocky, making riding more difficult and leaving little breath or mind for singing. As the forest fell behind them, so did the birdsong, leaving them alone with the wind and the distant call of hunting ravens. Risa shivered at the sound.

Gawain turned from the rising hills and took them toward the slopes that led down again to the broadening valley. A grey and brown ribbon of road cut straight across the distant valley floor. The ground between them and that road was rough, and Thetis quickly began to complain at having to find a path between the holes and the stones. Risa realized she would have to get off and walk before they reached level ground.

Gawain did not seem at all relieved to see the clear way below them. He was looking behind them, squinting toward the folds in the hills that towered over their backs as if he thought them eavesdropping. The palfrey he rode snorted and balked at his lack of attention, and even Gringolet pulled at the tether that tied him to the smaller horse. A raven croaked to the east, and another to the west. Stone clattered against stone, and a pebble rolled past Thetis’s hooves, making her pull up and whinny in annoyance.

Risa lifted a hand to pat the mare’s neck, but as she did, a fist-sized stone tumbled through Thetis’s shadow, followed fast by another. The mare shied, and Risa was barely able to stay on her back.

Gawain shouted, but the clatter of stones drowned out his words. They skipped and bounced down the slopes — grey-green and brown, singly and in chattering streams, a whole scree of missiles aimed straight at the horses’ hooves and ankles.

All the horses screamed, high, human sounds. Thetis reared back, throwing Risa to the ground. The breath slammed out of her body and the world spun in a riot of color. Hooves flailed overhead. A stone skipped against her side. Risa threw her arms over her head, curling up into the tightest ball she could. The harsh roar of men’s voices cut across the horses’ screams. Fear uncurled Risa and sent her scrambling up the slope. Her eyes focused more slowly than her hands and feet moved so it took a moment for her to see the danger.

A dozen Saxons raced down the hill. Thetis galloped toward the valley floor in blind panic, bearing Risa’s bow away with her, leaving her with nothing but her bare hands against the wave of men racing toward her, their axes and short swords flashing in the sunlight, their cries mixing with the ravens’ mocking calls. Nearby, the palfrey lay on its side, screaming in pain and panic as its body twisted and jerked grotesquely from Gringolet’s frantic efforts to yank his tether free from the fallen horse. Gawain was struggling with Gringolet, dodging hoofs and heavy head, his knife drawn, trying desperately to get hold of the tether so he could cut the charger loose.

Risa tried to run, tried to get the maddened Gringolet between herself and the marauders, for the outraged horse was the only shelter there was. Gawain finally managed to slice through the tether. Gringolet reared and spun all in one fearful motion, tossing Gawain backward to land on a cluster of loose stones with a painful cry. The stallion leapt over him as if he were no more than a fallen log and charged down the slope.

The roar of warriors in full charge turned to raucous laughter. The Saxons ringed Risa and Gawain making a living fence of brown and bronze. Their noseguards had been worked into shapes like boars snouts or the muzzles of hunting cats and wolves, lending them a bestial appearance. Their eyes glinted ice pale beneath their helms. Risa’s reeling mind threw out the memory of the pale ghost she had seen in the croft. That ghost could have been any one of these ferocious, grinning men.

Gawain struggled to rise, but his eyes were dazed and his elbow buckled as he tried to push himself up. His knife had flown from his grasp, and one of the Saxon’s scooped it up and stuck it in his belt.

Seeing there was no possible resistance left for their prey, the Saxons darted forward. Two grabbed Gawain and hauled him to his knees, ignoring his gasp of pain. Another slammed his heavy hand between Risa’s shoulders, forcing her down beside Gawain. He gripped the back of her neck with his gloved hand, digging his fingertips into her flesh so that she could not move without more pain.

One of the Saxons strolled over to the screaming palfrey. The man looked at the horse for a moment and then casually thrust his sword through the animal’s throat. The palfrey sputtered, and died at once in a welter of blood and foam. The clean wind filled with the scent of sweat and death. Risa felt something crumble inside her. Gawain just watched in grim silence.

Without appearing to notice the abundance of gore, the Saxon helped himself to the saddle bags and other gear, including Gawain’s spear, sword and shield, and tossed them to his waiting fellows, doubtlessly to be shared out later.

The man holding Risa squeezed her neck a little harder, in anticipation of the spoils? Risa’s stomach turned over.

The first of the ravens lighted on the dead horse. It dipped its beak down to feed, and Risa tried to turn her head to look away. This only made her captor laugh and grip her neck all the harder. Risa swallowed her gall and made herself remain still.

Then, one of the Saxons, whose helm was fashioned so he had the appearance of a wild boar said something in their guttural tongue. Four of the dozen loped away down the hill, clearly on the track of the other horses.

His men dispatched, the boar’s head — whom Risa took to be the leader — turned toward the captives. As he did, he pulled of the helmet and wiped the sweat from his face and beard. His hand, she saw, was missing two fingers.

Gawain stared in open shock, and mouthed a single word.

In response, the man spat. A slow and deadly smile spread across face.

“You did not think to see me again so soon, did you, my Lord Gawain?” he said. His accent was heavy, but his words were carefully measured so as to be understood.

“Harrik.”

You know this man?
thought Risa, stunned.

Gawain face had gone paper white and he stared at the one he called Harrik. “What are you doing?”

The feral grin spread even wider, but the heat of it did not reach his winter-blue eyes. “Avenging my brothers slaughtered by your king and living as one of my blood should live.”

Gawain glanced to either side of Harrik. The other Saxons were watching, but they watched for movement of hands, watched for the return of their fellows with the horses, or watched the saddle bags, attempting to divine their contents. They were alert, but they did not behave like men listening to a conversation they comprehended.

“I do not believe it,” said Gawain evenly. Not one of the Saxons grunted or laughed, or gave any other sign they understood what had been said.

Harrik leaned close. He smelled sour and warm, like sweat and bad beer. “Believe,” he said harshly, but his eyes were wide with some emotion Risa could not readily name. For a heartbeat she thought it might be fear. Harrik straightened abruptly. His jaw worked itself soundlessly back and forth a few times. “Or do not. You will be dead in a few moments, so it does not matter.”

“No!” Useless fear tightened all Risa’s muscles, thrashing her body against her captor’s grasp. The man simply laughed and forced her forward so he could more easily grab her flailing wrist and yank it up hard behind her shoulders.

Tears of pain flooded her eyes, but Risa made herself go still.
This is no good. You cannot escape like this
. She strained her gaze to see Gawain from the corner of her eye. Rage had hardened him face and limb. His guards held him close, their weapons out and ready.

Harrik turned his face toward the men who held Gawain. The ravens clustered on the palfrey’s corpse lifted their heads as if in anticipation. Panic flooded Risa, turning her thoughts into a gabble of prayer and pleading.

The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want … Mother Mary, spare him, save us, don’t let him die … He prepareth me a table in the midst of my enemies … Mother Mary help us, help us …

“What of your son, Harrik?” cried Gawain, and the man froze. Gawain went on relentlessly. “Do not think Arthur will shrink from doing what the law demands when he learns you have broken your word.”

“My son is a warrior of the True Blood.” The words seemed to grate against the man’s tongue as he spoke. His jaw was again working itself back and forth, chewing something unseen. “It is better he die young than live as a chained dog.”

Behind Risa, metal rasped against leather, and she knew a knife had been drawn. One of the men beside Gawain lifted his axe.

Harrik turned his back.

“Your son will not die on his feet Harrik,” said Gawain steadily. “He will hang from the great oak, a coward’s death for his father the coward and traitor.”

Risa closed her eyes, waiting for the heat of steel on her skin and found she could only pray the blade was sharp so death would be swift and the pain brief.

Harrik spoke one word. Overhead, a man answered, and Harrik barked an order. The edge of the knife did not touch her throat. Risa dared to open her eyes.

Harrik stalked over to Gawain. “Be very glad that none of my men speak your barbarian tongue or I would have to kill you myself.” His face filled with hate, but did his gaze glitter too brightly? Could those be tears shimmering in the eyes of this monster?

“Harrik, what has been done to you?” whispered Gawain.

But Harrik did not answer. Instead, he said, “You know well the mind and habits of your uncle. This may buy you a few more hours.” His teeth clacked and chattered together, grotesquely chewing at tongue and cheek so that Risa winced to see it. It was as if his body fought against his mind and would not let him speak.

Is he mad?

The ravens croaked from the hills above.

Or bewitched?

“I think you can tell me much that is useful before you die, and I think the woman will stand surety to make sure your tongue is loose and willing. There is so much worse we can do than slit her throat.”

Risa felt the blood run from her heart and for a moment thought she might faint. Grim determination kept her upright. Death’s delay had allowed her to collect herself somewhat. If she must be afraid, she at least would not give way to it before her enemies.

Harrik spoke again to his men, calling out his orders. One of the Saxons, the one with a cat’s muzzle on his helm, said something in reply, a lazy, mocking question. Harrik’s answer was low and dangerous. The man held his ground, stating his case plainly, gesturing first at the captives and then up the hills. One or two of the others muttered what Risa took to be agreement, but most stood silent, looking to Harrik.

Beside her, Gawain was straining every muscle. The cords of his neck stood out plainly. His face was flushed with fury and fear, but his guards gripped him tightly. He shifted his shoulders, and one of them rapped out some harsh words, and laid the edge of his sword against Gawain’s belly.

Risa let her eyes flicker between the Saxons, looking to the way they stood and how they held themselves and their weapons, looking for some chance, any chance, to break away. But her captor did not loosen his grip at all, and there were still far, far too many of them for any plan that fluttered through Risa’s fevered mind.

Harrik was speaking again, his anger clearly mounting. Gawain was watching him. Did Gawain speak their tongue? What were they saying? Was Harrik changing his mind about delaying their execution? Panic threatened again, and again Risa fought it down. Panic would not save either of them.

A shout rose from the valley floor. The four men sent in pursuit of the horses had succeeded. One of them held the reins of a relatively docile Thetis and tried to keep her clear of Gringolet, for Gringolet was anything but docile. Again, and again, he reared and his hooves lashed out. Three Saxons held tight to his bridle, all but dragging the stallion between them. He tossed his head repeatedly, trying to shake them off, and more than once succeeded with one or another, causing them to have to dance about until they could catch a piece of harness and hang on again.

The men surrounding Risa and Gawain laughed and bellowed what sounded like jests or bets until Harrik growled at them. Four left their posts as guards and headed down the hill to help their fellows.

But Gringolet had seen Gawain. The great horse renewed his struggles. The Saxons ringed him, trying to drive him and yet stay out of range of his flailing hooves. The ones who fought to hold his bridle cursed and shouted to their fellows, but none of the others were anxious to try to come close. The stallion’s battle and all the scents of blood and death were finally too much for Thetis and she too lashed out, swinging her head this way and that. Kicking backwards, she landed a hard blow on one of the Saxon’s legs. The man toppled to the ground, grabbing his thigh and adding his own cries to the cacophony.

Harrik barked out an order to the remaining men. The one holding Risa jerked her to her feet. He shifted his grip. One of the others brought out a strip of leather to bind her hands, to lead her away as if she were another captured mare. But there were only four of them now. Another Saxon near the horses cried out. Gringolet reared. His hoof caught the man on his helm, and the man dropped like a stone.

The ravens rose in a great, black cloud, croaking and shrieking their disapproval.

As if that were her sign, Risa screamed. She poured all of her fear and desperation into the wordless sound. Startled, her captor’s grip faltered. Risa dove toward Gawain. She grasped the nearest sandaled foot and rolled, throwing all her weight into the move and bringing the Saxon down.

Gawain leapt, the suddenness of the movement breaking him free of his startled captor. He measured his length on the ground beside the fallen Saxon, and scrambled at once to his feet again, a long knife in his hand.