Fever Mist (5 page)

Merlyn and Max rose to their feet while Pendragon mounted his horse. Turning to go, he called over his shoulder. “Would you have a mad king?”

“And so it has begun,” Merlyn said.

“A man who penetrates the impenetrable deserves to be king.” Max watched the fool in love ride away. “But how will he achieve this?”

“That’s where you’re wanted, Maxim,” Merlyn said. “You and I together will make it possible. The magics of wyrd and fae will combine to penetrate the impenetrable.”

“I have nothing here in the human realm to work with,” Max said. “No tools, no raw materials.”

“You have your skill, your magics,” Merlyn said. “I’ve prepared everything else.”

He waved his cloak. The landscape changed, and they were in a different place, still in the human realm, a cave with a blasting forge, stoked and ready.

“In a bloomery of my own design, I made this steel, an amalgam of Dumnos iron and carbon from Dumnos charcoal. I’ve imbued the metal with a special wyrd, also of my own design, for suppleness and strength.”

“You want me to make you a sword.”

“A great sword, one to cut through the mist of magics that have made Tintagos Castle Igraine’s living tomb. A sword to be sung of through all the ages to come.”

“Just like that, cutler and engraver to your ironmaster.” Max snapped his fingers.
How typical.
“And completed by tonight, you say? For the fine weapon you imagine, the furniture alone would require six months—better, a year.”

“Have no care there. Under a wyrd of my own design, while you work in this cave time floats, elastic to your needs, yet remains anchored to the mundane world.” Merlyn presented the steel for the blade. “Only the few last steps remain. The final rendition by Maxim, goblin of the Blue Vale.”

Max accepted the unformed iron, seeing in his mind the blade that wanted to emerge, the signs and symbols that would decorate guard and pommel.
Yes…
He saw a bright-cut dragon etched on the blade.
Yes…

The wyrder’s eyes gleamed. “I have seen it, Maxim. In all the realms, your name will never be forgotten.” 

« Chapter 6 »
Mistcutter

M
AX WAITED WITH
Merlyn outside the warded castle walls. The wyrder paced back and forth, the sword in his arms, watching the northern road for his duke.

The goblin felt sick at heart. The song of his future greatness had been so sweet, so easy to hear and believe. Now he wasn’t so sure.

While he’d worked in Merlyn’s cave, everything had seemed so right. By the time he was etching the twisting dragon onto the blade, he had attained a profound state of grace. His whole body had vibrated with joy and purpose. In his soul, Brother Sun and Sister Moon were with him, encouraging him, even cheering him on. It had been a sacred act of devotion to create the instrument.

When the sword was finished, he’d achieved a new level of mastery and a new understanding. He saw the world through different eyes: This sword wasn’t a mere sword. It was a blade of the high gods.

But all that bliss now fell away. The weapon had barely left his hands when the first hint of regret crept over him. This was confusing, and the confusion made him angry. Why regret such a beautiful object, the best thing he’d ever created?

Still. Something was wrong in the transaction. Though he had yet to lay a hold on why, he felt used—and vaguely guilty. As if he’d committed a sin he couldn’t explain. What sin? Against whom?

He heard the pounding of hooves on the road, and then two riders, the duke and his squire, approached on horseback. Utros dismounted and came at Merlyn. The wyrder raised the sword toward heaven, and Max sensed its power surge and radiate from the hilt in overlapping pulses of energy. What had he done?

“Are the wards broken?” the duke said. “The armies are in position to attack the Saxons before dawn’s light. I must return to camp before I’m missed.

“There is time,” Merlyn said. “But if you are to win your fair lady and become king of the realm, you must break the wards yourself.” Merlyn passed the sword to Utros, but before letting go he said, “When you’re king, I’ll come for my payment.”

“Yes, yes, Merlyn. Whatever you desire.”

Utros balanced the weapon then swung it in a figure eight from side to side.

“The power in this blade is extraordinary. If anything can dispatch the wards on Tintagos Castle, it is this weapon. Ah, Merlyn! I feel I could cut through the very mist.”

“Then have at it, Lord Utros Pendragon.”

Utros swung the weapon over his head and thrust it toward the castle. “Igraine!”

A wave of nausea passed through Max.
What have I done?
If only he could go back a day and never answer the pounding at his door.

He watched, helpless, as Utros wielded the sword not against any mortal foe, but to cut through all the magics protecting Tintagos. Pendragon roared, drunk on unearned power as each charm broke and every spell fell away.

With the sound of protesting wood and hardware, the drawbridge lowered. The castle lay open. Utros cried, “The wards have no more strength to resist
Mistcutter
than the foam has against salt!”

Somewhere, Max heard the high gods weeping.

The atmosphere about the castle shimmered in one final holy convulsion, and Utros charged forward into the keep, sword in hand.

Max ran at Merlyn and grabbed the wyrder by his gray cloak. “Who set them?”

Anguish mixed with his fury and self-loathing. Whatever the answer, Max could only blame himself. He should have asked before agreeing to make the sword. It didn’t matter now, but he had to know.

“Who set the wards, wizard?”
Yes, Max. Compound the ignominy with name-calling.

“The high gods!” Merlyn squeaked. “Brother Sun and Sister Moon set the wards.”

“No.” Max let the wyrder go and took a step back. “It can’t be.”

He moved away, reeling.
No.
It made no sense. He was sure the high gods had been with him when he forged and formed
Mistcutter
. What dark magics were these?

What have I done?

Max followed Utros into the keep. The man in a fever ran unmolested past the smithy, the cobbler’s stand, and into the castle proper. In the great hall, he pointed
Mistcutter
at a passing steward. “Take me to Lady Igraine.”

It wasn’t necessary.

“My lord.”

The lady stood on the landing above Utros. She looked down on the duke at the foot of the stone stairs, her face a study of shock and wonder and… was that hope?

“Is my husband dead?” Igraine’s hand hovered over her heart. Part of her robe fell away, revealing a lovely bare shoulder, but she seemed unaware of it. “Gorlas must be dead, else the wards would hold.”

“My lady, you’re free.” Utros bounded up the steps and pulled Igraine to him with one arm, still holding on to the sword. He kissed her savagely.

“If Gorlas is dead, I’m bound to him no longer.”

“Aye, and when we’re together, the gods will sing.”

Utros hoisted Igraine over his shoulder. She laughed, giddy. A besieged prisoner who’d been restored to life. Laughter echoed through the great hall, fading as Utros Pendragon carried his treasure up to a welcoming bed where he would enjoy and possess her.

The servants and retainers on the stairs and in the hall exchanged unsure glances, each looking to another for a lead.

“All will be well. All will be right.”

Merlyn entered the hall and spread his arms in benediction. He stopped at the foot of the stairs with a generous smile for every soul, giving the reassuring appearance of knowing what was happening, with the implication that no one’s world was about to change. Collective relief rolled in a wave through the hall, and the servants went about their routines.

Max sank to the lowest step of the stone stairs and leaned against the wall, suddenly worn out. “What now?”

The wyrder sat down across from him. “We wait.”

The next day, late, after midday, the word came: Gorlas was dead.

The lady of the castle came down to meet Sir Kaigh, the knight who brought the sad news. “Tell me how it happened,” she said, showing an appropriate amount of tears.

“He died in battle, my lady, and brought honor to all of Dumnos,” Sir Kaigh said. “I was with him as the sun rose on the battlefield. There were no clouds, no mist. The sun blinded him, and the enemy’s blade slipped through his armor and lodged in his heart.”

“Last night, you mean,” Igraine said. “He died last night, I’m sure of it.”

“I was there, my lady.” The knight shot Utros a sharp look, his discomfort uncontained. His silence screamed,
And where were you?
“Lady Igraine, your husband died this morning, at dawn.”

The lady paled, and her lover caught her as she fainted in distress.

Max rose. Ignoring Merlyn, he walked out of Tintagos Castle, sick at heart at the part he’d played in the wyrder’s dark scheme. It had been a mistake to come here—and why had he done it? For fame? He was as disgusted with himself as Sir Kaigh had been with Utros.

Served him right for listening to that vainglorious treesap, Merlyn.

He headed for the faewood and the closest portal to the fae realm. He’d avoid the fairy court and keep to the tunnels. He just wanted to get home to the Blue Vale, to anonymity, and his apprenticeship with Vulsier.

« Chapter 7 »
Goblin’s Curse

T
HE NEXT MORNING
in the Blue Vale, Max rose late, bothered by a hangover of self-doubt. He shuffled out to the front room, muscle and bone aching like never before, and put the kettle on to boil water for tea.

Returning the crane to the flame, he heard a shuffling sound from his sleeping quarters and a familiar purring, self-approving
ooh!

His heart leapt. The thieving fairy was back.

He crept to the door, grabbed for the handle and missed it.
Drat.
While he was gone, one of the young gobs must have moved the handle higher up on the door for a prank. He’d see to the treesap later.

He eased the door farther open to take in the pretty sight. As he’d hoped, she’d found the emerald bracelet. His heart fluttered and contracted with the sweetest pain. The fever mist had gone, but he loved her still!

“Oh!” She whirled around to confront him—by her expression, a tart insult already formed on her lips.

Max was ready too—ready to kiss that insult away.

But something happened. Her eyes widened in fear, and her hand went to her throat.

“Who… who are you?” She looked frantically around the room. “What have you done with my prince?”

“Your… I’ve done nothing.
Ack
.” Max cleared his throat. What was wrong? The voice that came out of him was not his own. It had the texture of coarse pounded rock. “I am your…”

Her prince? Had she really called him that? He’d never been so happy!

“Aaiieee!” The fairy dropped the bracelet and popped out.

Max felt the dreary emptiness in the room. She wasn’t merely hiding. She was truly gone.

A ray of morning sunlight splashed through the window and hit the emeralds on the floor. Pain shot through Max’s back as he shuffled over to pick up the bauble, and when he bent down he could barely right himself again.

Squaring his shoulders, or trying to, he caught his image in the long mirror.

He didn’t know if the long, agonized cry he heard next came from his own lips. Perhaps he had heard it from the window.

The wailing began. Throughout the Blue Vale, echo upon echo, guttural, full-bodied cries of anguish and bewilderment. Man-gob, fem-gob, the most ancient, and the young. None were spared. Even the children were not spared.

That day every goblin of the Dumnos fae shrank one, two, three—even four feet in stature. Backs bent, shoulders hunched, brows knitted together, skin creased. Benign and beautiful smiles became scowls of anger and pain. Taut, smooth skin became lined and creased. Max’s sin in creating
Mistcutter
was to be paid for by them all, the payment taken in the goblins’ greatest pride: their beauty.