Lancelot and the Wolf (26 page)

This all sounded a little bleak to me, so on one side stood a fey family who looked as though they worked with us, on the other stood the de Clare’s and their fey friends, and finally us mere mortals.

Merlin rubbed my ear, I couldn’t believe how good it felt, I leaned against his hand, “Now, I know you want to ask how on earth are you going to find Arthur but remember, he is not in physical danger right now, just spiritual. It’s his spirit you can save and once that is achieved you can find his body, then come and find me. In the meantime, stay out of trouble and try not to bed anyone else. Have you any idea how complicated you are making my life, never mind your own. I need Arthur to produce an heir and while his heart belongs to you he won’t.”

I growled softly in warning and rose, as did Merlin, “Fine, you don’t welcome my words but they are true. Listen to me, Lancelot, my Wolf, you will only find your King if you follow your heart. You have to enter his dreams as I have yours. You can because you are tied to him as tightly as two people can be, your shared destiny will ensure you run once more at his side. I must leave now. I have my own battles to face. Just follow your heart and trust no one.”

The fog engulfed the man before me, drawing him into its embrace. It grew so thick I lost all sense of direction and found him gone from my side, between the drawing of one breath and the next. I howled.

My body, full of distress and fear, wanted to run. I had to fight my instincts and think, not act. I must reach Arthur and follow my heart. Which meant what exactly? I growled, remembering why Merlin could be such a pain in the arse, he might have given me instructions. Fine, if he wanted me to think about how to enter Arthur’s dreams I’d work on that. I realised Merlin had appeared twice in my dreams, I hadn’t created him. How would I do that? Concentrate on my friend that’s how I would do it. Listen to my heart and its whispers of love. Allow my soul to travel to his mind. And the only way to dream is to sleep. Regardless of what my body might be doing, this form needed to sleep if I were to reach Arthur’s mind and save his soul.

I padded forward looking for a den. I had to be comfortable and safe. The fog kept close to me, hugging my fur, making it damp. A great shape loomed out of the darkness, a huge willow tree. I sniffed the air, then the ground, then the tree, looking for possible enemies who may live inside the trunk or branches. Nothing, no one lived near this tree. I walked around and found a huge crack in the trunk, large enough for even a large black wolf to curl up and be safe. I smiled, I suppose it was my dream, so why wouldn’t I find something to keep me safe?

I crawled into the hole, walked around in a tight circle and settled down on dry leaves. Tucking my nose into my tail, I shut my eyes and conjured Arthur. Inevitably, my mind tracked back to the previous night. I rewound the events. How it made me feel to have him so close, so intimate. Should two men love each other in such a way? I didn’t know. I did know Arthur and I needed to step over that line. There had only ever been him in my heart. With the thought, I felt that familiar and ancient ache, the pain that gives me access to my true feelings for my friend. This pain I carried close for years, as we grew into men. The agony I felt when I finally lay with Guinevere and the horror of seeing his face when he condemned me for the adultery before the court.

Even in my dream, I twitched with distress. I hung onto the feeling, forgetting the mission at hand, my mind roving over old wounds. Those old wounds became so painful I began to run, run hard, racing away from the pain, over polished wooden floors, my claws digging into the surface and making loud clacking noises.

I skidded to a halt. I ran through Camelot. Quiet, lit by daylight, empty of scent. I turned once in a full circle to make certain I hadn’t made a mistake. My tongue lolled out, I’d done it. I’d breached Arthur’s mind. I knew this couldn’t be my world, I didn’t dream like this. I trotted forward toward the great hall feeling quite optimistic.

My ears swivelled, catching the first sound. A metallic ring against stone. I paused, I sniffed and fear hit my nose. Long before thinking clearly even entered my head, I raced forward. The great doors to the throne room were shut and I now heard more than just metal clanking. The other noises chilled my bones. I pawed gently at the door, trying to convince it to open. It swung inward just enough for me to see the hall. I peered in and pushed with my snout to widen the gap. I saw what I feared the most.

Arthur held prisoner. The white hart captured. He stood with legs splayed, his pristine coat, bloody and torn. His great rack of antlers broken. There were cuffs around each of his legs, forcing him into stillness even as his flanks heaved and sweated. A collar ran around his thick neck, tying him tight to the floor. The chain forced his head down toward a great stone block. Before the mighty stag stood a woman.

Her long blonde hair brushed the top of her small, round backside. A heavy gold belt slung low over her hips helped to emphasise her small waist. I’d had my hands around that waist, fingers almost meeting as her hips rocked over mine.

Guinevere stood before the white hart. A blade glinted in her hand. She raised her arms to shoulder height and her head rocked back onto her shoulders. The sunlight, through the great windows danced over her perfect form. Her eyes were closed. From the furthest corners of the room figures walked forward. They all seemed to be members of Arthur’s court but horribly changed.

I recognised Kay only because he wore his family colours. He shuffled forward, his legs twisted, his arms pulling him along the polished floor. His face broken and rebuilt as a nightmare. His eyes were glazed and he drooled. There were others. Gawain, another of Arthur’s loyal followers, usually handsome and young, now appeared with his flesh torn from his body, his mighty limbs shrunken. Yvain, small, swarthy and the finest horseman I knew, looked diseased, foul fluid leaking from his orifices. Others, who were Arthur’s true companions, emerged just as tortured. Those I thought of as de Clare supporters were all tall, perfect, beautiful versions of what they were in real life. Guinevere stood, shining and glorious among her people. Two men, mighty Lords, Lot and Accolon, a man I counted as friend, began to pull the white hart’s head down. Arthur fought, his legs quivered. He pulled back on the collar around his throat. Slowly they forced his powerful shoulders down. His head twisted to one side exposing his neck. It lay on the stone block. I heard his breathing, smelt his fear and defiance.

Guinevere spoke, “The time has come to reclaim what has been taken from us. Those who follow me, who walk in my path, shall be rewarded,” a great cheer erupted from the beautiful people. “Those who have stood against me, who have caused my downfall and stolen my prize,” she pointed to Morgan. I knew he had been one of those who had to declare me outlaw, “shall be punished for all time. This will amuse the Court, will it not?” Another cry from the beautiful, those who were ugly moaned and shivered. I watched Kay try to reach the stag, a man, Guy I think, kicked him hard. Blood crashed to the floor and the stag twitched.

The Queen continued, “Once we have freed ourselves from the tyranny of Pendragon power we will bring Wessex back to its glory days, under the rule of Albion.”

I didn’t know what glory days she spoke of, the Romans? Wessex under Arthur’s hand had gone from strength to strength and what was Albion? A phrase I’d heard too often recently.

Guinevere lowered her arms and chanted softly. She stroked the mighty neck of the stag. Arthur tried to fight but I watched him beginning to fold under the soft caresses. I stared, transfixed by the sight of his wife, my old lover, raising the knife over her head. Bright light hit the blade and glinted off, blinding me for a moment. The spell, the shock of seeing her, broke within me. I barged into the doors and they opened easily. I raced across the polished stone floor, snarling. Guinevere’s arms were coming down faster than I moved. I gathered my back legs under me, all that power at my call and thrust up just as she plunged down. I landed on Guinevere’s back. She screamed and toppled forward, onto the broken antlers of the stag, the knife skittered from her hand.

Howls from men’s mouths are not the same as a howl from a wolf. Guinevere died on the antlers and I leapt from her back, tearing through the crowd. All those I knew to be enemies I fought. None were fast enough to lay a blade on my dark form. I became a blur of vengeance. Each body I marked vanished back into the walls of the great hall. Every one of our allies cheered even as they sank into the floor, unharmed and thankfully repaired. When the last of the figures vanished from my sight, I turned back to the stag. The body of the Queen faded, the beautiful face pierced by a tine from the rack of antlers.

I needed to free Arthur, to bring him back to our world, not his own. I concentrated and felt my limbs grow and straighten, the fur flowing back into my skin, burning hot. I regained my fingers and I moved to the stag.

“
Calm, Arthur,” I said gently. I stroked his great cheek. His eye looked at me, wide and wild. I reached for the collar around his neck and snapped the simple fastener open. It slid from his throat and crashed to the floor. He raised his head from the block and stood, legs still splayed, regarding me. I lay a hand on the wide forehead and stroked his face. He pushed his nose into my chest. He had been hurt, cuts bled along his ribs and back. I walked to each of his limbs and undid the clasps. He regained his footing and I wrapped my arms around his neck as he sank to the floor. I held him. The body shifted under my hands. One moment I lay half under the white hart’s neck, the next I sat with Arthur the man cradled in my arms.

“
My Wolf,” he whispered.

“
I will always protect you, my King,” I murmured. I kissed his sweat bathed brow.

The air rushed into my lungs, cold and damp. A sharp orange light snarled its way into my eyes and a gruff voice said, “Thank God,” Geraint said. “I can’t find Arthur.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

I sat up, Geraint held a candle in his hand. It showed me a world of bleak isolation. Night shrouded the land, the stars a distant meaningless light. The fog had vanished and taken my heart with it. I sat on slightly damp earth, which remained soft under my hands. There were scrubby trees surrounding us, we were not where we had been, on the road.

“
What do you know?” I asked, reaching and checking our weapons.

“
I can’t find Else or Arthur. I’ve been awake over an hour. I tried to wake you but you’ve been out cold.” I heard the stress in Geraint’s voice.

“
Just as well, I’ve been dreaming again,” I said as I stood. “Where are the horses?”

“
I don’t know,” Geraint replied.

“
I wish them luck with that then,” I said, thinking of Ash and how difficult he’d be making someone’s life. “Do we know what happened?”

Geraint shook his head and the candle fluttered, “One minute we were lighting the fire, the next I felt so heavy I couldn’t move, then this,” he waved his hands around and the candle’s flame vanished. “Bollocks.”

“
Don’t worry,” I said waiting for my eyes to adjust. I wished briefly the wolf lived somewhere other than my head.

“
How are we going to pick up their tracks without light,” Geraint snapped.

“
We aren’t, we are going to follow my instinct if you will just hold still a few minutes,” I said. I closed my eyes and thought about the feeling, which led me to Arthur’s dreams. The ache sprang back to life. I turned in a circle asking for guidance. The pain flared when I turned in one particular direction.

I opened my eyes, “We go that way.” I pointed, uncertain of the direction until we could see the stars.

“
What about Else?”

I threw my hands in the air, “What about her? The last I remember, she was the one telling me Arthur needed to be replaced,” I growled, trying very hard not to think too much about what she had done or why. “Let’s not worry about her until we have Arthur back.”

“
She’s a vulnerable woman,” Geraint said.

“
There is nothing vulnerable about, Eleanor de Clare.” I shivered. I realised she might have been tricked and might be working for Arthur’s enemies without realising it but equally she might not. And what of Guinevere in Arthur’s dream? Was she merely a representation of the evil in the court, or was she Queen of our enemies? When would I ever meet a woman I could trust?

“
Maybe she’s with Arthur,” Geraint said. I heard the worry, but didn’t care. I had to find Arthur. Merlin had said once I’d saved his soul, I had to save his body.

We had nothing to carry, except the clothes in which we’d fallen asleep wearing. We had lost our swords and our horses. We both had some coin, but no food and the four knives we carried our only weapons. Two of which were eating knives.

We set off along a rough path at a good jogging pace, the mail I wore hardly noticeable. While we ran, I told Geraint about the dream. He cursed softly, “So you think the Queen is a traitor?”

“
I have no idea if she is or if she is just a patsy. Either way she needs stopping,” I said sadly.

I felt Geraint’s hand on my shoulder, “I am sorry, my friend. You have suffered much for Arthur’s sake.”

I didn’t know what to say, so we fell silent and just ran through the night. I assumed we were still on the Levels because the ground under our feet remained the same. Travelling over such dangerous terrain made me nervous, drowning in the swamp not what I wanted, but I had no choice. The ache in my chest the only guide on this journey.