The Book of Mordred (41 page)

Kiera signaled that she understood—

And then they were engulfed by the first wave of Arthur's men.

It was similar to the day of Guinevere's rescue in the courtyard—trying to fight the current of a mass of humanity. But this time Kiera had a horse to do the work for her. On the other hand, the people she faced now held weapons at the ready for the enemy they were about to face.

Her horse shied to the left as a knight, seeing her break through from the direction of Mordred's camp, aimed himself at her. He moved his arm in a circular swing, and she heard the
whizzz
of the spiked ball on the end of its chain before she saw the mace. He must have realized his mistake as he spun the deadly morningstar over his head, for he didn't lash out at her, though its momentum precluded his putting his arm back down. He charged by her, and she twisted around to make sure he didn't use his readied weapon on her mother. There was no sign of Alayna, although in such a press of people that was not proof she wasn't there.

Kiera faced forward again and was clipped on the side of the head by the edge of somebody's shield. Dizzily, she slumped to the right. She felt her horse compensate for her shifting weight just as he should be moving to avoid another horseman.

At the last instant he was forced into a close turn, and she felt herself slide farther to the right even as she tried to pull herself back up. Again she was grazed by a knight passing too close, his armored sleeve scraping against her bare arm. He yelled back, but too many others were shouting for anybody to hear: those behind whipping their courage up to a frenzy for the coming battle, while others at the fore were already dying.

Her left foot had slipped out of the stirrup and was halfway up her mount's back. She pressed tight with her legs, thinking, hoping, there could not be that many more ranks of soldiers left.

Her horse was jostled, and she closed her eyes rather than watch the ground slip ever closer to her face.

They swerved once again, then she felt his muscles tense even more. They were hit almost head-on this time. He pitched forward, his legs tangled with the other horse's. Both animals cried in pain. Kiera's arms and legs gave out—it felt as though someone tore her away—and she fell face forward on the ground.

She was aware of the horses screaming, their hooves flailing as they thrashed on the ground, and she wondered if she would be killed by her own crippled mount or by someone else running over her. But then the sky began to rotate on an axis located just between her eyes, spinning faster than the spiked morningstar ball.

Silly,
she told herself,
the sky can't he moving—it has to be the earth.

And, sure enough, the ground kept on spinning, faster and faster, until she fell off the edge of the world.

I can't be dead,
Kiera thought,
it's too dusty to be Heaven, and too bright to be Hell.

She was aware of herself lying on the ground, the body of her dying horse close enough to protect her from the hooves of Arthur's onrushing army.

But at the same time she seemed to be hovering several feet above the confusion. When she turned her head—even though she knew her face was still pressed unmoving against the ground—she could see the red dragon banner of King Arthur. Before she was even aware of wanting to go there, she was drifting above it.

Arthur was flat on his back on the ground, just as she had left herself, except that he was surrounded by a cordon of men to make sure he didn't get trampled. She wondered if he also floated above himself and if their spirits could collide into each other up here.

Farther away, her mother rode back and forth, getting in people's way, calling, "Kiera! Kiera!" But when Kiera tried to answer, no sound came from where she felt her mouth to be.

Bedivere was farther still, at the front, arguing with one of the captains, trying to convince him that he spoke for the injured Arthur.

"You show me some token of the King's authority," the captain said. "Otherwise, I take my orders from Arthur himself. Good Lord, man, they don't know how to fight! We're getting hardly any resistance at all. They're falling back almost as fast as we can move forward. I am not stopping that advance for anyone less than the King."

"Don't those ears of yours work?" Bedivere shouted, partly to be heard above the din of swords and shouts and horses, and partly out of frustration. "The King had his horse shot out from under him. He was on his way to tell the men to fall back because he has an agreement with Mordred.
That
is why you are finding it so easy: Mordred is holding them back. But any time now he is going to give up on us, and once he starts fighting, that will be the end of you."

Even Kiera knew that was the wrong thing to say; it was not the wording to convince anyone.

The captain's mouth twitched. "Maybe so and maybe not. You just send Arthur to tell me what he wants." He tugged on his horse's reins, and disappeared into the press of fighting men.

Bedivere sat for a moment longer, as if considering whether he should follow that captain, seek out another, or return to Arthur. With a cry of disgust, he wheeled his horse about, farther down the line, to the next company.

Kiera planned to follow him, but found herself, without having moved there, in someone's tent.

Here was an old woman, with yellowing hair and small eyes lost in a mass of wrinkles. She sat, cross-legged, in the middle of a pentacle drawn in black powder on the floor, her long fingers working, working, working at something. At Kiera's entrance, she jerked her head up as though she sensed something but didn't know what. With the woman's hands momentarily stilled, Kiera saw it was a lock of hair over which the fingers had fluttered, a lock of white hair—short, a mans. And even though she was still in the tent, Kiera saw Arthur, on the field, being helped to his feet—and then suddenly stagger forward, his hand to his chest.

No!
she cried. No sound came out, but the old woman's head whipped around to look directly at her.

It was the eyes Kiera recognized: Morgana's.

The King's sister hissed. She dropped the lock of Arthur's hair, reaching out her gnarled and spotted hand to snatch at Kiera.

Kiera stepped back.

The grasping motion turned into a finger pointed in warning. Then Morgana swept her arm in front of her face, a flurry of black cloth.

She felt the rush of air. There was a moment, or perhaps it was an eternity, of nothingness—falling, falling in total blackness—but then the arm moved back and it wasn't diaphanous silk, but black armor. The aged Morgana was gone, and it was Mordred she watched now.

He sat on his horse, in the midst of the fighting, his hands gripped tightly on the reins. Even with his visor down, she knew his eyes were closed.

She felt the pulsating glow of Nimue's ring. The air crackled with summer thunder and lightning, and two of Arthur's men fell from their horses.

Mordred!
she called, but he gave no sign that he heard. The hairs on the back of her neck and upper arms stood up.

There was another flash, an actual flame this time. The knight it was aimed at rolled off his horse, and the flames that danced over the surface of his armor were smothered as he thrashed on the ground. But the panoply of his mount—leather and brocade—flared and erupted into fire. The animal bolted, heading for Mordred's ranks. The horses of Mordred's knights shied away, close to panic.

Kiera mentally closed her eyes, covered her ears, held her breath, but couldn't be rid of the images and sounds and smells of the horror. She wished herself away...

...And found herself sitting on a small boat in the middle of a lake.

A woman, older than Morgana, but with a gentler look, sat at the other end of the boat. She looked directly at Kiera. "Etheral transference is a risky bit of business at any stage of development," she said. "But if you are determined to try it, you really should practice with shorter distances first."

Vivien,
Kiera thought at her. The Lady of the Lake.

Vivien inclined her head, and her white, waist-length hair fell forward. When she spoke, it was with a voice, like normal people. "And you, of course, must be Kiera. Patience, Kiera. Practice. One level at a time."

They're using magic,
Kiera thought at her:
Morgana and Mordred.

Vivien raised her eyebrows.

In her mind, Kiera said,
I don't think Mordred exactly knows what he is doing.

"No, I think we can safely assume that he does not." Vivien shook her head. "But you must go back to where your body is. I will do what I can." She leaned forward, and Kiera could have sworn she felt the long fingers gently brush her face. But that was impossible, she realized; she had left her face behind, pressed against the ground, next to a dying horse.

She opened her eyes. She was sore all over and had a mouthful of dirt. Gray fingers of fog curled among the stones and sparse grass on the ground. She sat up before she thought about the advancing army, but they had bypassed her already, long since.

The horse she had been riding was dead. She rested her head on her knees, knowing there was no time for mourning, that people were dying—and that people were more important than horses—but it was hard. She forced herself to stand.

What could she do? A young woman—a girl—just barely fifteen years old, involved in the affairs of kings, trying to prevent a war the entire countryside seemed determined to have. The air crackled with magic, and here she was with her puny visions and her ability to talk to animals and her pathetic desire to save the people she loved. For a year and a half she had first suspected, then known, what was coming and had been unable to do a thing about it. The most reasonable course of action now was to find a horse and get out of here, try to build whatever life she could away from those who knew her, who would always fear her—her, with her ridiculous, ineffective magic. Why was she cursed with being different if that difference was unable to help her? Visions of a future that could not be changed—pure vexation. Conversations with animals—so what? She must find a horse...

Something tugged at her mind. She must find a horse...

She must find...

She sucked in her breath. She must find a horse and explain to it that the knights could not fight without their steeds. That this battle was a misunderstanding which could be worked out in the time that would be gained if the horses refused to partake in this folly. The knights' field armor was too bulky, too ungainly for sustained hand-to-hand combat—all she had to do was convince the horses, get them to pass the word.

She glanced around, trying to gain her bearings, and saw a man approaching. He was tall, about the King's age—a lord, she could tell by the way he walked. But she stepped back warily, wondering who would stroll through a battlefield without armor, dressed in a velvet gown.

He smiled, holding out his right hand to her. His left hand rested gently against his chest, holding something that hung from a chain around his neck—a disturbing gesture, which was reminiscent of Mordred, which in turn was reminiscent of...

"Halbert," she whispered. The past, which she had thought beyond her recall, seemed to slap her across the face.
She felt his fingers digging into her shoulders, and heard her mother; strange-eyed and distant say, "Behave.
"

His smile broadened. "Kiera," he said. "Little Kiera, come to be with me at last." His hand moved down, showing the red stone that sparkled too brightly for this gray day.

She took a step back.

"Look at me. Surely, you don't think I would hurt you?" He beckoned with his right hand.

She turned and ran.

She couldn't hear, over the sounds of the nearby battle and the pounding of her blood in her ears, if he followed. Only when her sides began to hurt did she slow down. Then, prepared to run again, she spared a look over her shoulder.

Bodies—men and horses. Dropped shields and lances. And the fog, thickening, getting higher from moment to moment. A raven, perched on a saddle—no horse, just a saddle—flapped its black wings and cawed, but didn't take flight.

She came to a full stop, turned entirely around. Within her field of vision nothing moved. But the fog made the distance she could see not much at all. Who was behind that? she wondered. The wizard Halbert? Morgana? Mordred? Vivien was the only one she could think of who would have a reason to cut down visibility: If the knights couldn't find each other, they couldn't fight.

If
Vivien truly didn't want a battle.

The raven pecked at a bridle bell, the only sound nearby.

Kiera wiped her sweaty palms on her grimy dress.

A shape solidified from the fog, moved relentlessly toward her, the hand extended, the long-nailed fingers beckoning.

She ran.

She headed for Arthur's camp, thinking there might be spare horses that hadn't been used in the first charge, but still the dead wizard followed. She veered off to the right, to the left, a zigzag he couldn't keep up with, but did.