Perhaps he had only been foolish enough to think the creatures were loyal tohim, not the Court.
“Let me ride down,” he said to Palamedes, gathering up Rook’s reins. “I can be there and back before they make it halfway to the base of the hill, and then we will have a better understanding of what is occurring.”
Qila danced sideways, bumping into Rook, as a few raiders broke through their defense line, a group of mounted knights like a band across the hill. Mordred pulled a dagger from his belt and felled one, the blade striking right into the man’s throat.
“I know being absolutely fucking mad is part of their method,” Gawain called, parrying another of the raider’s blades—one that looked Briton-forged, not Northern, “but they seemparticularlymad today, do they not?”
Mordred heaved a sigh as Palamedes agreed. “Go,” the knight said to him, slamming his helm down over his dark curls. “We’ll hold the line.”
Mordred nodded and unsheathed his sword, sending Rook galloping along Camelot’s defensive line with a press of his calf. Across the hill they raced, the warhorse trampling bodies underfoot, reaching out to snatch a bite of flesh whenever he could. When they reached a copse of trees, Mordred sat back in the saddle, slowing the destrier to a canter. Sticking to the shade of the trees, the pair made their way down the large, sloping side of the old faerie hill, headed directly for the horde of Northmen and the fenlands.
One of the raiders’ long, red braids flashed in the sun, breaking his focus. Mordred gritted his teeth and told himself not to think of the Druid girl, of Guinevere’s half-mad plan, of all the ways everything was going completely and utterly wrong. All he had to do was survive the next minute, one minute at a time. Distraction was a deadly risk in the fray of battle.
Only when they were far enough away from Camelot’s walls and the brush of Merlin’s magic, Mordred slowed Rook to a trot, then leaned low over the courser’s neck. “Explain yourself,” he hissed to the warhorse.
He felt the creature peel off its glamour in the way of its people—like a film over the surface of a pond, algae-slick and gossamer-thin. The next moment, he was astride a creature even larger than Rook. A mane of seaweed-like tendrils hung where neat, dark braids had been just moments before. The creature turned his head, toad-black eyes taking Mordred in slowly.
“I thought it quite obvious,” said the kelpie that only wore the guise of a warhorse, much as Mordred only wore the costume of a mortal knight, “that there is other witchery afoot.”
Mordred let the naked steel of his sword lie against the curve of the kelpie’s neck. “If you have betrayed me?—”
“If I were to betray you,” the kelpie replied, his teeth gnashing in the gloom of the forest, “it would not be to deprive my people of a feast.” The kelpie turned away, raising his head to take in the fenlands, closer now, where raiders seemed to rise from the waters like apparitions. “And what a feast it would have been. Pity.”
“There is much flesh left,” Mordred said as the kelpie began to move faster, something not unlike scales glimmering on the creature’s shoulders. “There is still time.”
The kelpie twisted his neck again, massive head turning to look at the knight. “Indeed, there is,” Rook said, lips curled back to reveal his many teeth, too sharp to belong in a horse’s mouth. “Let us see what sorcery has fooled my brethren.”
Without another word, the kelpie took off into an impossibly fast gallop, nearly unseating Mordred. He sheathed his sword and leaned low over Rook’s neck, entangling one hand in his damp black-green mane. Mordred was glad he did, because in what felt like only a few galloping strides later, the trees cleared away and the fens opened like a dark mouth.
Without hesitating, Rook leapt into the air and dove into the marshy waters. They slipped below the surface without so much as a splash. Thanks to his faerie blood and the kelpie’s magic, his mail did not drag him down to the murky depths below, nor did he find his lungs devoid of air. Mordred simply kept his balance astride the kelpie as they swam lower, lower—far deeper than anyone would suspect the fens went.
“Hold tight, faerie child,” boomed an immeasurably old voice inside the knight’s head.
He did as the kelpie instructed, but also turned to look over his shoulder. He found no sunlight breaking the water’s surface—only the shimmering, scaled tail that Rook’s back legs had transformed into, driving them deeper into the ancient waterway known as the Rivers.
Up ahead, billowing ribbons of kelp parted like a curtain, revealing two more kelpies: a small, silvery one with a single eye and a second more like Rook, large and powerfully muscled, though its coat skewed greenish-gray instead of black.
“The tribunal,” the kelpie explained in his head.
Mordred tried to press his own thoughts into the kelpie’s mind, but he found no entrance. Instead, he sat astride Rook’s back, desperately waiting for the moment he might return to the surface and fight alongside the two mortals he had been stupid enough to let himself care about.
Beneath the blackened waters, Mordred lost any sense of time. Even counting his own heartbeats proved fruitless, as his mind struggled to perform simple arithmetic. Rook fell in beside the other kelpies, so close that the knight could have reached out and brushed the small, silvery one on the flank. He supposed the kelpies were communicating based on their facial expressions: the flattened ears and bared teeth, the gentler bumps of their muzzles, and occasional people-like nods. Perhaps only a few moments had passed, or maybe an eternity, by the time Rook was done conferring with the tribunal, as the kelpie had called it.
“Myrddin,” the kelpie spat in Mordred’s head, speaking Merlin’s older name with distaste.
Mordred sat up straight with alarm as Rook swung his enormous tail through the air, turning away from the billowing green and the kelpies hidden within it.
“He has new tricks,” Rook continued, sounding like he had his teeth gritted together. “You must rid Camelot of him. You know this, yes?”
Mordred nearly opened his mouth to speak, only remembering the push and depth of the Rivers at the very last moment. Instead, he nodded, hoping the kelpie understood.
Furiously, Rook made his way to the surface, his tail thrashing like a great beast from the depths. All Mordred coulddo was cling to the kelpie’s broad back and ask himself why Merlin would help the Northmen attack Camelot.
Unless, of course, it was not about the Northmen at all, but instead a display of how essential a sorcerer like Merlin was to the seat of a city that hoped to become a kingdom. Mordred gritted his teeth, glancing up to find light blooming at the surface. He grabbed a fistful of Rook’s seaweed mane and prepared himself. The next moment, the kelpie broke the surface of the water, leaping from the fenlands and onto the marshy shore.
The skies had since opened, the world little more than gray rain. Through the sheets of water, Mordred could just make out even more Northmen crawling from the fens and making their way up Camelot’s hill. He narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore how hard the rain pelted them. Beneath him, Rook had not quite turned back into the warhorse that Camelot knew him to be.
“Rook,” Mordred warned, one gloved hand flat against the kelpie’s rain-damp neck.
