CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The movements were Mordred’s as he prowled toward them, his steps more like dancing than walking. The way he twirled his sword through the air so that it sparked brightly in the afternoon sun was familiar, too.

But his eyes.

That was the worst part. Because, unlike in Guinevere’s dream, they were not black. They were his own eyes, lovely and green, and absolutely lifeless. Gone was the winking familiarity, the sly glance, the hundreds of infinitesimal changes that were him. These eyes were as lifeless and unchanging as a snake’s.

“Run,” Mordred wheezed, his mouth not quite cooperating, his eyes staying cold. “Please, run.”

“Mordred?” Guinevere took a step toward him. He was still in there!

“Stay,” his voice sang with ease. “Join us. No. I am not strong enough,” he said, tears tracing down his face. “I cannot fight her any longer. Please, run. As far and as fast as you can.” His mouth spasmed into a smile as he sauntered toward them. Maybe he was able to resist the Dark Queen because he was a fairyson, or maybe because he was Mordred, and he always survived. But if the muscle memory of Guinevere’s body was that of the real Guinevere, it was clear the Dark Queen had complete control of Mordred’s skills, including those with a blade.

Lancelot drew her sword and took a fighting stance. “Mordred, stop.”

“Go,” he said, his voice agonized.

There was a snap of a twig, a footstep, and then a dozen, a hundred, an innumerable swarm of people walked free from the trees where they had lain in wait. Saxon, southerner, northerner, it did not matter. They walked in unison, as though controlled by a single puppet master. But they all had the same ghastly quality to their eyes: unanimated, lifeless windows with no soul behind them.

“Why are they all here?” Fina asked, panicked.

“How did they know?” Nectudad demanded.

“She was already trying to get in,” Guinevere said, trying to dam her flooding despair. Guinevere had accomplished what the Dark Queen could not. She had opened the cave, and now the Dark Queen would kill the only being capable of beating her. Or, worse, infect him. This had been why Merlin warned Arthur to never open the cave. Guinevere had disregarded the warning because of her hatred for the wizard. And now she had ruined everything. “We cannot let them inside!”

“Form a circle around the cave!” Nectudad commanded. Fina grabbed Guinevere and tugged her back as Nectudad’s group took a defensive stance. Lancelot strode toward Mordred, blocking his way.

“Please kill me, Lancelot!” Mordred begged. His fingers spasmed and then his voice became smooth again. “Give us Excalibur, Lancelot. Give it to us now, and we will spare her life.” In a gesture at odds with his words, Mordred pointed his sword at Lancelot’s neck and then at Guinevere’s.

Because of their watery journey, Lancelot was not wearing armor. Neither was Mordred. It would be blade against blade, with nothing to protect their desperately human bodies.

“You cannot hope to beat us all,” Mordred said. “And soon you will be with us.”

One of Nectudad’s soldiers cried out as the spiders surged toward them, carpeting the forest floor with seething black. Guinevere reached into her pouch. She had not expected the Dark Queen to beat them here, but nor had she come unprepared. Guinevere waited until the first spider got close enough to strike, then stabbed an iron killing knot into it, staking it to the ground.

As she had hoped, the magic was connected to the spider, and the spider was connected to all the rest of the encroaching arachnids. They twitched and withered away in a widening circle. Guinevere’s heart swelled, then sank. A part of her had desperately hoped the magic would kill all the infection of the Dark Queen, but it had only stopped this particular method of delivery. The army surrounding them was still the Dark Queen’s.

“Clever,” Mordred said. “And vicious. We did not know you had it in you, soft, gentle girl. No wonder he loves you.” Mordred’s free hand tapped against his heart. “We can still feel him, how much it hurts. How scared he is that we will harm you through him. You have already hurt him so many times. Do not make us kill you. Give us the sword.”

The Dark Queen’s horde stepped closer. Fina and Nectudad raised their swords, shoulder to shoulder with the handful of soldiers that stood between the Dark Queen and the cave. They would be overwhelmed, and quickly, but none of them suggested retreating.

“At least we will die as ourselves,” Fina said, her voice bright.

“That is the most anyone can hope for,” Nectudad agreed. “Stay tight! Protect Guinevere and the sword!”

Lancelot turned her head and met Guinevere’s gaze, her own grimly determined. She unstrapped Excalibur, still sheathed, from her back. Guinevere braced herself against the impending sickness. Maybe Excalibur could buy them time. But she knew from experience the sword could not undo this magic.

The horde surrounding them pressed closer. The Dark Queen was out of patience.

“Until we battle again,” Nectudad said.

“In another field,” Fina answered. She raised her sword and roared.

An answering roar echoed, amplified a thousandfold, from the east. They all turned, terrified of this new threat. But the pounding of hooves announced the arrival of Camelot’s forces. The horde shifted toward the threat as Arthur himself crashed through, sword swinging, eyes blazing.

Arthur was here! Camelot was here!

But…he was too far away. Hundreds of infected bodies were between them, a sea of the Dark Queen separating them. They might as well have been on separate islands for all they could reach each other. Arthur looked across the heads of the charging army at Guinevere and then Lancelot. His eyes flashed with anger when he saw that Lancelot held Excalibur, still sheathed, aloft. But he nodded once, giving permission. Then he dove into the fray, sword swinging. The Dark Queen’s forces fought with mindless frenzy, throwing themselves into blades, heedless of the damage they did to their bodies. Horses and men were pulled screaming to the forest floor.

The worst part, though, was that the Dark Queen’s possessed died soundlessly, bleeding out into the dirt. They were not allowed to feel their own pain, to cry out at being violently torn from the world against their wills. She stole even their last moments from them.

“Come, Lancelot!” Mordred called over the battle’s cacophonous din. “The tyrant cannot reach us in time. Give us the sword, or try to fight us. Either way, we will have it, and you.”

Mordred was flanked by at least twenty of the Dark Queen’s horde, held back from the larger battle by this smaller yet most desperate one. Guinevere could see how both conflicts would end, though. How could they fight an infection? How could they win when their attackers would pay any price to destroy them?

She was going to have to watch Arthur, Mordred, and Lancelot die.

“The sword, Lancelot!” Fina snapped. “It might save us!”

Instead of drawing Excalibur, Lancelot tossed the sheathed sword to Guinevere. “Do what you must to keep it safe from the Dark Queen. Get to the wizard. We will protect the cave entrance for as long as we can.”

Mordred ran toward Guinevere. Lancelot blocked his path, sword raised. Fina and Nectudad screamed a battle cry and joined the fray, supported by the soldiers with them, who kept the cave entrance clear.

Guinevere slung the wretched sword over her shoulder. “Please do not die,” she said to Lancelot. “And do not kill him, if you can help it.”

“She cannot beat Mordred, and we are him,” Mordred said, that pulled-string smile twitching once more.

“I have had a good teacher.” Lancelot launched an attack with a flurry of steel, driving Mordred back. “Go!” she shouted to Guinevere.

Guinevere turned and crawled into the darkness.