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NOTE: THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED, UNEDITED SNEAK

PREVIEW OF ARTHUR’S BLADE—ENJOY!

BUT … if you haven’t yet read MERLIN’S BLADE,

MERLIN’S SHADOW, AND MERLIN’S NIGHTMARE,

then it is recommended you do so first!

*** SPOILERS AHEAD ***

Arthur’s Blade (excerpt)

Copyright © 2015 by Robert Treskillard. All Rights Reserved.

The characters and events depicted in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to actual persons real or imagined is coincidental.

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ARTHUR’S

BLADE

Book 1 of The Pendragon Spiral

Robert Treskillard

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PROLOGUE

SHACKLES OF THE PAST

Lake Dosmurtanlyn near the village of Bosventor,

Kernow, in southwestern Britain Spring, In the year of our Lord, 493

The scales upon Gwevian’s back shivered when she sensed the

werewolf rushing past her lake. She had been warned in a

prophetic dream many years before—and now her doom had

finally come. She swam out of the cave that was her home at the

bottom of the lake. Surfacing just the tip of her nose among the

lily pads and sedge grasses, she sniffed—and smelled blood.

Its salty tang stung her nose; many men had died this night,

more would yet die, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Rising further from the water she saw the lifeless eyes of a warrior

staring back at her. He’d fallen on the very edge of the lake and

the blood from a rip in his throat leaked down onto the black,

drought-stricken heath.

And if the prophecy were true, then it foretold that this

werewolf would battle Arthur, her son Merlin, and their warriors.

Fear drove her forth. She had to know if Merlin was safe. The

werewolf was headed toward the village, so in a flash, as was her

power, she changed herself into a small salmon and slipped into a

cleft at the side of the lake where a tiny spring flowed. The cold

water numbed her as she swam furiously against the current, and

soon she was deep into a network of water-filled caverns under

the earth. She knew the way to the village brook, having

discovered the path years before, and quickly found herself in the

cool waters of the spring that emptied near the southern sheep-

fold of the village. When she changed back to her human-like

form the water she breathed in and out tasted of peat.

Hurrying downstream she came upon a stand of bulrushes, and

5

looking through them to the village green, she saw her doom—the

Druid Stone, which still sat upon the old granite slab.

This was the very Stone that had stolen her from her family

that fateful night thirty years ago when she was boating on the

lake with her husband. A storm had surprised them and lightning

had shattered their little coracle. She had been pulled down to the

depths by the power of the Stone and changed. All presumed her

drowned, and she had never seen Merlin again until fourteen years

later when the Stone had been removed from beside the lake by

Mórganthu and his druids—they who used its power to enchant

the villagers.

Yes … the very Stone upon which High King Uther had been

slain, he who had been Arthur’s father. This was the Stone that

Merlin had attempted to destroy by hammering a sword into it. A

power emanated from its surface, lurking inside somehow, and she

still did not understand it.

Pushing the reeds aside, she looked more closely. The Stone

lay upon the granite slab in the village green. Arthur and the

werewolf were fighting next to it, and Arthur was knocked to his

knees. He stabbed upward at the beast with his spear, but the

creature was maddened by many wounds and snatched at the

wood just below the tip. He then shattered the spear and flung the

deadly metal into the darkness.

Arthur found his feet, threw the useless handle at the

werewolf, and then backed to the other side of the Druid Stone to

escape the swinging claws. The sword stood between them now,

wedged deeply into the Stone just as it had been for the last

sixteen years. A strange look came over Arthur’s face as he beheld

the magnificence of the blade: the bronze hilt and pommel shone

golden in the moonlight, and the red glass inlays glinted like

blood.

In desperation, and without any other weapon, Arthur reached

out, took hold of the hilt, and pulled. The werewolf paused,

confused by the blue glow emanating from the Druid Stone.

Arthur pulled again, harder, and the sword slid upward a little.

Howling now, the werewolf lunged forward and struck out.

Arthur dodged to the side, but kept one hand on the pommel.

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The beast reared back, preparing to strike out again.

This time Arthur pulled with all his might.

The blade came loose … it was free in his hand!

Blue flames shot from the Stone, and in that instant Gwevian

felt a giant claw grab hold of her soul and rip into her spirit. She

screamed, but no one heard her, for Arthur fought with his father’s

blade even as Merlin and the others joined the fray.

She never saw the end of the battle, as pain wracked across her

body and she slipped back into the stream. Her lungs felt crushed

and she couldn’t breathe. A vision appeared, and she finally

perceived the true nature of her doom: The Stone … the Druid

Stone was not a stone at all, but an egg—a dragon egg. Now that

the sword had been removed from it, the shell would crack and

twin dragons would emerge. Shadows danced before her blinking

eyes and soon a scene appeared before her. It was a cave. Merlin

was there, tied up, and Mórgana was speaking to him:

“Your sword, dear brother, prevented these two from

hatching—but now that the blade has been removed by a

hand that was able to claim it properly, they will come

forth. Watch and tremble!

Merlin couldn’t take his eyes off of the egg. Under

Mórgana’s hands the shell began to crack, quiver, and

convulse. Then with a jerk a small section broke away and

slipped to the floor. The scaly nose of a creature pushed

through the hole, bubbles forming in the green, gelatinous

slime that spewed forth as the creature breathed in and

exhaled for the first time.

Merlin watched, horror-struck, as the creature fought

against the shell and finally broke through, its entire head

slipping out into the cold air of the cave.

It was a lizard … a dragon!

The skin was white, it had curved horns like a goat, and

the tips of its teeth were sharper than needles. But there

was something odd … the dragon was missing one of its

four longest fangs, and where the tooth had been there was

only an uneven scar. The blade that Merlin had thrust into

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the stone must have cut it off.

Soon, the rest of its snakelike body slipped from the egg.

A sulfurous cloud belched outward, and Merlin

coughed on the stench.

For the dragon’s size, the creature had small arms and

legs, each ending in a claw-like hand. The dragon was six

feet long from the tip of its tail to the curve of its wickedly

sharp fangs. On its back lay a set of scaled wings, folded

now and sodden with slime.

Mórgana began petting it.

“Poor dragon … you’ve been through a lot, haven’t

you? Now to birth your brother.”

She reached into the egg and searched amongst the

slime.

“Where has your brother gone?” she shrieked. “There

were two here … a white dragon and a red one. But—but—

”

A man who looked familiar to Gwevian knelt down and

turned the egg on its side, emptying it. That was when she

recognized him … he was Loth, her very own brother!

“He’s nay here,” Loth said. “Are ya sure you weren’t

imagining it? Could you have misunderstood the Voice?”

“NO!” she screamed, and struck him in the face.

The man fell backward with the smoking outline of

Mórgana’s handprint on his cheek. “Th-then … perhaps the

blade slew ’im, and his body dissolved.”

“That must be it,” Mórgana said, scowling. “But

ultimately it is no matter. This dragon was the larger, and

shall soon be strong enough for all of our purposes.”

The vision smeared to blackness. Gwevian opened her eyes,

and found she had remained in the stream south of the village of

Bosventor. Though it was still night, there was no sound from the

world above save for the muffled moan of the wind through the

reeds. How long had she been unconscious? She tried to move,

but it hurt, because the dragon had an unceasing, spiritual grip that

still tore through her soul and even into her flesh.

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If she had only known all this, then she might have stopped

Arthur from drawing his father’s sword from the Stone. But the

true secret of the Stone had been kept even from her.

She held her mouth shut tightly against the urge to scream as

she began to swim upstream.

Gripping rocks. Pulling. Kicking with her tail. Fighting panic.

Bile burning her throat.

When she reached the spring, she painfully changed back to a

salmon for the journey underground, and then after arriving at her

lake, she changed back to herself again and wept. But the pain

overwhelmed her, and she blacked out, floating, until a voice

spoke to her from the darkness.

Low. Menacing. It was the white dragon.

“Thou hast escaped serving me while the sword was impaled

through the shell of my imprisonment—but now I am free! And

when I choose a new servant, you will die, and I will eat thy

flesh.”

Translucent shackles appeared before her spirit’s eyes.

“No-o-o!” she screamed, kicking and trying to break free from

the dragon’s grip. She had worn these shackles for too many

years.

The dragon cut her words short by ripping at her spirit and

then latching the shackles on her wrists and ankles.

“Silence!”

She curled up, weeping. The shackles were not visible to her

human-like eyes, but they bit into her flesh nonetheless. Yes, her

suffering had overtaken her again, yet a spark of hope remained

deep in her soul: She had tasted freedom once, and now knew it

was possible to break free. Even if she should suffer, then perhaps

Arthur’s deeds might shine all the brighter and the future people

of Britain might look to him whenever they needed hope and

strength.

This was enough for her, giving meaning to her own suffering

and it was for her glory, too … even if she were to be cast off and

slain by the dragon.

As she sunk into the depths of the lake, another vision took

her. Gwevian saw amidst the dark fog a white ship, magnificent of

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sail, and upon its deck stood three queens crowned with silver

circlets, simple and pure. They carried shining lights and together

chanted a lament, their voices carrying over the water, clear but

sad:

Alas, alas, we shout and call,

The dragon’s cast a blackened shawl.

The light, the light, is dim and small,

And doom has come to one and all…

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PART ONE

DRAGON’S PLOY

Sick of swamp slime, the sides becoming

Crack of grey ghost, the white door splitting

Foul of corpse rot, the dark smell choking

Thirst of hell spawn, the gore teeth clicking

Dark in cave, there the beast revives

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CHAPTER 1

THE DANCE

The village of Dinas Camlin near the mouth of the river Camel,

Kernow, in southwestern Britain Spring, in the year of our Lord, 493

The dance clopped along and Arthur tried not to trip over his own

feet, a rather difficult task even without his heart in his throat and

Gwenivere dancing closer. She held out her sash like the others

ladies of the inner circle. Arthur, in the outer circle of men, danced

in the opposite direction toward her, making plans to grab onto her

sash and so claim her as his partner.

The watching crowd swayed and clapped to the beat of the

tabor drum, nearly drowning out the box-fiddles and whistle-

flutes. The bagpipers, however, had no trouble being heard, and

their rich strains floated over the open square of the village,

spurring on the dancers as their shadows swirled and gallopped in

the torchlight.

What a feast and what a dance! Arthur smiled. This was all in

celebration of his coronation. Now if he could just dance with

Gwenivere…

Two hops forward, then the spin. Arthur feinted toward

another lady’s sash, purposely missing as she playfully yanked it

away.

Gwenivere was closer now, twirling left, stepping right. Her

sash was in reach!

Arthur reached out—slowly at first to gauge the angle and

motion of her hand—and then swiftly, trying to catch her by

surprise before she could snatch it away.

Then the tip of his boot caught on a rock jutting from the

ground.

Arthur fell sideways, reaching for the sash. His fingers closed

12

around the soft linen but it flitted away like a ghost and was gone.

His shoulder hit the ground hard, jarring his neck. The dancer

behind him tripped on Arthur’s calf, caught his balance, and

danced on. The next one jumped over as Arthur swung out of

harm’s way. By the time he could pull himself up and dust off, he

had lost his place and had to take another opening—and there

were many since half of the men had caught their partner and had

swiveled to the inside of the ring.

By the time Gwenivere came around again, she had a partner,

some urchin of a fellow with oil stains on his tunic, a thin beard,

and even thinner arms. The two promenaded past him, and

Gwenivere’s beautiful smile shone in the flickering torchlight.

Why? Why had Arthur tripped? If he’d only—

But at least it wasn’t his false-friend Cullan. That insolent man

had taken a liking to Gwenivere and seemed to guard her like a

dog drooling over a bowl of stew.

But it was too late now and everyone had paired off except

one old lady who waved her sash at him, grabbed his arm, and

spun him to the inside of the ring, practically against his will.

“Ah, yer a tough one to catch,” she said, smiling. Her front

teeth were missing and she squinted at him, nearly blind in the

darkness. But oh, could she dance, and she knew all the steps. Up

and down her legs pumped, guiding Arthur through the unfamiliar

Kernow dance. Sometimes the sash was low, held between them,

and sometimes high to let another pair of dancers pass through.

On and on it seemed to go: step after mis-step, sash up, sash

down, promenade, spin—he going the wrong way of course. And

the whole time Arthur only caught one clear glance of Gwenivere,

her fair locks flying past him in the never ending jostle of feet.

When it was over everyone clapped and hooted while Arthur

caught his breath.

Gwalahad came and patted him on the back. “A good try for

your first Kernow dance, eh?” He was grinning at Arthur, his face

flushed beneath his sandy white hair.

“It’d be a lot easier if it wasn’t so fast.”

“That was my great-aunt you were dancin’ with … she’s one

o’ the best!”

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“At least I didn’t step on her toes.”

Two men with big saffron colored hats and leather gloves

strutted to the center of the square, lit six oil-soaked balls with a

torch, and began to juggle them. The delighted crowd lurched

backward to make room as the flaming balls spun and sparked

through the air, sometimes straight up, sometimes across to the

other juggler.

Arthur backed up as well and felt something hard under his

right heel. That something jerked sideways and cursed.

“Look who you’re stepping on, nimble-foot!”

Arthur turned and looked up to see Culann staring down at

him, his sharp nose pointing accusingly and scorn playing at the

corners of his mouth.

“Sorry, I—”

“Stop being a pretender.”

“No, really—”

“You knew I was here all the time.” Culann raised his hands to

shove Arthur back, but stopped himself. After taking a deep,

angry, breath, Culann tightened his lips and smiled.

This was so frustrating for Arthur.

The two had shared many years of friendship before it was

discovered that Arthur was the lost heir to the throne of Britain.

And then Dwin was murdered by the werewolf. Only now did

Arthur realize that Dwin’s cheerfulness had been the common

bond holding his and Culann’s brittle friendship together.

And then there was Gwenivere, whose natural beauty had

soured their relationship more than anything. Arthur heard her

distinctive laugh from across the square and glanced up to see her

giggling at Gwenivach—her nearly identical sister—who had a

pinched expression as she lifted her slender boot and picked off a

soiled rag that had stuck to her heel.

“Watching looking at?” Culann said, grabbing Arthur by the

shoulders and shaking him.

Anger rose up in Arthur, and he knocked Culann’s hands

away. “Don’t touch me.”

“The royal majesty’s too good for a tussle, huh?”

“No, I’m not.”

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“Then prove it.”

Arthur felt a tenseness gather in his clenched fist and rise up

his arm to cover his chest and neck.

Culann’s left hand shot forward.

Arthur reacted quickly, seizing the man’s wrist.

But then the bagpipe skirled, starting another dance. Some girl

grabbed Culann’s right hand and pulled him into one of the two

lines that quickly formed. Arthur, grasping Culann’s left wrist,

was jerked along with. Gwalahad joined them, and the three stood

in a line, with a partner immediately across from each.

Culann jerked his hand away and glared at Arthur.

The bagpipe softened and the whistles took over. A caller

shouted instructions, but Arthur had never danced like this before.

His partner was a young barefoot girl in a green smock, pretty

brown hair, and with an air of shyness. Arthur followed as best he

could, stepping toward his partner, then back, then forward to pass

on her right, finally back to his original position. But the steps got

more complex and Arthur became confused with all the twirls,

short promenades, and funny turns.

Then each line shifted—his to the right by one and the

opposite line to the left by one, giving him a new partner, this time

it was the reeking urchin in the oily shirt. Ugh! Arthur danced, but

miserably.

Only then did he realize Culann was laughing at him.

Arthur looked around. Most of the people had lined up with

the men and women alternating … and Arthur was in a woman’s

position. Double-Ugh!

They shifted again, and now Gwenivere was dancing with

Culann. And though Arthur had to dance with a skinny man

smelling of freshly baked bread, he smiled to know that she would

dance with him next.

Then it hit him … the shift moved by two people. Gwenivere

would dance with Gwalahad, not him. Looking past Gwenivere,

he saw that Gwenivach, who was also in a wrong position, would

be his next partner.

Triple-Ugh. Gwenivach was shallow and fickle, constantly

flirting with a different warrior. Not like her older sister,

15

Gwenivere, who was thoughtfully quiet, kept mostly to herself,

and would often go roaming beyond the walls of the village.

But Arthur never had venture after her, what with all the

decisions begging for his attention, not the least of which were the

war councils concerning the invading Saxenow and Picti.

And then there was Merlin—Arthur’s foster father—who

always wanted to talk with him about how they might stop

Mórgana and her mysterious dragon. But when Arthur did get a

spare moment to breathe he would always find Culann hovering

around Gwenivere. Impossible. It was just impossible.

The drummers beat louder, and Arthur knew he had to make

his move. On the next in-and-out-rotation, he purposely went one

too far and got himself mixed in with the dancers to his left. When

the time came to return to his home position Arthur slipped

quickly into Gwalahad’s place, and the young warrior confusedly

took Arthur’s old spot.

It worked! Gwenivere would dance with him!

They shifted, and the girl of his dreams stood across from him.

She looked upon Arthur with a puzzled expression, searching his

face in such a way that Arthur’s cheeks began to itch. Her long

russet dress was worn over a white bodice, and tiny pewter

spirals—perhaps cast by her newly deceased father—were tied to

the dark brown fringes, and they jingled quietly as she stepped

into position.

Arthur and Gwenivere bowed to each other and the dance

began, this time a little slower. The box-fiddlers took the lead,

their tune flitting over the dancers like a mother humming sweetly

to her child.

“I didn’t know you could dance so well,” she said, an elusive

hint of either teasing or disdain in her voice.

“Well … I learned up north.”

“Do they teach spectacular tripping as well?”

“No, I learned that here.” He tried to smile, but it felt forced.

They held their right hands up, palms pressed together in the

center, and circled for eight steps. Her hand was cold, which

surprised him. Needing to change the subject, he asked “Did your

father cast the pewter spirals on your dress?” The words were out

16

of his mouth before he realized how stupid he was.

Gwenivere blamed him for the giant man’s death.

“Let’s talk about your masterful dancing instead.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. “I shouldn’t have asked your

father…”

“Don’ you like dancing?” Gwenivere whispered, her teeth

bared.

They separated for a turn, spun left, and then danced around

each other, Arthur’s thoughts troubling him all the while. Their

conversation was going from bad to worse, and he needed to help

her get past this. “Gwenivere … forgive me, please.”

“I’ll never forget that battle. Never.”

They had to link arms now and promenade. She leaned toward

him and her lips were so close that the words stung doubly hard.

“I’ll never forgive you,” she said quietly, and the cold, steady look

in her eyes bore witness to her seriousness.

“Please don’t hate me.”

She glared at him. “I am queen of my own emotions, and will

do as I please.”

This exchange felt so similar to what they had said at her

father’s death, that Arthur began to feel lightheaded. The world

spun even as the dancers twirled around him, and he saw again the

old giant’s bearded, bloody face and how his chest fell still after

his last, ragged breath. That battle had been a nightmare. But why

did she blame Arthur? He hadn’t asked her father to fight … the

man had volunteered to fight Mórgana’s werewolf and his army of

wolf-heads! They had desperately needed the help, but Gogi had

made his own choice.

Nothing that Arthur said, it seemed, could set things right.

“Do you only blame me?” he asked, and his voice sounded

hollow in his own ears.

“Yes and yes and yes!”

The dance ended with clapping, and Arthur, dejected, almost

bumped into Gwalahad.

“Thank you for the dance,” Gwenivere said as she stepped

back, eying him like a cornered cat ready with her claws. They

bowed awkwardly to each other in the dimming torchlight, and he

17

turned away, vowing once again that until the day of his death he

would never forget the cruelty of her words.

Why? Why couldn’t they at least be friends? Oh, but he

wanted more than that—much more—and this argument with her

not only intensified his feelings, but it made him feel stupid and

shameful. Maybe he was responsible for her father’s death.

Wasn’t the king always responsible? This burden crushed down

upon him, sucking the strength from his lungs so that he could

hardly breathe.

He hung his head and closed his eyes, fighting the frustration

and anger that rose up from his gut and threatened to strangle his

throat.

A man yelled.

“ARTHUR! … above you! ”

He looked up and saw the dim silhouette of a curved bow on a

crennig rooftop, with a shadowy figure behind it.

There was the muted snap of a bow string and Arthur saw an

arrow of death speeding toward his heart.

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CHAPTER 2

THE ASSASSIN

With the arrow flying at him, Arthur twisted to the side just

enough for the shaft to miss and bury itself into the ground behind

him.

But this archer was fast, and almost instantly another

arrow was flung from the bow and raced toward him. To his left,

someone began to yell.

Arthur tried to duck, but found himself only falling backward,

still in the path of the arrow glinting through the darkness. With

no armor to protect him, he instinctively stiffened for the coming

blow. And just as the deadly blur of the arrow drew near, someone

thrust their hand in the way. It was Gwalahad, his long whitish

hair shining like a beacon as the man desperately tried to protect

Arthur.

The razored tip ripped through the man’s palm and didn’t stop

until it pierced Arthur’s the left side of his chest. Clenching his

jaw, he crashed to the ground. Gwalahad fell with him, his

dreadful yell splitting the night air.

In the confusion, Arthur heard another twang of the bowstring,

and another arrow, this one shot hastily, missed the right side of

his chest and its shaft quivered as it dug itself into the dirt, a hair’s

breadth from his side.

Merlin was there—Arthur’s foster-father and now adviser—

and he shouted for Peredur to catch the archer. Bending over to

see the wound, the dark curls of his hair contrasting strongly with

his ashen, scar-etched face.

“Are you alright? Stupid of me! Where’s your armor?” He

swore, and Arthur knew why: blood began to pool under his white

tunic where the arrow had struck, and some of it leaked down to

the pit of his arm.

But Arthur knew that the wound was superficial. Gwalahad

had saved him from certain death, and as the man jerked his hand

19

away, the arrow came with it. Gwalahad alternately gasped,

yelled, and prayed. “Sweet Jesus … have mercy.”

Arthur clambered up and began sprinting after his would-be

assassin—who had slid down the thatch roof and disappeared into

the darkness.

Peredur and Caygek were only a few steps ahead of Arthur.

“Please … stop!” Merlin called, but Arthur wasn’t about to

turn back. This assassin, whoever he was, had to be caught, and

Arthur was going to help. The three of them bolted behind the

shop upon whose roof the assassin had been hiding.

“Missin’ … missin’ …” Peredur said under his breath.

Arthur caught up with him. “What’d you say?”

“Who was missin’ at the dance?”

“What? You think he was from the fortress?”

“Well, that’s where he’s goin’ … look!” Peredur pointed

toward a shadow that darted from one patch of darkness to

another, and then behind another roundhouse—all the time headed

toward the towering stone walls of the fortress.

Arthur sprinted between the two closest crennigs and tripped

on a large clay pot that had been left to catch the rain from the

roof. Shattering the pot, he crashed against the wooden wall of the

roundhouse, scraping his elbow.

Caygek helped him up. “That way … he’s almost to the wall!”

They ran, but Arthur’s shin throbbed, and he fell behind.

In the distance he saw the assassin begin climbing the wall

using hand and toe-holds amongst the rough stonework. By the

time they arrived, the man—dressed all in black with his bow over

his shoulder—had already climbed a third of the way to a large

upper windows which looked out over the bay of Lake Camlin.

“Guards!” Peredur shouted toward the top of the wall.

“GUARDS!”

“It’s no use,” Caygek said with a moan. “They were all at the

dance.”

“Then let’s climb!” Arthur said.

Peredur blanched. “Never done that before.”

“An’ I don’t like heights,” Caygek said, shaking his head.

None of the three had a spear or any other ranged weapon.

20

Arthur had no choice, and he began to search for a toehold. He

had climbed the raw cliffs around their fortress back home, and

figured this would be easier.

Caygek pulled him back, slipped off his own rust-plated

leather helm and scale armor, and threw them both onto Arthur.

“Then you’re at least going to wear these.”

They were heavy, but Arthur didn’t protest anything but his

injured shin and burning chest. Grabbing the closest stone, he

began to climb after the assassin.

Caygek and Peredur helped steady him at first, but he gained

confidence as he climbed beyond their reach, and soon he was

making fast progress toward this man who had tried to kill him.

He had to be stopped!

Soon Arthur was gaining on him, and then found out why: the

stones nearer the top were smaller and his grip became more

precarious. Still he climbed as fast as he could until he realized,

too late, that the assassin had stopped. Looking up, Arthur saw the

man’s boot slam down into his face.

Once. Twice. The shock nearly blinded him, and the world

tilted dizzily.

He tried to back down, but one of his toes slipped and he

scrabbled against the rock to find a hold.

Once more the heel of the man’s boot cracked into Arthur’s

head and he fell twenty feet to the grass below. The air was

knocked from his lungs and he lay there, stunned.

The assassin climbed closer to the lookout window as Peredur

and Caygek began to drag Arthur toward the woods.

“Let go,” he called, but they didn’t stop.

Above him, the assassin pulled himself in, turned around, and

swiftly shot two arrows.

One hit the trunk of a tree, shattering bark into Arthur’s face.

Another hit his side and caromed off the scale armor Caygek

had given him.

“I’ll get you …” Arthur called as Caygek helped him to his

feet behind the largest tree.

“To the gate,” Peredur called. “We can catch him yet!”

They ran until Arthur was winded and slowed to a walk. “Go

21

on ahead,” he urged, but they refused. Circling around the

perimeter to the trellised gate, they found it blocked by newly

stationed guards, who allowed them passage after a hurried

briefing.

“Search the hall!” Arthur commanded as they ran through.

Peredur had them take torches and led the way. “To the

warrior’s quarters … quickly!” His voice was desperate … almost

as if he suspected someone in particular.

Arthur followed across the inner courtyard, finally able to

catch his breath since he had fallen.

Up the left stairs, through two stone archways, down four

steps, and through another doorway, they paused at the entrance to

a large vaulted chamber filled with warrior’s bunks. The room

was dark despite knife-slits of pale moonlight cast through the

thin windows. A tomb-like silence filled the air.

Arthur chose to search the far aisle, his feet clunking loudly on

the stone floor, and his heart thumping in his chest. Equipped

with a torch in his left hand and his father’s dirk was in his right,

yet he wished for the new sword he had pulled from the stone. But

it was locked in a trunk back at his quarters, and there’d been no

time to get it.

Arthur stopped. Had he heard something above him? Lifting

his torch, he studied the upper reaches of the chamber, but saw

nothing. Had he imagined it?

Moving forward again, he saw that one of the bunks was

occupied. After readying his blade, he lowered his torch to reveal

a sleeping man with a black beard and a round, yellowed nose.

But something was wrong … his face was contorted and one of

his eyes was open. A bloody knife was jabbed into the man’s

chest, and fresh blood flowed from the wound.

Arthur backed up and someone grabbed his shoulder from

behind.

Whipping around, he swiftly knocked the hand away and

raised his dirk.

“It’s me … easy.”

“Caygek? I thought you were—”

“You think I’d leave you alone … in here? Looks like you

22

found a trail to the assassin.”

“I don’t understand. Why this man, too?”

Caygek shook his head and pointed down. Drips of blood led

from the corpse down the aisle toward the base of a window

where they disappeared.

They both moved forward to the window, Arthur in front and

Caygek guarding from behind. The sill was high, but Arthur

handed his torch to Caygek and pulled himself up. Looking out,

he had to ignore the pain in his chest. A cool breeze was blowing

in from the south, and though the moonlight lit up the hillside

below in an eerie tangle of shadow and glimmer, he saw no sign

of the assassin. The rocky ground was a far plummet, but Arthur

supposed that the assassin could have climbed down just as well.

Arthur dropped back to Caygek. “He’s gone. Escaped.”

Peredur rounded a corner, startling them both.

“Nothing that way, the bunks are all empty.”

Yet a faint sound fluttered at Arthur’s ear. Someone was

breathing quietly against the far wall.

Arthur took his torch and motioned for silence. Gripping the

hilt of his blade, he led them toward the sound. The darkness fled

away with each step, finally revealing a man asleep on his side

with his back to them. He wore a blue tunic and brown pants. His

feet were bare, and his ratty hair was braided from below his bald

spot into a long rope that hung down toward the floor.

Peredur jumped forward, grabbed the man by the back of his

tunic, yanked him onto the floor, and stuck a knife at his throat.

“Tethion! It was you!” he yelled as the man squinted his eyes

and flailed his hands outward, confused and choking as Peredur

twisted the cloth tightly at his neck.

“Where’s your bow and arrows? We’ll find them and I’ll have

you hung on a gibbet, I will.”

“Th-th-th,” the man stammered as he pulled at Peredur’s hand.

“Let him talk,” Arthur said.

Peredur relaxed his grip even as he brought the tip of his blade

up against the man’s chin.

Tethion belched and a strong waft of wine floated upward. “I

know nuthin’ … nuthin’ … let a poor man sleep.”

23

Caygek searched the man’s bedding and area, finding nothing

unusual.

But Peredur wasn’t satisfied. “Where’d you stash your black

clothes … tell me!”

“I don’t know what yer talking about. I been sleepin’ for

hours. Ask Hicca over there … we was drinkin’ together, and

he’ll vouch fer me!”

“You mean that man over there?” Caygek asked, pointing

below the window. “Well he’s dead, and so will you be if you

don’t start answering our questions.”

Tethion nodded, alarmed.

Arthur put a hand on Caygek’s shoulder. “We haven’t proof.

Leave him be.”

Peredur, still angry, let go of the man’s tunic, stood, and

sheathed his blade.

Caygek led the way out, and Peredur slammed the door. “I

know it was him. It has to be. Remember when Rewan was

murdered with an arrow in his eye? The only man who hadn’t

agreed with his testimony was Tethion.”

Caygek looked to Arthur for support and then spoke. “But we

need proof. Suspicions aren’t enough.”

“When the king’s life is at stake, suspicions are all that matter

to me. That man should be banished from the warband.”

“He’s one of our best bowmen,” Arthur said. “And without

him we might have lost the battle against the werewolf’s army”

“That doesn’t mean I trust him.” Peredur said as he stormed

away.

Caygek and Arthur alerted the guards to the dead body so they

could remove it for burial. Then, after searching the rest of the

fortress, no better evidence was found than the trail of blood

leading to the window.

The assassin had escaped.

* * *

Once the search was concluded and the fortress secured, the doors

were opened to those gathered outside. Arthur went immediately

24

back to the village to help carry Gwalahad’s stretcher to the

infirmaria where the monks and nuns would care for him.

Though the arrow had been carefully removed by Merlin and the

injured right hand wrapped tightly, the young man was still in

great pain.

“You saved me,” Arthur said. “And at great cost. My prayer is

that you’ll heal quickly and fully.”

“I-I don’t know,” he said, each word cut between sharp

breaths. “I think it’s ruined and I can’t be your warrior. Forgive

me.”

“Forgive you? I’m trying to thank you! I owe you my life.”

“No, no … you don’t understand,” Gwalahad said, his eyes

still closed. “Anything for my king.”

The man’s commitment stung. Would Arthur have been

willing to do the same for him? Surely the man’s hand was

useless now, and he might never wield a sword again. Really …

Arthur hardly knew Gwalahad. They had only met two weeks

previously, Gwalahad being the grandson of old Pelles one-ear,

the chieftain of the fortress of Dinas Camlin where they were

staying.

Ahead of them a small herd of dirty sheep were lazily

blocking the path, and the guards spotted the errant shepherd boy

staring at Gwalahad from where he sat on top of one of the beasts.

“Git awa’, you!” a guard said while running up beside the

young boy’s mount.

When the boy didn’t respond right away, the guard cuffed him

in the face. “Can’t tha see the king is tryin’ to git through?”

“I’s donna’ see no king,” the boy said, rubbing a grubby hand

on his quickly reddening cheek.

“Be git, wretch!” the guard said, kicking the boy’s scruffy

mount.

“Me name’s Brastias,” the boy said, sticking his tongue out,

“and I’ll not be beat upon.” He flicked one of his thin legs back

and his mount snapped around to face the man, its pointy horns

lowered menacingly.

The guard backed up and began to draw his sword.

Arthur stopped him. “Let the boy be … shedding this worthy

25

opponent’s blood won’t help your prince any.”

The guard pursed his lips, cocked his eyebrows at Arthur, and

then bowed. “As you wish, my Lord.”

Arthur nodded to Brastias—who grimly set his thin jaw,

nodded back, and then rode off, down and away from the village.

His sheep followed in swift procession.

Arthur and the others advanced with Gwalahad’s stretcher and

behind them flowed an entourage of villagers and residents of the

fortress. From among them, a group of females stepped forward

and hemmed him in. The foremost was Gwenivach.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice nearly a screech of

concern and fear.

“Fine.”

“Are you sure? I saw blood.” She tried to inspect the wound

on his chest, but Caygek’s armor prevented her.

“You were hit! I saw the arrow.” She started pulling his left

sleeve until cloth with a bloodstain slid out from under the armor.

Arthur’s cheeks felt hot, and he jerked his arm away. “Leave it

alone,” he said. Why’d she have to point out his wound? He was

supposed to lead … didn’t that mean he had to be invincible? Who

would follow if he made silly mistakes like that?

Her eyes showed shock at his gruffness, yet her hands reached

toward him again, almost involuntarily, it seemed, and he had to

push past her to get away. “Gwalahad saved me. I’m fine. Tell the

others.” He stuffed the bloody bit of tunic back inside his armor to

hide it and then ushered Gwalahad through the doorway and into

the fortress.

“I’m watching you…” she called.

Arthur ignored her.

26

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