Mordred raised a spear and threw it with all his might.
Mordred’s spear flew past Lancelot, burying itself in the chest of a fur-clad man running toward them with a raised mace.
“Four more!” Mordred shouted, drawing his sword. He rode to Lancelot’s side. Guinevere knew it was more than the cost of the confusion magic making this scene hard to process. Lancelot, too, seemed shaken, but she did not have time to question it. She dismounted and stood shoulder to shoulder with Mordred, their swords up as the attackers shot free of the trees and ran at them.
Lancelot fought with the ferocity of someone who had battled her entire life to get where she was. Every movement was precise and brutal, every blow met and returned with twice the force. Mordred fought like a dancer, a reed bending in the wind, dodging and twisting until his foes showed a weakness and his sword found a home.
A twig cracked behind Guinevere. She whirled, swinging her stick like a club. It connected with the stomach of a man. He looked down in shock as the fire jumped from the stick to his body, licking up him with ravenous speed. He screamed, running and flailing, before falling to the ground and rolling in an ineffectual attempt to smother the flames. Guinevere knew how it would end and looked away. The hut was still safe. This price was worth it.
Mordred stood, a hand on one hip, his sword at his side. He surveyed the village, then turned back to the trees. “How many did you get?”
Lancelot glared. “It is hardly a competition.”
Mordred gave her a witheringly dismissive look. “I am trying to account for all the enemies. There were three I killed before that one”—he pointed to the man with the spear planted in his chest, the shaft listing to one side like a tree whose roots were not deep enough— “then these four.”
Lancelot’s answer was gruff. “Four more in the trees.”
“And one for Guinevere.” Mordred flicked his eyes toward her, but she could not tell whether he was pleased or not.
“Were you following us?” Lancelot demanded.
Mordred ignored her. “Thirteen. Does that sound right, Rhoslyn?”
Guinevere turned to Rhoslyn, surprised that Mordred was on friendly terms with her. After all, he had overseen the courts and had been the one to banish her.
“We got two more with arrows. I think that is the lot of them. You are late, Mordred,” Rhoslyn said, dropping the ax.
“All apologies. Sincerely.” Mordred strode over to them. Lancelot hurried after, putting herself between Guinevere and Mordred, but Mordred paid her no mind. “In my defense, they were also early. Is everyone ready? Where are they?” Mordred looked around the camp, his eyes widening with panic. “The children and the rest of the women. Where are they?”
“Here.” Gunild slipped out of
the hut, followed by a line of women and children.
Mordred squinted, trying to see better. “Nice work,” he said, glancing at Guinevere. “Very clever.” What he had said before when tending her shoulder about being clever sparked in her mind. And then the things she had said, thinking he was a dream, also came back and she fought a humiliated blush.
“What are you doing here?” Guinevere demanded.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Guinevere folded her arms. “You expect me to believe it is a coincidence that you ended up here on the same day we did?”
“You expect me to believe it is a coincidence you ended up here at the very hour I was scheduled to arrive?” Mordred raised an eyebrow in an expression that Guinevere realized, with a sinking stomach, she missed. Terribly. “You did not bring enough help, though.”
“Enough help for what?” Lancelot growled, still holding her sword.
“To bring me to justice. I do not mean to offend, Lancelot, but we have faced each other in combat before, and you were not the one to walk away.”
Lancelot took a step forward, but Guinevere put a hand on her shoulder. “Stop.” Mordred had spared Lancelot’s life that terrible night in the meadow. He had even dragged Lancelot out of harm’s way, making sure the Dark Queen would not kill Lancelot out of spite when she rose. “We did not come here for you,” Guinevere continued. “I came to speak with Rhoslyn.”
“Oh.” For a moment, Mordred’s face fell. Then his eyelids half closed, framing his moss-green eyes with night-dark lashes, as his mouth twisted into a lazy smile. “Well then, thank you for the help, and give my regards to my uncle.”
He took his horse’s reins and led it to the cart. Gunild and Ailith began hooking it up.
“Where are we going?” Rhoslyn asked, counting children.
“South and east. My mother has seen an island. Surrounded by rivers of mud, but ancient and beautiful. You will be safe there. There is something special about it.”
Ailith threw her arms around Mordred’s neck. “Thank you.”