Sharon Ashwood - Enchanted Warrior

Gawain strode with his head down so he didn’t have to look around. A juggler passed by, then a foam dragon wearing a sandwich board that advertised a joust. All the employees were in cheap costumes, some even sporting fake crowns, as if they were kings and queens of the hot dog stands. There was a dread fascination to it all, as if history had experienced a terrible accident.

“I can’t make up my mind if this is a logical place to see a knight of Camelot, or a peculiar one.” The voice was as cool and precise as a honed blade.

Gawain froze, every muscle readying for a fight. Then he saw the speaker, and his alarm turned to a cautious surprise. “Angmar of Corin.”

“The same.” The figure raised his hands, showing he was unarmed. “I come in peace.”

Angmar was dressed in jeans and a thick sweater and leaning against one of the faux-rustic pillars supporting the thatched roof of a concession stand. The modern clothes made Gawain blink. Angmar was one of the faery folk, so tall and thin that he was almost gaunt. His skin was a warm brown that contrasted sharply with bright green eyes and long white hair. Though his face was young, something in his eyes spoke of centuries past.

The fine hairs on Gawain’s neck rose. Even in the chaos of the crowded fairground, he could feel Angmar’s power. It was as different from the pretty witch’s as a broadsword was from a kitchen knife, and the fae—once allies—were now sworn enemies of Camelot.

Angmar narrowed his eyes and tapped his chin with a long forefinger. “Surely you’re not here for the bouncy castle.”

Gawain gave a bitter laugh. “Maybe Medievaland suits me.”

With a faint smile, Angmar closed the distance between them. “You are a prince of Lothian and the Orkney Isles. You’re above all this.”

For a moment they studied each other, both outsiders caught in a world utterly different from where they belonged. Gawain had never known Angmar well. Fae lived by different rules and rarely came to Arthur’s court, but finding him here created unexpected common ground.

“I thought your kind had gone to the Hollow Hills and left the mortal world behind,” said Gawain.

“We came back—and so, apparently, did you.” Angmar straightened, pushing his hands into his pockets in a curiously casual gesture. His tone was cordial, as if discussing the weather. “I’ve been watching the church. The fae know that Merlin bespelled the knights of Camelot into an enchanted sleep. It was a clever spell Merlin wove, and a daring move by your king. Especially daring as he had just ordered Merlin into exile. A bit like arguing with your barber during a shave.”

Gawain didn’t answer. He remembered the day the spell was cast: lying on the cold tomb, shivering as he waited to be turned to stone. Remembered the crushing weight of his lungs as they froze in place. Remembered the clawing terror of suffocation, of the sudden savage need to escape just as his consciousness winked out. He sucked in a deep breath, barely repressing a shudder.

Angmar watched his expression with open curiosity, looking away only when a pair of roughhousing boys shoved their way past. “It’s long past time for the Round Table to awake. Where are your brothers in arms?”

“Why? Are the fae so impatient to take revenge on us that they sent you to make a wake-up call?”

“Merlin’s spell injured us more than you know,” said Angmar, his voice now tinged with anger. “But I’m not here to discuss that. I have a warning for you. Assemble your fellow knights, because LaFaye and Mordred are on the move. The war Arthur foresaw is here.”

Gawain flinched. King Arthur’s vile stepsister, Morgan LaFaye, had brought Camelot to its knees. Her chief conspirator had been her son, Mordred. Both were powerful, with witch and fae blood mixed in their veins.

“What is their interest in this fight, besides an opportunity to cause chaos?” Gawain said, tension ruffling the hair at his nape. “How is this war connected to them?”

They fell into step, wandering shoulder to shoulder down the pathway between the booths. The sweet scent of frying dough curled through the air. Gawain’s mouth watered, but he ignored the hunger gnawing his gut.

“You have been asleep.” Angmar cast him a narrow glance. “After you and your companions turned to stone, Morgan LaFaye staged a coup and took the crown of Faery.”

“She did what?” Gawain snarled.

“It’s not so strange as you may think. Her father was one of us.” Angmar frowned. “Afterward, she bided her time for centuries, consolidating her hold on the throne. Ten years ago, she began plotting a campaign against the mortal realms. Then a few months ago, she gave the final order to infiltrate this world. She claims she wants justice, but I say she simply wants more power.”

Angmar’s tale explained why Gawain had risen when he did—probably it was the same moment when the first of the fae had touched mortal ground. “Those are evil tidings.”

“It gets worse. She’s put Mordred in charge of the campaign,” said Angmar.

Pure fury surged through Gawain, robbing him of sight for an instant. LaFaye was bad, but Mordred was a snake without conscience. He was also Gawain’s cousin—proving one could never pick one’s relations.

Angmar went on. “Mordred is using stealth, not armies, and his first priority is finding the tombs to stop the Round Table from rising. You need to find your friends and wake them at once.”

“By all the saints!” Gawain’s vision went red, but he held on to his temper. He needed his wits, not the fury of battle. Then he took a deep breath, turning back to the fae. He had a thousand questions but settled on the most immediate. “Why are you warning me?”

Angmar shrugged, but lines of tension framed his mouth. “Not all the faery kingdom has forgotten who we are. My people love beauty and justice. We are not indiscriminate murderers, and we should not be Mordred’s toy soldiers. Those of us who have resisted his power are turning to the Round Table to ensure our freedom. Merlin created this situation. In some measure, Arthur and Camelot bear that responsibility.”

“Why trust us? Why not overthrow Mordred and his mother yourselves?”

“The rebel fae are scattered, disorganized, and afraid. We need Camelot’s leadership and its might.”

The words were barely out of the faery’s mouth when a black-feathered arrow whistled past, striking the side of a barrel. It was short and thick, a crossbow bolt rather than a true arrow. Angmar jerked aside, breath hissing between his teeth. A thin line of blood bloomed across the front of his sweater. Gawain grabbed his arm, pulling him behind a Dumpster.

A quick glance told Gawain the shot had gone unnoticed among the hubbub of the crowd—and an archer strolling through Medievaland would hardly be noticed. The assassin had chosen the perfect place to do his work. A second glance at the arrow told him it was faery craftsmanship.

“Was that for dramatic effect?” Gawain asked drily. “A little extra push to make me agree to help you?”

“No.” Angmar clutched the front of his sweater, red oozing from between his fingers. “I thought I’d dodged Mordred’s lackeys. If they know I’ve warned you, they will silence us both.”

“Let them try.” Gawain pulled Angmar’s hand away to see the sweater had been sliced by the bolt’s passage. Through the gap in the cloth, he could see the injury was long but shallow. As long as the tip wasn’t poisoned—and one never knew with faery weapons—Angmar would survive. Gawain shed his jacket, stripped off his shirt and pressed the wadded fabric against the wound. “Hold that. It only grazed you.”

Angmar obeyed while Gawain pulled on his jacket again. “One would think you’d done this before,” the faery said drily.