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We passed between the tents, stepping carefully over tangled bodies. Red tendrils spilled from lifeless mouths.
Poison, it seemed, was my sister’s weapon of choice. Perhaps she had poisoned the arrows Lorion had used. If so, she was sure to be surprised to see me.
A lone wolf ran between the tents in front of us. In a heartbeat, Draven had darted ahead, and with a flying leap and heavy blow, the wolf’s head rolled on the ground.
Across the makeshift road, more wolves snarled, chasing fleeing refugees. Draven looked towards the wolves. I knew he longed to go after them and stop their slaughter.
But he would not willingly leave my side. Nor give up his chance of vengeance upon my sister.
I touched his shoulder. “Look.”
Amidst the horror, some refugees were fighting back. Men and women, their faces lined with defiance, were battling the wolves, using small knives, clubs, and other makeshift weapons.
A crackle of magic sparked through the air, and I whirled in the direction where our tents lay.
“First Tempest,” I said, my voice low. “Then the wolves. We’ll finish this then aid the camp.”
Draven nodded grimly.
We moved towards the source of the spark, dashing through the maze of tents.
As we reached the place where we had made our camp, a chaotic scene unfolded.
Hawl lay on the ground, blood soaking their fur. Guinevere crouched beside the Bearkin, trying with great difficulty to wrap a bandage around one of the creature’s huge arms that had been lashed to ribbons while Hawl struggled to rise to their feet and rejoin the fray.
Meanwhile, dancing around the small stone circle where we had made our fire the night before were Lancelet and Tempest.
Lancelet held Excalibur. That was enough to shock me to my core. The blade had fought for her once, yes, but only at my urging.
Tempest held the grail. She gripped it tightly in one hand as, with her other, she split the air with her poisonous red tendrils.
As my sister’s venomous vines slashed out, Lancelet employed the sword with impressive finesse, bouncing the long stems off the blade.
I felt a surge of affection towards the sword as well as panic at the idea that Tempest had gotten this close to it. Excalibur must have been so desperate to avoid my sister that it had allowed Lancelet to wield it.
Beside me, Draven moved restlessly. Lancelet, I saw, was struggling. Excalibur was allowing her to wield it, yes, but there was a difference between wielding the sword and surviving, and wielding it and succeeding.
Lancelet’s movements were becoming more and more labored as she tried to keep pace with Tempest’s assault.
Just as the thought left my mind, a coil of red snaked through the air, moving past the sword and grazing Lancelet’s armor, leaving a sickly residue in its wake. She yelped and twisted, Excalibur’s light flickering as the pain from her wound washed over her.
In an instant, Draven was in front of her, his own longsword out, shadows wrapped around its hilt.
“Lancelet, this woman is mine,” he said without looking at her. “Stand down.”
For a moment, Lancelet seemed prepared to argue. Then she glanced at me—and to the empty space beside me. Her eyes scanned the camp. I knew who she was looking for. Gawain.
When her eyes moved back to my face, I nodded tersely.
Draven was already in the throes of combat, his sword and shadows moving to meet every red tendril Tempest was throwing out.
He was giving everything to the fight.
Together, he and my sister moved faster than I could track, faster than I could see.
“Your mate fights well, little sister,” Tempest screeched. She sounded delighted, as if she were relishing the battle. Clearly she did not fear Draven. Not as she should.
“Our sister Orcades spoke of you with fondness, Tempest,” I called to her. “I had foolishly hoped that meant there was something good in you as there was in her.”
