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“I knew Ramm is bad. I thought he was gone. Wilfred would listen alone. Maybe. But not with Ramm here.”
Guinevere saw the opening. “Then go speak with Wilfred. Convince him to help us get out. I will take you both to Camelot with me. You can have your own ship.”
“No.” Hild looked over her shoulder with a wistful expression. “It is all broken now.”
Guinevere slipped her hand into her bag. The tooth was growing steadily warmer. Guinevere was half-afraid it would sing
e a hole through her pouch. She had used a similar knot to what Rhoslyn, the woman banished from Camelot, had performed on her stones so women could locate each other in secret. The closer the dragon got, the hotter the tooth would become.
“Can we go outside, at least?” Guinevere asked. “I am hungry.”
Hild shrugged, then stepped aside so Guinevere could leave the shack. The men were gathered around the fire, talking and laughing and arguing in that same rough language that Guinevere did not understand. Ramm passed around a jug of something and they took turns drinking from it. They barely glanced at her, which was a relief. No one seemed worried that she would run, or that they would be unable to catch her if she tried.
Hild led her to a table and handed Guinevere a hunk of rough, hard bread. Trees pushed in all around. The river curved away from them, winking in the sunlight. On the other side of it, portions of the forest had been felled. Eventually it might be good farmland, but it would take time. Much easier to ransom a queen than to invest in the future through backbreaking labor. Arthur’s way was better. He always put in the time to create a future worth striving toward.
Guinevere turned to Hild. “Run away with me. Please.”
Hild shook her head. “This is my family.”
“They are a bad family. Choose a new one. I did.” That was a lie. Guinevere had not chosen to forget the Lady of the Lake. Merlin had chosen it for her. But she had chosen Arthur. Brangien. Lancelot. Sir Tristan. Dindrane. Camelot.
Hild stared at Wilfred, who was taking the jug from Ramm, drinking so much that it ran down his throat and soaked into his shirt.
Guinevere slipped her hand into her bag. The tooth was scalding; she could only brush her fingers against it. She heard a rustle somewhere in the woods behind them.
“Ramm!” Guinevere shouted. “Let me go now or you will regret it.”
Ramm wiped his mouth and pulled out his knife. His smile was obscured by his beard, but the hair hid none of his malice. He said something and pointed to Hild to translate.
Hild shook her head desperately. “No.”
Ramm strode forward, knife raised.
That was when the first bright burst of flame roared from the trees.
“Drachen!” the men screamed, running. Another stream of fire engulfed the buildings. Ramm was half on fire, flailing as his clothes burned and his beard began to smoke. There was no pleasure in watching this, no victory. Only horror. Guinevere needed to flee and to take the dragon with her so it would not cause any more damage.
Guinevere grabbed Hild’s arm. “Come with me!”
Hild took a step with Guinevere, but then looked over her shoulder. “My brother!” She ran back into the camp.
Guinevere could not drag Hild or force her to come. She had to go. Now. Guinevere ran into the woods, dodging around a burning tree.
“Stop!” Hild shouted, but her shout turned into a scream.
Guinevere turned to see what had happened, but a leathery wing whooshed through the air, cutting off her pathway. The wing shoved her against the dragon’s body and she scrambled onto its back to avoid being crushed. It ran, lumbering and crashing through the trees. It had one damaged leg—she remembered that from their last meeting—but its gait seemed more chaotic than the old wound would account for. Screams from the camp were quickly muffled by the forest.
Guinevere clung to the dragon, wrapping her arms as well as she could around its thick neck. It was far larger than a horse and there was nowhere for her to get a good grip with either her arms or her legs. She slid back, terrified she would fall, and managed to grasp it at the wing joints. Hoping she was not hurting the dragon, she held on with everything she had.
After a few minutes’ mad dash through the trees, the dragon slowed, stumbling. Then it tripped and crashed to the ground. Guinevere rolled free, one arm caught beneath her. She heard a loud pop and her shoulder lit up with pain. She gasped, on her back, staring up at the sky through the autumn flames of the leaves. There was a rasping noise she could not place.
She used her good arm to push herself onto her knees, whimpering as she tried not to move her injured shoulder. And then whimpering again at what she saw.
The dragon was on its side, the terrible rasp issuing from it. Its poor body, already battered and scarred from so many years fighting to survive, twitched. A spear was lodged behind its front leg. Blood, thick and black, dripped from the wound.
“No,” Guinevere whispered, her hands hovering above the dragon’s chest. “No, no, no.” She looked at the dragon’s face. One golden eye beneath a drooping eyelid fixed on her. She did not want to touch the dragon, did not want to feel what it was feeling, but she owed it to the creature. She put her hand on its forehead beneath one of its great curling horns.
The leaves. The season of peaceful fire, the whole world burning brilliant and bright. Guinevere calling. Guinevere coming with the dragon so it would not sleep alone. The dragon answering the call. And then—
