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EIGHT

“Oh. My. Lord.”

Newt was too busy throwing up to care about the misery in Sir Caedor’s voice. The moment they had trotted through Merlin’s gateway, he had slipped from Loyal’s back, landing on his hands and knees in the grass. He puked up the oatcakes and hot tea he’d had for breakfast.

“That’s…never happened before.” Like Gerard had been through so many portals, to be such an expert, Newt thought with what energy he could spare.

“Hush, pup,” Sir Caedor said, clearly echoing Newt’s own thoughts. The knight was leaning against his own mare, one hand curled around his stirrup-cup as though needing it to remain upright. Gerard alone remained on his horse’s back, but he was leaning forward against its neck, clenching the mane between his fingers, his complexion pale. Giving up, he slid with a groan down onto the grass behind Newt and rested his face against the cool earth.

Newt stopped heaving, set back on his heels, and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Water. He needed water to wash his mouth out. He got to his feet slowly, unsteadily, and turned to remove a waterskin from its tie-down on Loyal’s saddle. What he saw, over the horse’s withers, made him forget all about his recent incapacitation.

Black clouds scudded across the sky, ominous roiling shapes gathering over distant hilltops, moving far too fast to be anything other than a rainstorm—a very bad rainstorm.

“I think we’ve hit a patch of bad weather,” Newt said, trying to sound casual. “Any idea if there’s shelter nearby?”

“The blighted wizard’s thrown us near three or four days’ riding upland,” Sir Caedor said, looking around before raising his eyes to the incoming storm. “Well past Londinium and the worst of the Cotswold Hills.”

Gerard was still on the ground, now looking decidedly green. “I don’t think I can ride.”

“Then we’re going to get very wet.”

“Over there,” Sir Caedor said, recovering faster than either one of them. He gestured toward a low rise of grass, with a notable overhang facing them. “Come on, lad, get up. You can make it over there.”

“I…”

“Get up, boy. Now.” His voice was tough, but not unkind. With a combination of encouraging words and a strong hand, Sir Caedor got Gerard back on his feet, and the three began walking as swiftly as they could, not willing to get back on their horses until the dizziness of the magical transport subsided.

“Umm…” Newt said as they got close enough to see the overhang better. The rise was perhaps twice Sir Caedor’s height, and several man-lengths long, with enough room to shelter all three of them and at least two of the animals.

“It’s the only thing around, boy.” Sir Caedor was clearly impatient at Newt’s hesitation. Even Gerard looked at him sideways when the stable boy dug his heels in. The horses continued forward, but the mule also stopped, its ears twitching in agitation.

“That’s a barrow: a giant grave, a resting place for the bones of great warriors from an earlier time, built into the turf.”

“It’s shelter. The dead won’t mind.”

“The dead always mind,” Newt said, but allowed himself to be coaxed forward, dragging the mule along in turn. Neither of them looked happy about it.

Gerard and Sir Caedor were two stones from the same quarry, Newt thought ruefully; it didn’t occur to them that disturbing the dead, even the long-dead, never led to anything good. Stubborn, headstrong, ignorant warriors, both of them, so certain that nothing in the ground could be a threat.

He hoped that they were right.

The barrow was smaller than they’d thought, so they unsaddled the horses and took the packs off the mule. They shoved the packs as far under the overhang as they could just as the air darkened around them, going from clear morning light to shadowed dusk instantly with the arrival of the storm clouds.

“I hate storms,” Sir Caedor muttered. “All inconvenience, no redeeming value.”

“Grows the crops,” Gerard said.

“Hmmmph.” The knight removed his armor and fit as much of himself under the overhang as he could, his legs sticking out into the open air. Gerard sat next to him,