Morgain's Revenge - Laura Anne Gilman [49]
Gerard leaned forward. He nodded as the other boy spoke, his hands painting a picture in the air.
Sir Caedor was accustomed to not being included in the conferences of his betters—his forte was battle, not strategy. But the way the two boys in his charge were huddled together stung nonetheless. Only the fact that the king and queen had tasked him with their safety kept him from taking their insults to heart. You had to let youngsters gain a little confidence, else they would forever be followers. Arthur was right about that. And it was clear from all signs that the young squire Gerard was being groomed for more than a follower, even if the boy wasn’t aware of it yet. The way the squire had laid down the law back at the inn was proof that he had confidence in his own decisions and the ability to take risks. Caedor had been a squire before he was a knight, and he had heard plenty of older knights and warleaders scream when he did something wrong. He had trained raw youths—and this was not so different, for all that it required a more delicate touch. He understood now that Gerard, for all his tender years, was almost a man. And the stable boy, too, if far too prideful for his situation in life. So for now, Caedor sat back and let them have their head—until he saw something in the distance that made him frown in concern.
“Hmm.” He rode forward, pushing his way into their consultation.
“What?” Gerard was clearly irritated at being interrupted, but Sir Caedor did not back down this time.
“I have not spent much time on the seas—I am no sailor—but it does not seem entirely…natural to me, for the waters to be behaving thus.”
Gerard and Newt left off their discussion and looked to where Sir Caedor was pointing.
“Oh. Uh-oh.”
“What in the name of Camelot is that?” Gerard asked.
“I don’t know,” Sir Caedor replied. “But I don’t like it.”
They turned their horses along the cliff-side path for a better view, and watched as the surface of the ocean frothed and foamed out beyond where the normal whitecaps were forming on top of the ever-rolling waves. It looked almost as though the water was boiling, but just in that one location.
“It couldn’t be natural?” Newt asked. “Some kind of storm front moving in? Or maybe a waterspout. One of the knights in Camelot was telling stories of those at the Quest banquet, how they form out of nowhere. You can’t see them until they’re almost right on you, and then it’s too late….”
“It might be,” Gerard said. “Do you want to risk it being totally unrelated to us, or our mission, this close to Morgain’s home?”
Newt didn’t. “So, what…we wait it out?”
“If it’s natural, it should wax and wane, as all storms do. If it’s not—”
“It is not,” Sir Caedor said, still watching the waters. His skin had turned an ashen gray, and his right hand was clenching and unclenching on the reins of his horse. “We need to get back to the village. They may not like us, but if this is something dangerous, they need to be warned.”
In accord, they started back down the path, moving as swiftly as they could without risking the horses’ safety on the uneven ground. The path wound, serpentine, and they had their backs to the ocean for several yards. When they faced the ocean again, the waters had ceased foaming.
Instead, a long wake formed behind the giant head of a beast rising from the ocean’s surface, coming directly at them. From the size of its head, and the probable depth of the water, Gerard thought the thing might be as tall as Camelot itself.
“God and the saints have mercy,” Sir Caedor muttered. The two boys were struck mute. The beast was coming for them, and coming fast.
“Let the horses go,” Gerard said suddenly.
“What?” Newt managed to take his eyes off the approaching beast long enough to give Gerard a blank stare. Sir Caedor, however, saw where Gerard was going with that thought. He dropped out of his saddle with surprising agility, swinging an armor-clad leg over as though it weighed nothing, and dropping to the ground even as he was