Morgain's Revenge - Laura Anne Gilman [52]
The knight sidestepped the swerve at the last minute, dancing out of harm’s way and—
“No!” Newt yelled, helpless, as the knight’s actions took him too close to the monster. Its great head swung down, great jaws opening until they took Caedor’s upper body between its hideous lips and closed down with a snap that Newt could almost swear he heard from where he stood.
“No,” Newt said again. “No, oh, no.”
The two of them waited, one sprawled awkwardly on the rocks, the other standing. They watched as the serpent reared back again, as though looking for further prey, then coiled in on itself and dove over the cliff, disappearing into the cold gray depths without further fuss.
“Dear God,” Gerard said, crossing himself. It was the first time Newt could remember ever seeing the squire do that. Had he been so inclined, Newt might have done the same, but instead he simply bowed his head for a moment, sending a prayer that Sir Caedor’s soul find peace in whatever afterlife he found.
“Do you think…it’s waiting? Looking for us?” Newt asked, shivering in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with their recent immersion in the cold water.
“No. I think it was sent to kill humans with swords,” Gerard said, slowly sitting up with a painful grimace. “It did that, and it left. I’d wager everything on it.”
“You’re going to have to,” Newt said, trying to focus on the immediate problem rather than what they had just seen. “Now that Sir Caedor’s gone, it’s up to us. And if we’re going to finish this mission—if Sir Caedor’s death is going to mean anything—we’re going to have to swim back through that water, to shore.”
SEVENTEEN
Their return to the village was much less impressive than their first visit, trudging on foot with no horses, no mule, and no knight. Their clothing and hair was still damp from their nerve-racking swim back to shore, during which they had thankfully been unmolested by anything more aggressive than a school of inquisitive fish.
The trek was a quiet one, neither boy feeling much urge to talk, with the memory of Sir Caedor’s death still raw in their minds. Gerard started to say something when they came around the bend in the path and saw the village in front of them, but his thoughts were too jumbled to speak out loud just yet. Newt had taken the queen’s token off his arm and was holding it in his hand, his thumb stroking the cool metal absently.
They had seen death before, from battle and illness and old age. This was different. This was death in order that they might live. This was death with obligation.
It aged you, somehow. They both felt the weight of Caedor’s act in their bones. And neither Merlin’s cunning nor Arthur’s wisdom were coming forward to help them through it.
Maybe, Newt thought, that was the whole point. Maybe wisdom was knowing that nothing helped you deal with that. You just had to get up and go on.
They were back at the village almost before they realized it. The village faced the ocean in a half-circle, with the most important-looking buildings nearest the shore. One long dock stretched out into the water, like a finger testing the mood of the waves.
A deep-hulled boat was tied up to the dock, and workers were carrying bales of fabric up a ramp, where they were brought into the hold for storage. The two boys found a spot behind a pile of slatted boxes that smelled like dried beef where they could see without being seen.
“That boat’s too small to go anywhere far,” Newt said. “Odds are it’s a local delivery.”
“Local as in Lady Morgain’s island?” Gerard raised an eyebrow and looked at the boat more carefully. “Maybe. She’s the only one who would be ordering that many supplies, certainly. It’s a risk, though.”
Newt snorted. “Because everything else we’ve done so far has been a certainty?” He had a point. “What does the lodestone say?”
Gerard felt for it and wrapped his fingers around the gray stone, but it remained still and cool under his hand. “Nothing.”
“Great.” Newt looked over the scene again, counting how many workers were