“I believe it,” Gwen said quietly, rubbing her stomach like a good luck charm.
Even though they were talking about difficult things, Merlin found himself relieved to have his friends around him once again. After a short while Lam had to return to their duties at the stable, and Merlin was left to shop with Gwen and Jordan, hunting down the items on Old Merlin’s list while enjoying their companionship.
When the trumpets sounded and the people of Camelot arranged themselves on the main road to bid farewell to King Arthur and Sir Lancelot, he felt Gwen’s fear rise. Side by side they watched Ari disappear into the dark feral woods that separated the kingdom from Nin’s distant crystal lake.
Merlin had never seen the legend from this angle before. Through all the cycles, he’d been Arthur’s mage, focused on Arthur’s heartbreak. But this time around he truly understood how much Gweneviere and Lancelot loved each other. Anyone who got in the way—from a rampant corporation to a lovesick king—barely stood a chance. They were the original love story of the Western canon, two girls from the future hidden in the folds of the past.
Merlin realized with a start that he was finally rooting for the other team.
Jordan loomed behind them as they made their way through the market, Gwen’s bodyguard even though the queen was still in her dressed-down disguise. After finding the last of Old Merlin’s items, they headed back toward the castle just as the sun sank below the horizon.
“Mage!” Jordan shouted.
It happened so quickly his brain whirled. He dropped the supplies, glass bursting, as four—no, five men swarmed out of the alleys, one jumping down from the thatch of a nearby roof. Merlin belted the chorus of “Raspberry Beret” and threw up a protection bubble around Gwen.
“Not me! They’re attacking Jordan!” Gwen cried. The men flew down the streets, lashing out wildly at the knight with the long blonde braid slung over her shoulder.
“I see that now!” Merlin said, all in the time it took for Jordan to slam down her visor, draw her sword, and take out the first attacker with a hard swing. These men were not knights. They wore no colors and fought with no sense of grace. They moved at a quick, brutal, deadly pace. “Hired assassins.”
“Sir Kay must have sent them,” Gwen said, with a certainty that Merlin shared. He’d been bested in front of all of Camelot by a woman in armor. He wasn’t going to let that stand. And he wasn’t going to face her again, knowing he would lose. That would involve honor he didn’t have.
Jordan cut off the second assassin at the knees—literally—when Merlin charged forward to help. Jordan saw him coming and backhanded him so hard he actually left the ground. “Don’t you dare, mage,” Jordan’s voice rang over the dull pain in his head. “Remember, I know what it costs you.”
“I’m not going to let you die in the medieval version of Street Fighter!” he cried, wobbling to his feet. Jordan had hit him really hard.
Her smile flared bright. “You think I can’t take five men?”
They drew a small crowd as two assassins fought her at once. She led them into a corner where they lost the space to maneuver and were as likely to slash each other as they were to find their mark. Then she jumped onto a hitching post and launched herself downward, taking one of the men down with the hilt of her sword to the forehead. When they landed, the fourth one was on her, using his leverage to flip her over. He climbed over her, crowded down, her sword arm pinned so she could no longer swing.
“Jordan!” Gwen cried, palms bashing against Merlin’s magical barrier.
He ran forward, ready to fling a few sparks, but then he saw the quick flash of silver. The man groaned, then retched. The attacker on top of Jordan keeled over as she swung herself out, a dagger sticking out of the man’s gut. Jordan turned, arms outstretched, sword blazing, ready to take on the fifth attacker. But he was nowhere to be seen. The crowd waited. They didn’t care if this girl in armor won or lost. They just wanted to see more blood spilled.
“Looks like I scared him off,” Jordan said with satisfaction.
The crowd booed, deprived of their frenzied enjoyment. The knot of people around them loosened. Merlin popped the invisible bubble that held Gwen, and Jordan took her arm as Gwen seethed with relief and worry for her best friend and even better knight. Merlin didn’t care whether the people of Camelot were ready to acknowledge her prowess—it didn’t change the fact that Jordan of Lionel was the finest knight in any place or time.
A thunk sounded from far off.
Red sprayed across Merlin’s vision. The missing assassin had run off to a cowardly distance and shot an arrow straight into her neck.
Jordan went down.
Ari couldn’t help feeling that something would go wrong in Camelot the moment King Arthur left. She pushed the thoughts down, keeping her focus on the quest at hand.
Ari watched Arthur polish Excalibur from across the small campfire. She’d never seen him care for the sword before. She’d seen him train with it, fight with it, but never treasure it. Ari more than longed to hold the sword again. Merlin had taken the broken pieces when she arrived in Camelot, and the absence of the enchanted blade was never far from her mind.
Arthur’s sharpening stone sang over the edge of the blade as if he’d lovingly done this every night since he’d plucked the sword from the stone. Or was this the sword handed to Arthur straight from the Lady of the Lake’s disembodied arm? Jordan’s book offered two possibilities—which engendered new thought on the so-called legend. Most of it had been imagined much later by romantic writers—and less romantic screenwriters—based on certain foundational truths. An old magician, Excalibur,
