Page 24 of The Faerie Morgana

She glanced down, startled at the sight of her bare white flesh, her long arms and legs and small breasts exposed to the summer sun.

She remembered, belatedly, the pile of her clothes under the willow tree.

Before she could explain, the Blackbird had stripped off his own worn brown robe and was wrapping it around her, leaving him wearing only his undertunic and his leather sandals.

He took her proffered arm, but he stared at her in wonder as they struggled toward the safety of the woods. “How did you come to be here?” he cried, but weakly. “Where are your clothes?”

“Lying on the ground beside Ilyn,” she snapped, as she tugged him forward. “Please, sir. The Romans—”

“Do you know what he said? Uther?”

“I have a good idea.” She put her arm around his back and urged him to walk faster.

“He was going to surrender! I didn’t have the opportunity to translate, but the Roman centurion—he knew! It was planned, Morgana! Uther—he was going to hand Lloegyr to the Romans to—” He broke off, gasping for breath.

“I know,” she said grimly.

“Did you see?”

“I did. Come now, sir. I will explain everything later. Right now, we need to get away.”

By the time they reached the cover of the forest, Morgana was holding nearly all of the Blackbird’s weight.

She felt every one of his many years in the strain on her arm, in the ankle-jarring care she had to take so he did not stumble.

The terrifying sounds of the battle pursued them, making Morgana’s skin crawl.

She wished her hands were free to block her ears against the screams and cries, and, worst of all, the occasional sobs and calls for help.

They found an ancient yew with a thick trunk and roots rising from the forest floor in great curves.

Morgana coaxed the Blackbird to sit on one of the roots, and made sure he had his staff to steady himself.

When he was settled, leaning back against the trunk, she peered through the drooping branches to watch the tumult on the other side of the river.

She wrapped her arms around herself, standing helpless and sick as she watched the Lloegyrian contingent crumble before the greater numbers and practiced ferocity of the Romans.

It was not long before the first of the Camulod foot soldiers, bloodied and reeling, staggered back over the bridge in flight from the debacle.

Behind them, fighting bravely even as they retreated, came the knights on horseback.

Morgana shuddered to realize how few were left.

Too many lay on the field, wounded, at the mercy of an enemy who possessed none.

One of the missing knights was the curly-headed lad who had sparked the attack with his battle cry.

She found herself reaching for the Lady’s sigil as she searched for him, before remembering that it lay among the folds of her robe, on the ground of the keep of Camulod.

She searched on, finally spying his yellow horse lying on the ground, and there—“Oh, no,” she breathed. “Oh, no.”

Horse and rider were both dead. Too many Lloegyrians lay lifeless, and not enough Romans. Morgana thought of shapeshifting again so that she could see, could find out what had become of Uther, but she didn’t dare leave the Blackbird.

She was beginning to recognize the exhaustion that came with having changed her shape.

Her legs were weak, and her chest ached from the hours of flying.

She would have to walk back to Camulod, which she feared would take the last of her strength.

At least she could make certain the Blackbird had his palfrey.

It was much too far for him to walk. The little horse had regained her feet and stood trembling, reins hanging, too terrified to move.

Morgana reached out her hand to the animal, her fingers curled. She whispered, “This way, little sister. You will be safe. Come this way.”

The brown mare threw up her head. Morgana whispered again, gesturing with her beckoning fingers, “Come to me. Let us go home.”

The palfrey stared at her in confusion before, with a nervous flick of her tail, she trotted toward the woods. Morgana stepped out to meet her, gathered up her trailing rein, and led her behind the yew. It was when she glanced back over her shoulder that she caught sight of Uther at last.

He was still mounted on his tall black horse, holding it back from the entrance to the bridge as he stared in horror at the melee on the other side.

His horse plunged this way and that, trying to get its rider to loosen the reins as the surviving knights galloped past. One had a wounded man across his saddle.

Another one slumped forward, barely keeping his seat, and even from a distance, Morgana could see he was badly hurt.

Uther watched them all go past, yanking his poor horse’s rein this way and that in an agony of indecision.

In his arrogance, he had believed that if he presented his knights with an accomplished fact, an arrangement already made, they would concede without demur. Now the false king of Camulod was staring at the destruction of his power, his ploy to secure his crown an utter failure.

As the last of the knights cleared the bridge and tried to regroup on the southern side of the river, one Roman charged across, directly to where Uther still sat, irresolute.

The Roman was huge, with greasy black hair hanging from beneath his helmet, and the emperor’s symbol on his giant shield.

Uther’s horse, maddened by the smell of blood and the screams of the wounded on the other side of the river, reared high, fighting the rein.

The Roman lunged at it with his sword, catching it straight in the belly.

Blood sprayed everywhere, dark and evil-looking in the waning sunshine, as the horse crumpled to its knees. Uther was thrown to one side.

He struggled to his feet, his shield wavering in front of him as he groped for his own sword, but it was too late. The Roman, moving lightly despite his size, batted Uther’s shield away and stepped in to run him through.

It happened so fast, with such precision and power, that Morgana could hardly follow the action. She couldn’t restrain her involuntary cry, and the Blackbird pushed himself to his feet to look past her.

The Roman pulled his sword free, bent to wipe it on his leggings, then trotted back across the bridge to rejoin his cohort. Uther, sprawled on the ground beside his dying horse, didn’t move.