Prologue: More Deadly than the Male

Morgan had never flown so fast in her life.

Her heart was hammering even faster than her wings beat at the sky. It had been hammering ever since her maid Beryan had crashed out from the trees in her doe shape. Beryan had been out of breath when she transformed back into herself, but even as she strove to breathe, she was able to gasp out two words.

"Rowanne—danger—"

Morgan had almost flown off then, her mother-heart in her throat and her wand in her hand. But Beryan's hand had locked on her shoulder, and Morgan had been forced to wait while Beryan explained.

A Saxon wizard had attacked her stronghold. What he wanted was simple enough: the enchanted armor and sword her brother Arthur had left with her before he rode off to the battle that both knew would be his last. That was not surprising. Not for the first time, Morgan cursed her luck and wished they had just thrown the bloody things into the lake, as they had decided to say they had.

What was surprising was that the wizard had learned, somehow, that there was a blood-lock that prevented the sword and armor from being removed from their rightful place.

And now he was using Rowanne, Morgan's daughter, her only child, to get past it.

I'll kill him I'll kill him I'll kill him—

She should have been conserving her strength for the battle ahead. But anger and fear together combined to give her strength of the kind that men wrote legends about. Her stronghold was coming into view, and that strength flowed into her wings, letting her eat up the miles below.

Beryan, she knew, was following – but a deer, though fleet of foot, could not fly over obstacles as a raven could. And Beryan was tired from her outward journey. Morgan would be facing this battle alone, and they both knew it.

Beryan had last seen the Saxon wizard dragging Rowanne and her maid Wenna into the high tower, where the sword and armor were kept. So Morgan made for that tower. She flew toward one of the glassless windows about halfway up, listening.

"Crucio!"

And then a scream.

Morgan forced herself not to note that the voice that spoke was low and deep and male while the voice that screamed was high and young and female. She forced herself to pay attention to the direction only.

Up.

Morgan flew up, following the screams – and there were so many screams – to the very top of the tower, where the sword and armor rested. She ought to have guessed this.

She told herself it didn't matter. She was here now, wasn't she? And the hundred steps that might have slowed a woman down mattered not at all to a bird.

Morgan flapped to the uppermost window, landed on the sill, and looked in. It was only the knowledge that getting herself killed trying to save her daughter would not help matters that kept her from flying headlong into the room and gouging the wizard's eyes out with beak and talons.

"I won't do it!" came a sob to Morgan's right.

Rowanne!

Her daughter's hair had come loose from its plait, her clothes torn and disheveled. Her hands were bound with faintly glowing magical rope. But Rowanne's eyes blazed defiance.

"You c-can't—you c-can't make me! I won't hurt Wenna—and I'll never help you!"

The last words were an attempt at a snarl. Unfortunately, in her fourteen years, Rowanne had never been much for snarling. And there was too much pain and fear in her eyes to make the snarl convincing now.

There were two other people in the room. One was Wenna, bound and gagged and terrified in the corner opposite Rowanne. The other, between Wenna and Rowanne, was the Saxon wizard. He was tall, burly, with the blond hair that was so common among his people. He stood close to the stone table that held the enchanted armor and sword, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room.

He made the mistake of laughing.

"Oh, but you are wrong, little one. One – I can make you. And two – you will do both."

Rowanne gasped, but she shut her mouth and shook her head.

"I can make you, you know," the Saxon wizard went on. "Very easily. It took me, what, two minutes to wrest that wand from your little hand? Pathetic. You are powerless. You are mine."

To Morgan's horror, she saw the wizard's hands go to the belt that was holding in his tunic and holding up his trousers. He began to unbuckle it.

"And I will make you mine," he continued in the kind of tone normal people might use to talk about the weather. "And you will do as I please. And that will be that."

Now.

Morgan launched herself into the room, changing as she fell from windowsill to floor. Her wand was already out as she resumed her proper shape.

She shouted her first curse and sent him flying into the wall opposite. "Is that all you've got, you bastard?" she snarled.

The wizard stared at her, mouth agape.

She didn't give him a chance to cast a spell – or even pull his trousers up – before she cast her next curse.

"Mama!" Rowanne shouted.

A slashing motion with her wand broke Rowanne's bonds. Rowanne forced her way to her feet and tried to run to Morgan, but Morgan frantically shook her head. "Untie Wenna and run!"

"Crucio!" The wizard must have recovered.

"Protego!" Morgan called back.

The shield might have been powerful enough to block the curse, or it might not have.

Morgan couldn't tell, because the shield protected the wrong person.

Wenna arched her back and screamed.

"Wenna!" Rowanne ran to her friend.

"Cru—"

"Relashio!"

A jet of sparks leapt from Morgan's wand toward the wizard, who was trying to hold up his trousers with his spare hand. He howled when they caught on his tunic, burning through.

"Get Wenna and go!" Morgan shouted at Rowanne, then threw another curse at the wizard.

She couldn't keep looking at Rowanne. She had to concentrate on the wizard.

Blue, red, green, purple lights flashed across the room as they cast curse after curse. Morgan's anger kept her going, but the lights from her wand were not as bright as the lights from the wizard's. Her arms ached; her flight had been long. And the wizard looked like a warrior – a warrior with the sword as well as the wand.

As she had learned from her brother, skill with one generally led to skill with the other. Fighting, Arthur had always said, was as much about what went on in your head as what went on with your hands, feet, or wand.

The wizard seemed to understand this, for he laughed. "Foolish woman! Do you not know who I am? I am Cyneric of Wurthingas!"

Even if the name had made chills go down her spine and the fear puddle at her feet, Morgan would not have shown it. As it is, she didn't have to expend extra energy to lie. "Never heard of you. Oppugno!"

The wizard's eyes went wide, and he almost didn't duck before the chair that Morgan sent flying at him hit.

"Never heard of me?" he roared. "Confringo!"

Morgan dove to the side. Stone exploded behind her as the spell careened into the wall.

"I have won the wands of ten warlocks! Crucio!"

Morgan cast a Shield Charm near where she had last seen the girls and rolled out of the way.

"Do you know what happened to Bedwyr, Bors, and Drustan? I killed them! Intestinae expelle!"

"Protego!" The spell bounced harmlessly off the shield – and from the corner of her eye, Morgan saw Rowanne haul Wenna to her feet and make for the stairs.

The girls didn't get far before Morgan heard a growl—and a scream.

The girls ran back up, and chasing them was a—a—

It looked like a tiger or lion made of globules of green-brown swamp mud with glowing red eyes. Coming from the front paws were long, sharp lines of hardened swamp-rock—claws.

"And did I mention?" the wizard chuckled. He still stood with his back to the armor and sword, his hands on his hips and a wild grin in place. No matter how Morgan ducked and dodged and rolled, he never went far from the armor and sword.

Still grinning, he continued, "I've made a Clawspawn. I planned on feeding you to it once I had what I came here for—maybe making your daughter watch. Perhaps I shall do so now."

Rowanne screamed—and one lone shaft of sunlight burst into the room, hitting the armor and winking off it.

… Arthur?

Morgan looked up at the wizard and knew what she had to do.

"Revulso!"

The spell hit the wizard square in the chest, forcing him back. It wasn't that strong. It wasn't meant to be that strong. But it was strong enough to make him lose his balance and grab at the first thing that came to hand to regain it.

The breastplate.

Morgan had worked every protective spell she knew to keep that armor in its place. It could only be moved by her, or Rowanne or one of her descendants. It could only be moved of her own free will. She could not be coerced or tortured into it. She'd worked the spells so that she, Rowanne, or one of their descendants could move the armor to give it to a man that she thought was worthy of it.

But if anyone else dared to touch it …

The wizard's hand was stiff on the breastplate. Lightning crackled over the armor and up the wizard's arm. His mouth fell open in a silent scream.

He didn't stay silent for long. Morgan knew she would hear his scream in her nightmares for years to come.

The lightning danced over the wizard, burning holes in his tunic as it leapt from one patch of skin to the next. He fell to his knees, but still his hand would not – could not – move from the armor.

The room filled with the smell of burning flesh. The Clawspawn arched on its hind legs and gave a primal scream.

The wizard was not ready to give up yet. He raised his wand hand—shakily—his mouth started to move—

He fell forward, dead. The Clawspawn shuddered and fell, too.

Morgan let her arm drop. She took a deep breath—

The room began to shake.

"Mama?" Rowanne called.

Morgan had a split second to assess and make a decision. It only took her half that time.

"Run!"

Rowanne and Wenna didn't need to be told twice.

Down they ran—Morgan following—down the hundred steps that led to the ground floor of the keep. As they ran, the castle around them shook and trembled. Dust and small stones fell from the walls and stairs above onto them. But no large stones – no beams, nothing like that. Later, Morgan would wonder why.

Now, all she cared about was chasing the girls before her and running.

They ran into the main living area of the keep and out of it, to the ground floor, through the courtyard and the past the outbuildings. Was it Morgan's imagination, or was the gate retreating from them with every step?

No—not the gate—the land outside the gate—there was a gap between the ground inside the gate and outside it—

"Mobilicorpus! Mobilicorpus!" Morgan shouted, pointing her wand at Rowanne and then Wenna. The girls yelped as Morgan's magic grabbed them and flew them headlong toward the gate. Morgan changed herself into her raven-shape and followed after them.

First Rowanne, then Wenna, then Morgan—all three rushed through the gate. And Morgan felt the castle shift behind them.

Shift? She wondered. She landed on the soft grass beside the girls. Wenna gaped at the castle, her eyes wide.

Morgan changed herself back into her true form, looked back—

There was no castle there.

What—

She barely had time to wonder before the sound of pounding hooves came to her ears. Morgan forced herself to stand up, forced herself to draw her wand once more as a brown-and-white shape burst through the trees—

"Beryan!" she shouted when she caught sight of the doe. "For Rhiannon's sake! I could have hexed you!"

The doe cast her a sidelong glance before shaking her head and changing back into Beryan. "But you didn't," Beryan replied. "So. It's good riddance to bad rubbish, then?"

Morgan stared at her friend—then she laughed. The laugh was a little too high and a little too brittle for her taste. "I knew I should have just tossed the damn things into the lake once Arthur went off!"

"I meant that awful Saxon wizard," Beryan replied. "Is everyone all right?"

The first answer she got to that was a muffled sob.

"Rowanne," Morgan gasped. She fell to her knees by her daughter, her own fatigue forgotten. "Oh, my poor baby …"

Rowanne sobbed and clung to Morgan. Wenna began to sniffle too, and Beryan quickly caught her in her arms.

"Shush, shush," Morgan whispered into Rowanne's hair, stroking it, pretending that she didn't notice how her hand was shaking. "It's all right. You're all right. He's dead now. He's dead and he'll never hurt you, never hurt anyone again."

"I'm s-s-s-sorry!" Rowanne finally sobbed.

"You're—what? No, no, darling—don't be sorry—why should you be sorry?"

"He t-t-took my wand! He—he wanted me to k-k-kill Wenna! I w-w-wouldn't! But he s-s-said I had to, and I had to make a—a Horcrux—s-s-so he could use it to g-g-get Uncle Arthur's armor!"

"What?" Beryan whispered. Morgan shrugged at her. She thought she could see what the wizard's plan was—control part of Rowanne's soul to try to get past the blood-lock—but she couldn't imagine that it would have worked.

Not that it would have mattered. If he'd succeeded, he would have caused more damage than the bloody armor and sword were ever worth.

"And n-n-now—now we lost our home!" Rowanne sobbed. "And it's all my f-f-fault!"

"It is not your fault," Morgan said, firmly. "If it is anyone's fault it is mine, for not protecting you well enough. Or better yet—it is his fault.

"And we have not lost our home." Morgan gently pulled away from Rowanne so she could look into her eyes, mismatched emerald and amethyst, just as hers were. She brushed a few strands of glossy black hair from her daughter's face. "You are here. I am here. Beryan and Wenna are here. Home is where the people you love are; home is not just a place.

"And there is a place we can go—remember? Maybe you don't." Morgan caressed her daughter's cheek. "You were so young when we left. But Caer Tintagel still stands, and though your uncle can no longer protect it, Merlin's spells still hold. It is ours by right. We can go back there."

"C-Caer Tintagel?" Rowanne repeated. "But—Mama! It's in Cornwall! That's—that's hundreds of miles away!"

"So?" asked Beryan. "I'll grant you, I'll be sorry to say goodbye to the highlands—but Rowanne, don't you remember who your mother is?" Beryan grinned. "Morgan, daughter of Gorlois—a witch so powerful that the Muggles call her Morgan le Fay."

Morgan smiled at Rowanne, even if Rowanne still looked unsure. "We'll get there, love. All four of us. We'll make a new home there."

She didn't give Rowanne a chance to reply. She held her close again, and by the way Rowanne clung to her, Morgan could tell her daughter still needed this more than anything else.

Still, Morgan's eyes went to the place where her stronghold, her castle, and—yes—her home had stood not so long ago.

Rowanne is safe. Wenna is safe. Beryan and I are safe, she told herself. She told herself that several times, as if repeating it would make it true. Even Arthur's bloody armor is safe.

And Cyneric of Wurthingas – whoever the hell he was – is dead, and will hurt neither me nor mine ever again.

She wondered how many times she would have to repeat that to herself in order to believe it. But even if she repeated it every moment of every day until the world finally came to an end …

She didn't think she could say it enough times to make it true.

Authors' Note

As the description says, this fic is a collaboration between Andavri and yours truly. We've actually completed the writing part, but the posting will take a bit longer. We're shooting to update once a week.

If you liked, please leave a review! Thank you! :)