Nimulot Encounters: Bait
CH3: Ash
The mill was burning, leaving the fey and the lone human inside with little time to plan and only two doors through which they could escape. Though they hoped to capture the Green Knight, it did not matter if the others survived. There were no fey farms left. All the surviving fey had been herded into their one last shelter in the woods, and when that shelter burned they would burn with it or they would rush upon the swords of the paladins surrounding them. The Green Knight and the Wolf-Blood Witch were the only real threats remaining… and the thief. The Green Knight would have surrendered to save one dying Faun, but the thief was a passable swordsman and a fair archer; he shot the hostage to save the Green Knight. The witch had offered him a chance yo prove himself, and even the Weeping Monk had to acknowledge his efforts. Traitor though he was to his own kind, the thief did not waver. A boy had foolishly joined ranks with the witch, but a man would die for her.
The Weeping Monk stood ready, barely registering the heat of the burning mill, though he stood closer than the Red Paladins surrounding the pillar of smoke. Since childhood he'd been trained to remain patient and focused for any stretch of time, even under harsh conditions, but the witch danced in the back of his mind, her whispering sword in hand. The image distracted him because the two did not belong together. He couldn't even bring himself to call her Wolf-Blood Witch anymore. Father Carden had assigned her that monicker too quickly, too recklessly. The Monk flinched, chiding himself for thinking ill of Father Carden, but the thought would not recede. The Monk could picture how her fight with the wolves must have gone—a frightened girl swinging her large sword wildly, killing the wolves only because they kept leaping at her, too famished to give up their prey—Nimue had dangerous magic within her, but she was not violent by choice. The title Carden gave her painted her as a warrior she was not. The Weeping Monk himself, a matchless warrior, had been misled by the name. Had he not acted so quickly when he first saw the Devil's Tooth in her hand, he would have seen how inept she was with the sword and he would have taken full advantage, cutting her down quickly back in the woods around Dewdenn, back when Brother Odo might've survived his wounds. Instead, Odo and six other paladins had fallen, Odo to the witch's earth magic, the others to the Devil's Tooth.
A rustling in the trees behind him drew the Monk's attention. The previous night, one of their messengers brought word regarding Merlin's execution: It was delayed indefinitely. A bird had descended before the axe, bearing a letter signed by the Wolf-Blood Witch herself. How quickly she too had recognized Carden's error in giving her such a name… The Monk shook his head at the thought. With a stirring name and the Sword of Power in her possession, she had convinced a weak-willed king to spare Merlin, asking that he be released to meet with her. A scout had seen Merlin riding toward Brother's Blood that very morning, followed at a distance by Lady Lunete and a platoon of Pendragon soldiers. The witch had other business to attend to, so it was unlikely she'd make an appearance, but some brave fey survivors might've left their communal shelter to save their burning farm. There was no movement along the tree line, no new scent, but there was no wind and the scent of the fire was strong, so even his heightened senses could not be trusted. The Monk raised a hand, but before he could signal some of his brothers, the doors of the mill burst open.
Squirrel. That surely wasn't his given name, but Nimue had called the boy Squirrel. He leapt out of the cellar doors and led the Faun farmers and children away at a sprint. The Green Knight and the human thief emerged from the opposite door at the same time, attacking without pause. Like the Monk, like Nimue, they were doing all they could to keep the children from harm. When the paladins near the Monk turned to pursue the young ones, the Monk ran toward the Green Knight, hoping they would follow. It mattered not, because the witch had arrived, and she was an army of one.
He was immune to fire and smoke, but the Weeping Monk stood paralyzed at the sight of the towering, serpentine tower of ash and flame. It roared like a living thing as it descended, wind ripping at red robes and his own grey cloak. Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention and the Monk turned just in time to see a fey female approaching. A second before smoke obscured his vision, he saw her grabbing the arms of the thief and the Green Knight, seemingly dragging them away.
"It's the witch!" One paladin cried. "She's come for us!"
"Quiet!" The Monk bellowed, his voice cracking as he strained to be heard over the roar of the wind and fire. Smoke that clouded his vision surely cloaked the others in darkness, but the enemy could not shoot what they could not see. If the witch had led fey archers to the field, they would have to rely on sound to pick their targets. The Monk cursed under his breath when the panicked screams around him grew louder, but then came the clash of metal, cries of agony. They were under attack, but how? The Monk heard someone charging him from behind and he acted on instinct, pivoting and thrusting his sword upward. Brother's Blood, he remembered too late. The witch had arranged a meeting with Merlin near Brother's Blood.
Brother Merric had a lot of strength for his age, but little stamina. In battle, he tried to overwhelm and outmuscle one or two targets before falling back to build pyres. To conserve energy, he attacked from behind whenever he could. He did not fight with much honor, but he was self-aware and cunning. He would never in his right mind attack the Weeping Monk, but it was on the Monk's blade he was skewered. The Monk was frozen in shock. He had killed one of his brothers. Had he not been damned before, this act surely sealed his fate, or so he thought until he remembered where the witch has been that very morning: Brother's Blood. She'd crossed the field once painted red by the Caileach; with her power, the hag turned a great army on itself, brother slaying brother until none remained. Nimue, the Monk realized, was no longer the misguided girl from his earlier musings. This was the work of a dark and dangerous creature—the chaos around him, his red brothers stripped of their sanity, turning on each other like animals—this was the work of the Wolf-Blood Witch. The Weeping Monk screamed, his fury fueling the fire around him. He refused to acknowledge his own fey abilities interacting with hers.
As it had before, the witch's magic spared him. Outside Dewdenn, he'd been humbled, found in a cage. At the Red Lake, he'd been humiliated, found in a cage over six slain paladins. How was he to explain this? He'd come to the mill with two-dozen men, promising to return with the Green Knight. He was the lone survivor, and the Green Knight was gone. No… The Green Knight had gone with that lone fey female, escaping just in time.
Nimue watched as Morgana led Squirrel and the other survivors away. Gasping for air, channeling all her energy into the sword, she watched as Kaze rushed in to pull Gawain and Arthur away from the fire. She had no idea how to cast the spell Kaze had briefly summarized, but following Merlin's advice, she surrendered her intent to the Hidden. Driving her sword into the ground and kneeling before it, she surrendered to the sword as well. The sword responded instantly, drawing the extra energy it needed from her, and the Hidden responded to the drain on her body, guiding natural energy up through her being. Rooted on the spot like a tree ripe for harvest, she could only watch as the magical massacre began. The screams were horrifying when they began, but the subtle hum of the sword created harmonies, and in her mind there was music, and the music gave her strength. Merlin's warnings fluttered about in the back of her mind. She'd seen what the sword had done to him, but she felt certain that knowledge was enough to save her from the same fate. She was fighting to save her people, not for glory or acquisition. She was not Merlin.
"Nimue!" Gawain's voice sounded distant, muted, but Nimue could see him standing beside her. He waved Kaze and Arthur on after the others. Stepping behind Nimue, he gently gripped her upper arms and tried to help her to her feet, staring down at her incredulously when he found he couldn't move her at all. "Nimue!" Gawain called to her again, moving to stand between her and the field of cursed smoke; the screams of the paladins were fading, so her energy was being drained needlessly. Nimue's face was pale, her eyes rimmed with tears as she tried to turn her head. Again, she didn't move, but Gawain could see she was trying. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but she could only gasp for air as she swayed, finally breaking free. Gawain leapt forward to catch Nimue as she released the Sword of Power and collapsed. One arm across her chest, Gawain could feel her heart pounding, and that was the only evidence of life. The last time he had seen her in such a state, her mother was trying to heal the wounds inflicted by a demon bear. Nimue tried to keep those scars hidden, but he'd seen the long, deep gashes down her back when the bear's blood was still wet on her face. Lost in those memories, he didn't see the Weeping Monk running through the dissipating smoke until it was too late to stand and draw his own sword. Grabbing the sword on the ground beside Nimue, he raised it just in time to block the Monk's first strike.
"No!" Gawain could not contain his alarm. The moment he raised the Sword of Power, it somehow siphoned more power from Nimue, using him as a conduit. He could feel the sword connecting with him as well, but as long as it could reach her through him, it would draw from the deeper well. With no time to think, Gawain released Nimue, standing as she slid to the ground. Stepping over her, he tried to force the Monk back, certain he would kill Nimue given the chance.
The Green Knight was a great warrior, but the Weeping Monk's agility was humbling. Again and again, Gawain tried to knock the Monk off balance, but every time he tried to draw his own sword, there his brother was again. Yes, his brother. Again, Gawain was humbled. He should have recognized the Monk's markings sooner. Perhaps he did on some level, unable to believe such a fierce fey warrior would help the Red Paladins in their campaign. His immunity to Nimue's cursed smoke left no doubt. "Ash Folk," he spoke at last, trying to ignore the strange whisperings of the sword. "Brother, what have they done to you?"
"You are not my brother," The Monk spat, flipping over Gawain's sweeping blade and slashing at his arm as he recovered. Gawain hissed in pain as the Monk left a shallow mark on his forearm, but he recovered faster than the Monk expected, raising his sword in a vicious upward arc that grazed the Monk's neck. The Monk whirled away fast enough to keep his head, but he was surprised his opponent went for the kill. Had he not just called him brother?
Gawain was horrified. He had been holding back. He wanted to keep the Monk away from his people, away from Nimue, but he could not bring himself to kill his lost brother. He wanted to help the young man, but he'd nearly beheaded him. The whispers had intensified when the Monk wounded him. The sword itself had taken offense and lashed out in anger, redirecting itself to find blood. Gawain could have resisted the tugging sensation if he'd been prepared for it, but he was only able to pull the blade back as it connected with its target. The whispers intensified again and Gawain felt a rush of fury not his own. The Weeping Monk had recovered. He rushed at Gawain, but the Green Knight stepped under a low-hanging branch, chopping it off with ease. As the branch fell on the Monk, the Sword of Power fell from Gawain's hand. Drawing his own sword, Gawain smiled. He was abnormally fatigued, but his mind and body were his own again.
"Nimue!" Naturally, Squirrel had doubled back to check on Nimue and the Green Knight. Arthur ran along beside him, but he slowed as he took in the scene. Squirrel did not. Nimue stirred at the sound of Squirrel's voice, but she saw the Weeping Monk when her eyes opened. Green vine markings appeared briefly on her face, but they faded quickly as she struggled to get up. Seeing the Monk poised to throw his dagger at Nimue, Squirrel tackled her in an attempt to cover her body with his own. Arthur moved to cover them both while Gawain moved to attack. He was pleasantly surprised to see the Monk taking several steps back, moving away from Squirrel and Nimue.
"Squirrel told me how you met," Gawain said as he feinted to the right, stepped closer, and blocked the Monk's swift counterattack. "You are not too far gone to change course." The Monk gritted his teeth and pushed Gawain back, a quick succession of hard strikes only allowing him to parry and evade. When the enraged Monk landed a hard kick, knocking Gawain to the ground, Arthur leapt into the fray. The Monk smiled despite himself. He'd faced Arthur before setting the mill alight; only Gawain's quick intervention had saved him.
Gawain remembered. While the Monk's weeping eyes were on Arthur, Gawain took advantage of his position on the ground to attack the Monk's legs. Though he considered it a dishonorable move, he could think of no other way to end the fight without death. The Monk had endured much worse, but his legs buckled involuntarily when Gawain's sword sliced into the soft flesh and tendons behind his knees.
"Leave him" Gawain ordered the others away before the Monk hit the ground. "Help Nimue. Go!"
"The sword," Nimue breathed weakly. One arm around Arthur, she was trying to keep her weight off Squirrel, but she gripped his shoulder with a shaky hand. Gawain flinched at the thought of touching the bloodthirsty blade again, but he picked it up without hesitation, ignoring its whispers and sliding it back into the sheath on Nimue's back.
"Forgive me, brother." Gawain spoke to the Monk as he urged Nimue and Arthur along, blocking the injured Monk from their view. Squirrel turned to look as the Monk slowly got to his feet, so Gawain plucked him right off the ground, carrying him away.
The Weeping Monk could fight through worse wounds. He knew he could catch up with the four retreating figures, but as he stared after them… he couldn't do it. All his energy had left his body, and his anger had drained away. He thought of the bloodbath behind him, the maddening smoke, the screams. He thought of how Father Carden would punish him, and a flicker of anger came back, but then it was gone. He felt nothing. He understood nothing. As the witch had spared him, so had the Green Knight, but something was eating him alive. Walking back to the scorched field littered with red-robed bodies, he wondered if the smoke had somehow poisoned his mind too.
