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Chapter Two
For a time, there was only darkness. Darkness and pain. Then, after what felt like an eternity, the darkness began to recede, leaving a red glow against Buffy's eyelids.
The pain remained, however, all along where she lay on her left side. She'd landed on something hard but not hard enough to kill her. At least she hoped not. If this was death, it sucked big time. For one thing, it smelled heavily of farm animals and manure. She hadn't visited a petting zoo since her tenth birthday, but she remembered it had taken three washes to get the pungent odor from her clothes.
There were other scents though, ones she easily recognized. The smell of freshly turned earth and cut grass were common enough smells in an active cemetery. There were flowers, too, although she didn't recognize them.
Shielding her eyes against the bright sun, Buffy pushed herself into a sitting position. The light, combined with the vertical movement, proved to be too much. Queasiness gripped her, and she turned and vomited right next to a pile of horse dung.
The smell of dung and vomit sent her stomach lurching again, and she retched until all that remained was bile. Thankfully, there hadn't been much in her stomach other than the remnants of the energy bar she'd eaten earlier.
Buffy was wiping her mouth on the hem of her dress when she stopped suddenly and frowned at the rough material. Glancing down at herself, she saw that she no longer wore her yoga pants and sweatshirt but a peasant-style dress. In the ugliest shade of brown, she might add. Light-beige and a few shades of tan looked good on Buffy, but a muddy brown? No way, never.
Something else was different, too. Buffy trailed a hand down the front of the dress and gasped. Both hands flew to her breasts. No. Just no! Despite the pain in her shoulder, she yanked the material away and stared down at her chest.
Her new Victoria Secret bra was gone! It had been the first time she'd worn it, too. And it had been from the summer collection. Buffy swore. Her satiny support had had been replaced with . . . a strap of cloth tied around the lower half of her breasts. No cute patterns, no lacey bits . . . just more brown.
Buffy rubbed her temples. She'd woken with a headache and it had only gotten worse. Look on the bright side, she told herself. Your brains are still inside your skull. The thought didn't quite cheer her.
Squinting, so as not to agitate her headache, Buffy carefully looked around. She was sitting in the middle of a meadow. It looked to be mid-to-late spring: the sun was shining, birds chirped in cheerful courtship, a bumble bee buzzed lazily by, and tender wildflowers swayed in a breeze. The same breeze that tugged gently at the hair and clothes of the bodies that lay strewn around her.
Some of the dead lay in huddled groups while others were scattered in ones and twos. It was clearly not the remnants of a battle—all the victims wore clothing like hers—and the small bodies of children were intermingled with those of the adults. Definitely not a battle, more like a massacre. These people had been slaughtered.
Movement on Buffy's left caught her eye. A breeze had shifted the gray cloak of a girl not much older than herself. Buffy stared. A lock of curly red hair flapped briefly then fell limp against the ground. The girl's face remained still. Her eyes were closed but there was a sunken look about them that told Buffy she was dead, too.
But there was something about the girl's position—on her side and curled forward—that suggested she had been shielding something when she'd died. A swaddled bundle lay tucked between her stomach and upper legs. One arm lay draped across it. From the deep gash on the girl's side, she'd clearly chosen to protect the bundle over herself.
Buffy tried to lick her lips but her mouth had gone dry. Perhaps someone had been left alive, she thought. Perhaps someone too small to notice. Birds chirped overhead—an oddly cheerful tune for such a morbid setting—and the sound startled Buffy from her thoughts.
Letting out a hiss of pain, she shifted till she was on her hands and knees. She didn't trust her equilibrium enough to stand just yet, crawling was the safer option. Besides, the girl wasn't too far away.
Buffy stopped an arms-length away from the girl and rocked back on her knees. Tthere was no point in moving closer; the small, pale face was clearly visible within the knitted blanket. A wisp of red hair, pale skin, and closed eyes. The baby could have been sleeping, if not for the blue tinge to its puckered lips.
Letting out a horrified sob, Buffy scrambled to her feet only to stumble. Besides the sudden dizziness, her ankle barely held her weight. Odd that it hadn't healed yet . . . usually her Slayer powers healed the worst injuries in a matter of hours. It didn't matter, she decided. She needed to get moving. Gritting her teeth, Buffy hobbled away from the dead mother and child.
She managed to navigate around several bodies, keeping her eyes fixed on a large tree at the edge of a meadow, but it was slow going. When she accidentally stepped on an outstretched hand—the flesh giving stiffly beneath her leather shoe—Buffy had jumped in revulsion. When she landed, her foot bent slightly too far. Buffy doubled over and screamed her frustration and pain as loud as she could.
"I don't understand," she whispered to the sky as tears slid down her face. "I don't know where I am!"
Memories surfaced in a jumbled mess. There had been a demon. She'd been fighting a vampire. Her mom and her mom's boyfriend. Ugh, Steve. Then a warehouse. A smoky smell followed by fear and pain and—
"I curse you, and those closest to you, with Camelot!"
No! No, it wasn't possible. Was it? A butterfly fluttered close to Buffy's hair, and she jerked away as though it might sting her. She couldn't be in Camelot—it was a legend. A myth! It wasn't real!
But the bodies looked real. The metallic scent of blood mingling with the sweet scent of flowers smelled real. And whatever had slaughtered these people had certainly been real.
Whatever slaughtered . . . The thought cut through Buffy's growing panic as her Slayer instincts took over. She glanced at the necks of the bodies closest to her. No bite marks. No indication that vampires were involved. Limbs attached, eyes intact, hearts in their proper places. That ruled out a troll, Gorgon, and Ah Puch (although, for accuracy, Ah Puch came from Mayan mythology, and Buffy was honestly surprised she'd even thought of it at all. Giles would have been pleased.)
"Perhaps not a monster then," Buffy muttered. "At least, of the non-human variety." She noted the slashed throat on a young boy—clearly the work of a blade—and tore her eyes away from the gory sight.
Maybe if she wished, really hard, she would be transported back to Sunnydale, just like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. But when she thought of home, it wasn't the house she shared with her mother that came to mind. Instead, it was that of the worn, leather couch in her Watcher's office.
Buffy would never admit it, but she loved that couch. How many evenings had she snuggled down into its plush cushions, listening to Giles read from some obscure text. His daytime formality would relax into comfortable casualness, even to the point of propping his legs up on his desk; and with a cup of tea in one hand, his softly-accented words—even while describing chimera morphology—would make her feel so safe and relaxed that she would often drift off to sleep. Despite the fact she was supposed to be listening, Giles had never chided her for it. Not once.
Buffy squeezed her eyes shut and wished. Hard.
The only change she noticed was that the ache in her head had grown worse. Thud, thud, thud . . . THUD, THUD, THUD . . . Strange, she could even feel it in her feet.
Buffy's eyes popped open then, and she jerked around to see nearly a dozen men on horseback racing toward her. They wore red tunics over chainmail and, as they drew closer, she saw swords strapped to their hips. Swords that could have easily slit a boy's throat.
By the time Buffy yanked a wooden shaft from an old man's rigid grasp, the riders had come to a halt just short of the carnage. Their horses pranced nervously. Eyes rolling, nostrils flaring, they smelled the blood.
In contrast, the riders showed little emotion. They were a mix of serious looking youths with premature lines to battle scarred warriors of indeterminate age.
A ruddy-faced man with reddish stubble and close-cropped hair dismounted. He walked into the meadow and stood next to one of the bodies. His mouth moved as though he were chewing on something; his hands rested against his waist with obvious fatigue.
Finally, he gave a little shake of his head. "Well, fuck."
His words exploded like quiet bombs in the meadow and even the insects, it seemed, paused their buzzing in momentary surprise. The man jammed a thumb to his left. "Kent. Trumbell. I doubt they conveniently left behind a signed letter or banner but go to the village and see what you can find. See if anyone survived."
Kent, or possibly Trumbell, spoke. "They never leave anyone alive."
"Clearly that's not fucking true anymore, is it?" The red-headed man barked back. He made an almost irritated gesture at Buffy. "Unless your eyes deceive you, Trum, that girl's alive."
"Now we know why Trum can't find himself a girl"—one of the riders joked—"he can't fucking see them."
"Get moving! Now! And the rest of you . . . you know what to do."
The two men kicked their horses into a gallop while the others began to dismount and disperse. Their leader, and that's who he obviously was, turned to Buffy. He saw how tightly she was gripping the shaft—her knuckles had turned bone-white—and frowned.
"Drop the stick, girl." He gestured at the embroidered gold dragon on his red tunic. "We're the king's men." Clearly he expected this to have some meaning for Buffy, but she just gave him a tight smile.
"No, thanks. I think I'll keep it. I don't know you or your king." And then, feeling a patriotic urge, she added, "Besides, I'm American."
Something had caught the man's attention. He cocked his head to the side and took a few steps in her direction. "Where you from, girl?" He took another step. "What kingdom do you hail from?"
"Kingdom? No kingdom," Buffy answered, and with an awkward hop, retreated a step. "Don't come any closer!"
He ignored her. "Which direction then? Are you from the north?" he pressed. "Where exactly—"
Buffy swung. She had warned him not to come any closer. Still, she didn't put all her Slayer strength into it—he was only human, after all. She didn't want to kill him, just needed him to back off until she could figure things out.
Smack.
The end of the shaft landed against the flat of the man's palm. With a movement too quick for Buffy to follow, he gripped the wood and twisted it, wrenching it easily from her grasp. Buffy watched him toss the shaft away in shock then dropped her gaze to her hands. She stared at them as though they'd betrayed her. Where was her strength? As if confirming her growing suspicion, her ankle gave a sharp twinge.
And then Buffy knew—she knew—her Slayer powers were gone.
"You're shaking," the man said in a softer voice. "I'm sorry if we scared you, but upon my honor, we mean you no harm. We are knights of Camelot."
Knights of Camelot. Buffy's mind worked sluggishly to recall what Mr. Blowski had said about them. They were supposed to be the good guys, weren't they? All about chivalry and honor? Buffy turned wide-eyes on the man. He didn't look like a knight. He just looked really tired.
The other knights looked about the same. Tired. Tired and frustrated. They were inspecting the bodies, looking for something specific, before dragging them into a row.
"I don't know where I am," Buffy said in a voice so quiet that the man had to lean in to hear her. "I just want to go home. Giles will want to train tomorrow, and I don't want to be late." She clutched the sides of her head, fingers twisting in her hair.
"I'll help you get home," he told her gently, reaching out a hand to steady her. "But I need help, too." He gestured at the meadow. "Who killed these people?"
Buffy winced. "I don't . . . know."
"Try to remember," the man pleaded, his urgency growing. "The men who did this—how were they dressed? Like common folk? Or did they wear tunics like these?" He pointed at his chest quickly. "They would have been a different color, different symbol on the front. Did you see a symbol?"
"I . . . " Buffy frowned, her confusion growing. What was she supposed to say? She couldn't possibly tell him the truth: that a demon had cursed her and sent her here after the attack had happened. He wouldn't believe it. Worse, he might think she was insane. "Please! All I remember is waking up here and everyone was dead!" The last part had ended in a near scream, and Buffy let out a frustrated sob. She had never felt so powerless since becoming the Slayer. She felt weak, so normal, and it was terrifying. Buffy dropped her face into her hands as tears burned her eyes.
The soft schink schink sound of chainmail could be heard as a man approached them. "What did she say, Barrod?" The man's voice was sharp with tension. "Was it King Elkin's men? Did she see the wolf's head?"
The one called Barrod gave Buffy's arm a supportive squeeze. "She doesn't remember what happened. Not now, anyway."
"Doesn't remember?" The other man seethed. "This is the third slaughtered village in as many months, and she's our only witness. I'll make her remember!" A hand grabbed at Buffy's other arm and shook her roughly. She gasped, catching sight of a dark-haired man with thick brows and bitter eyes. "You, girl! Were any of the men wearing a wolf's head?" Like Barrod, he pointed to his tunic. "Here. A wolf's head on black cloth?"
Barrod knocked the other man's hand away. "Are you trying to start a fucking war, Elrid? She'll agree to whatever you say if you keep scaring her like that! And what will we tell the king? To attack a neighboring kingdom based on who you think did this?"
"It has to be Elkin! No bandits are this well-organized! They evade us at every turn!"
Barrod inhaled deeply. "And you're willing to wager Camelot and all the souls within her, to prove you're right?"
Elrid made a helpless gesture. "It's just . . . we can't keep waiting. We have to do something . . ."
"And we are, Elrid," Barrod answered firmly. "And there's hope. But just look at her head." Both men turned to look at Buffy, who'd been glancing between the two men like a tennis match, and she felt herself shrink slightly at their sudden attention. "She has a head wound," Barrod clarified. "My little sister had one just like that. Fell off a milk pal, she did. Couldn't remember her own name nigh on a month."
Buffy reached up and ran fingers along her forehead then flinched when they grazed a hard knot. Pulling her hand away, she saw her fingertips were coated in dry, rust-colored flakes. She must have hit her head when she fell into this . . . what exactly? World? Dimension? Twisted fairytale?
Elrid's lips flattened in agitation. "You think she lost her memory, but what if she's lying? You heard her accent, Barrod—she's not from around here. She could be a spy, left behind for us to 'rescue' and bring back to the king."
"Regardless, we are under orders to bring any survivors back to the king."
"And if she gives him false information?" Eldrid pressed. "And that causes a war? What then?"
Buffy's felt herself grow cold at the grim look on Barrod's face. "You forget, Elrid, that I've seen the king's methods for uncovering the truth. Trust me, nothing remains hidden for long."
It was late afternoon by the time the knights finished searching and moving the bodies. Kent and Trumbell had returned an hour earlier to report that the village had been burned to the ground and all the farm animals slaughtered. Two bodies had been found, both villagers. From their advanced ages, it was clear they hadn't been able to flee in time. Not, as Kent pointed out, that it mattered much in the end.
And yet, Trumbell announced with a desperate sort-of pleasure, there had, in fact, been a survivor. With great flourish, he pulled a squirming puppy from a saddlebag.
Instead of teasing him as before, the knights gathered around the pup to rub its ears and laugh at its antics.
Buffy watched them from where she sat beneath the shade of an old oak tree. None of the men had spoken to her since Barrod had left her there, but she could tell they kept an eye on her. She watched as Elrid dropped to his knees and pretended to wrestle with puppy. It was the first time she saw his face without a severe expression, and Buffy was surprised to find he was rather handsome.
Not that he interested her.
She just understood how a few moments of normalcy, so precious in a world gone mad, could ease the worst of burdens. There were times when Buffy faced death . . . and Xander would chuck a candy bar at her. Or Willow would ask who was playing at the Bronze that night. It were those things, small and mundane, that could be a lifeline to sanity.
Buffy let out a pained sigh. Part of her wished she could have held the puppy. She had forced herself to watch the knights move the bodies. Big ones. Little ones. The old and the young. Families. Friends. Neighbors. Not because she was masochistic, but because she was terrified, terrified that she might recognize one of them.
"I curse you, and those closest to you, with Camelot!"
Buffy remembered the gleeful look in the demon's eyes when he cast the curse. Of course he hadn't sent her here alone. Misery loved company, after all. But maybe that was part of breaking the curse, too? Mortga had said that the curse would break when she learned to love it. Maybe that meant finding her friends, and the love she felt for them, would break the curse? And that she'd be so happy she would cry?
Plucking a piece of grass, Buffy tore it into little pieces. She glanced at the knights, still playing with the puppy, and felt like a kid in time-out. And one that had a looming appointment with the principal. Although from Barrod's tone, Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot, was far scarier than any principal.
Buffy threw the bits of grass down. She didn't have a choice about going to the castle, but it didn't matter. If Xander and Willow had been cursed into this world, that's where they would be. She just had to survive long enough to find them.
"Here," Barrod said, tossing a leather bag to the ground next to her. He'd approached her with the bag in one hand and leading a horse with the other.
Buffy reached for it. It was a lovely bag, much nicer than anything in her closet at home. The tan leather was soft and flexible beneath her fingers and a simple diamond pattern had been etched into the wide strap. It was the perfect bag for a casual-dressy date.
Buffy recognized all this without any enthusiasm. Pulling the bag onto her lap, she opened it. There was an odd assortment of things inside. She looked up at Barrod. "What's this?"
He was stroking the horse's heather-gray face. "Your things were lost in the fire," he said. "I found a few things you'll need."
Buffy pulled items from the bag. A wooden bowl, roughly carved. A spoon, also wood. A comb that looked to be made from bone. Some pieces of cloth in various sizes. And, finally, a wad of green material at the bottom. Buffy pulled it out so that it dangled between her raised hands. It was a dress, similar to her own, but in a deep green.
Barrod seemed to be a very practical man, but he looked slightly awkward when he saw her staring at the dress. "It looked to be about your size," he offered. "And it's clean. Found it on a line near the village. A bit smoky but . . . it's clean," he said again, as if that was her concern.
It wasn't. Well, not entirely. She was just wondering if the dress had belonged to the young mother. The green would have looked gorgeous with her red hair. Buffy let out a breath. Regardless of who it had belonged to, it was a thoughtful gesture. Barrod clearly had a soft spot despite his rough exterior. It brought her some measure of comfort despite the fact he was taking her to Uther Pendragon for questioning. What all that entailed, she'd been too afraid to imagine.
Buffy rearranged her face into a grateful smile. "You're right, Barrod. I do need these things. And thank you," she said. "The dress will fit fine, I'm sure."
The older knight looked relieved then nodded at the horse. "It's time to go, Buffy. The others are already waiting for us on the trail."
Buffy took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, gathering her thoughts. She hated everything that had happened here, but she was suddenly reluctant to leave. It was where she had arrived, and a tiny part of her wondered, if she waited long enough, a portal home might open for her. It felt like she was standing before a fork in the road.
But no. She already knew the curse would never be broken here. There was no love here, only death. "I'm ready," Buffy said, holding out her hand. "I suppose it's too late to tell you that I've never been on a horse before," she added once he'd pulled her to her feet. She hopped slightly, balancing herself by using his outstretched arm.
Barrod patted her hand before lifting her up onto the horse. There wasn't a backseat to his saddle, but blankets had been draped over the horse's rump. Buffy sat stiffly.
"Not surprising," he said, securing her bag to a leather strap. "Most women don't ride horses. Don't think it's proper." The tone of his voice revealed what he thought of that. "But it's easy enough. For starters"—he grinned at her—"just don't fall off."
Buffy snorted. "Gee, thanks. I'm feeling more comfortable already." She clutched his saddle then as the horse shifted beneath her. "Look at me," she joked weakly. "A professional already."
Barrod made an adjustment to a strap. "I knew a professional rider once. She was the best in all Camelot, too. Of course"—a bemused expression crossed his face—"she wasn't riding horses. And nothing about it was proper." He missed Buffy's shocked expression as he swung himself up into the saddle.
"Hold on," he told her before kicking the horse into a gallop.
Buffy held on . . . for five long days.
When Barrod had told her that the village lay on the nearest boarder of King Uther's kingdom, a mere three hundred leagues, she had assumed the trip would take hours, not days.
Buffy muttered something foul and, gripping Barrod's thick belt for leverage, shifted her weight. She no longer cared that her hands might be invading his personal space: her butt was killing her.
Barrod's sides shook against her hands. "It's not funny!" she complained, grimacing as she shifted again. "I'm running out of spots that don't hurt."
"You need to eat more," he shot back. "Get more padding."
"Perhaps if there was something other than a furry fricassee every night " she complained again. "Even when we stopped at that tavern yesterday, what did they have? A bunny broiler! Does everyone in this kingdom see a cute animal and say, 'hey, why don't we see what it tastes like?'"
Barrod grunted in amusement. "I wondered why you hoarded all the bread—it looked dry."
"It was," Buffy admitted grumpily, shifting again. "Can we take a break?"
"Do you have to piss?"
"Not exactly," she said, feeling her face turn pink. The men had been pretty decent about giving her privacy, but she'd first endured a long lesson from Kent about which leaves were good for bathroom necessities and which ones were not. This was followed by an outrageous recounting of Trumbell's encounter with poison oak.
That's what it was like with Camelot's finest. The days were long and hard but the nights were filled with wild tales and shared laughter. Despite missing her bed, Buffy found that she'd grown rather fond of the nights. Instead of sitting alone in a cemetery, she sat next to a crackling campfire where she'd been included into their easy camaraderie. It was . . . nice.
"If you don't have to piss," Barrod said. "Then we're not stopping. Not if we want to reach Camelot by tonight."
"Tonight?" Despite herself, Buffy felt a ripple of excitement. She'd never seen a real castle before. "Barrod, tell me about Camelot. What's it like?"
"The castle itself or . . . ?"
"Everything."
"Hmm. That's a tall order," he said, sounding thoughtful. He was quiet for awhile, then Buffy felt him inhale deeply. "Imagine a majestic fortress, perched atop a rolling hill, surrounded by lush forests and sparkling lakes. The castle itself is made from white stone. It shines like a beacon in sunlight and reflects the sweetness of the moon at night. Her many spires reach for the heavens, as if angels themselves might take up residence there, while her battlements boast of strength and safety to those in need. The very sight of it reminds us of the oaths we have taken, dedicating our lives to chivalry, honor, loyalty, justice, and mercy."
Barrod's voice had dropped to a reverent whisper and finally trailed off into silence. Buffy bit her lip and tried to picture such a place, one that inspired such devotion, but found that she couldn't. It was overwhelming to think she would see it soon.
Which raised another, more concerning thought. "Barrod," Buffy asked after awhile. "What is the king like? Is Uther Pendragon . . . is he a good king?"
"Define 'good.'" Barrod said, shifting in his saddle. "There is a strange fact about life, Buffy, that a peaceful place is often ruled by a man capable of very great violence. Uther Pendragon is a warrior king. It was his iron will and the blood on his blade that allowed Camelot to exist at all. A place where families could thrive, children could play without . . . without fear."
The hesitation in Barrod's voice had caught Buffy's attention. "Do you have children, Barrod?"
The knight did not answer for a long time. "No," he said finally, and after another pause, added, "Not anymore."
Buffy swallowed. She'd noticed that Barrod had a slight accent compared to the other men but hadn't given it much thought at the time. Now, though, she wondered what land he'd originally come from, and his reason for leaving it. She watched a hawk circle overhead once then wing over a hilltop and disappear from view.
It wasn't until the horses began to climb the hill that Barrod continued. "To answer your question, Buffy, yes. I think Uther Pendragon is a good king. And yet, after serving him for thirteen years, I'm still unsure if he's a good man."
Buffy's heart lurched against her ribcage, but before she could could say anything, Elrid shouted.
"Look! Tis Camelot!"
Their horses had crested the hill, and Barrod angled the horse so Buffy could see the castle. She gasped
Barrod's description had not done it justice. In the sun's dying light, the entire castle glittered and shone as if it were on fire . . .
And Buffy was being lead into its flames.
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