"There was no Lancelot, fool."
For a moment Charles thought that he'd said those words, he'd thought them so hard. But the voice was a woman's.
Dana.
Arthur jerked the sword free and stumbled back until he regained his feet. As soon as the steel left his body, the coldness dissipated. Charles put a hand to his belly to staunch the bleeding. It hadn't gone all the way through-Arthur had wanted him to suffer-so if he could keep from bleeding to death, Brother Wolf could heal them. The wound was small enough to heal fast.
Sharp steel, Brother Wolf told him, cuts swiftest, hurts least, heals soonest.
Charles gave the pack magic a little tug and received a bounty in return. He wasn't the Alpha, but his father could grant him help if he chose. And Bran was a generous leader. Pain faded. No need to advertise that he was not dying, though. Not yet. He stayed collapsed, out of the way. Don't pay attention to me, I'm not a threat. Charles could become less noticeable if he had to, though not as well as Bran-his da had the technique perfected. It is easier to go unnoticed, Bran liked to say, when everyone is focused on something else.
"Give me the sword," she said.
"She is my sword," Arthur said, taking a tighter grip and pulling the point up into a guard position. "Mine from the first. She came to my hand from yours-and when I died, it was not I who gave her back."
Dana moved into Charles's view. She'd dropped the glamour-or adopted a new one. It wasn't so much that she changed anything, but she had become more. And Anna was right, she was riveting. Good. Keep Arthur's attention.
Charles moved his hand, and when blood didn't pour out, moved his shirt and looked at the scab. Too fresh to move yet, but soon.
"You stole it," Dana said, her voice low and fierce. "It is not yours. Was never yours. The King may indeed come again-it was foretold so. But that is not you. Has never been you. You are not Arthur."
"You are not meant to know me," Arthur told her. "And we are quit of our bargain. Chastel didn't kill Charles, as you promised. And when Charles defeated the Frenchman-you were unable to find another way to kill him, to kill Charles. You failed. I owe you nothing."
She lifted her hand. "Caladbog. Caledfwych. Excalibur. I have delivered it to the hands of great men, fighters, heroes all. Your hands profane it. A coward who hires his deaths and kills those better, smarter, stronger than he."
"You can't take it from me," Arthur said. "Not unless you kill Charles. And you cannot harm me as long as Charles still lives. I know how fae bargains work."
I wouldn't be so confident if I were you, Arthur, thought Charles. I thought my father had worked out a bargain with her-and look what happened to us. Excalibur meant more to her than her word, and it still does.
"Fine," she said, and flung out a hand.
And Charles had the very odd experience of seeing himself fall all the way to the floor while he sat and watched. Which was better than the vision he had briefly had of himself falling dead.
"You can't kill like that," said Arthur, his voice breaking with sudden fear. He raised the sword between them, as if the blade could hold off fae magic-which, if it were Excalibur, and that appeared to be nearly certain-it might possibly do.
Arthur was right, thought Charles, as he got to his feet. Dana couldn't kill like that-but she could fling illusions of death all day long. His wound was still sore, but unlikely to open up and let him bleed to death when he moved.
"Can I not?" Dana asked. "What do you know of the fae? Not as much as you believe, I think. If the bargain is complete, give me the sword."
While she kept Arthur occupied, Charles pad-footed over to the display case. The sword left there was not Excalibur, but it was a fine sword. A replica, he thought, created a long time ago to protect the original. He tore the box open and took the sword to use it for the purpose for which it had been forged.
Arthur spun to see what the noise was and, from his face, he could now see Charles-either the noise had broken the illusions, or Dana had let them drop.
"Arthur Madden," Charles said formally. "For murder of innocents on the Marrok's territory, you have been found guilty and condemned to death."
He didn't have to say anything more because Arthur raised the sword and came for him.
Arthur might have had years of martial arts behind him-but Charles had been trained by his father, a man who had actually used a sword like this to stay alive. Charles was stronger and faster, and Arthur was afraid of him.
All that said, Charles had never actually used a sword in real combat before.
Remember, the memory of his da's voice echoed in his ears, wolves are not human. If you engage another wolf and hit his blade full strength, you're going to destroy your sword. If you need to preserve your weapon, turn blows away and strike body, not metal.
His brother's voice chimed in helpfully, Avoidance is better than a block-less risky.
So Charles slipped away from the first strike Arthur aimed at him. He kept both feet on the floor-ghosting over the hardwood. Rat-stepping allowed him to strike with better balance and to shift direction faster.
The room was small. The swords were short. It meant there was little chance to disengage, and fighting was done close range.
"You're dead," Arthur said. "I killed you."
"You stabbed me with steel and gloated overly much," Charles murmured, keeping his mind on saving his sword. Sliding blocks, moving aside, turning, letting Arthur do the work for the moment. It visibly unnerved the British wolf when he didn't hit anything, so Charles concentrated on not being there when Arthur's sword snaked out.