Page 38 of Enchanted Warrior

“Stay back,” Gawain warned, but even as he said it a tendril wound around Beaumains’s arm, whipping twice around for a tight hold and dragging the young knight closer to the wall. Gawain severed the root with a two-handed swipe of his blade. Beaumains sprang free, and every root in the passage recoiled, as if sucked back into the dirt.

“Binding trees!” Beaumains said it like a curse. “We’re in a fae dungeon.”

“Stay away from the walls,” Gawain ordered. “As long as they can’t reach you, it’s safe enough.”

Tamsin had watched and listened with wide, watchful eyes. “If Mordred has linked the house with a dungeon, then this must be where he’s holding your friend.”

Gawain had already reached the same conclusion. “Probably, so we might as well start looking for Angmar.”

Staying well away from the grasping roots, they continued down the tunnel, Gawain in the lead and Beaumains covering the rear. Gawain was almost painfully conscious of Tamsin moving behind him. She was strong, but the quick pace of her breathing said she was afraid. That was good—that meant she’d be careful.

Everything went well for a few minutes. The foul stench in the air grew thicker and Gawain noticed the cell-like caves on either side of the corridor began to contain remains of former occupants. Mostly these were bones, but in a few he noticed the roots thrust into desiccated husks, fine shoots sucking up every last drop of nourishment.

And then he heard a sound he had hoped to forget forever. It was a sticky sound, almost a squish, but on an enormous scale, as if a thousand sucking mouths were being torn away from their prey. Despite himself, Gawain stopped short, causing Tamsin to bump into his back.

“What is it?” she asked.

“There is a beast guarding this place.” He turned to glimpse his brother’s pale face. Beaumains recognized the sound, too. It was plain from the horror in his eyes. “Merlin cast a spell to banish demons from the human realms, but this is fae territory. Some of the demons’ pets survived.”

“Pets?” Tamsin repeated. From her expression, this was something she did not want to believe. “Demons have pets?”

Beaumains grimaced. “More like scavengers looking for scraps the demons leave behind. The prisoners in this place must be protected by magic, or they would all have been supper by now.”

The sound grew louder, and so did a stench that combined rot and the odor of a latrine. “Stay behind me,” Gawain ordered, taking a firmer grip on his sword and stepping into a wider place where the tunnel turned.

There was no name for the beast he saw. The gray worm-like body was covered with mucous that glistened in the faint phosphorescence of the underground. The head was an eyeless nub, identifiable only by a bony fanlike crest that rose along its neck. It would have been no more than an overgrown slug except for the round, questing mouth filled with needle-fine teeth. Gawain knew once it had latched onto living flesh, it would suck the blood out of a victim through skin, bone and clothing. Nothing short of death would stop its destruction.

The worm stopped, the head lifting to taste the air. Gawain could see the mouth working, the round hole gulping air. He caught a flash of those deadly teeth and went cold. Somewhere down the corridor, closer to the beast, a voice wailed in terrified despair. They had found the prisoners.

Beaumains was at his side, sword in hand. “What I wouldn’t give for a nice big spear about now.”

“Spears just pass through the stinking things,” Gawain replied. “It’s like trying to kill a pudding. The only vital organs are beneath the crest. Strike there.”

“I suppose you’ve battled one before?”

Gawain grunted. “Back in the Orkneys. The things seem to like northern climates.”

“You’ve fought everything,” Beaumains said resentfully, and bolted toward the worm, sword raised.

Gawain bellowed in protest. A frontal attack was pure folly. The worm reared back as far as the tunnel roof would permit and struck like a snake. Skidding to a halt beneath its head, Beaumains thrust upward, driving toward the underside of the bony crest protecting the tiny brain. The brave gamble should have worked.

It didn’t. The worm struck, needle-fine teeth piercing between the links of chain mail covering his brother’s chest. Fingers convulsing around the hilt of his sword, Beaumains was lifted into the air as lightly as a leaf. Tamsin gasped in horror at the same moment Gawain charged, cursing his youngest sibling for a fool. Beaumains roared with pain, trying to hack with his sword but unable to do more than flail.

The worm was the size of a tree trunk, far too large to neatly slice it in two. With grim purpose, Gawain settled for chopping like a woodcutter. It was a risky move, but the thing only had one mouth, and at the moment it was full of his brother. Fury drove the blade deep. The skin split, releasing gelatinous goo that stank like a plague pit. The worm shuddered, flinging its head from side to side—and Beaumains along with it. Gawain hacked again, using the blade like a lever to hitch himself atop the worm. The thing bucked, arching the spiny crest in a gesture of self-defense, but Gawain clung on. He raised the sword and drove it deep into the head, leaning with all his weight until it was buried to the hilt.

The worm collapsed into a stinking heap. The sucking mouth let go, and Beaumains fell, landing with a bounce. Gawain braced his knees on either side of the sword hilt and pulled it free with a slurping noise that made his flesh creep.

By the time Gawain had freed himself from the worm, Tamsin was evaluating his brother’s injuries. “I think the chain mail stopped it from killing him, but there are dozens of puncture wounds. I dusted them with heal-all to stop the bleeding, but they have to be cleaned.”

“We need to get him home,” Gawain said with forced calm. Beaumains was conscious, though clearly in pain. Gawain swore a dark curse beneath his breath. He had little idea where they were, much less how to get his brother to safety.

Tamsin looked up at him, her dark eyes wide but her mouth set in a determined line. “Tell me what to do.”

“Can he walk?”

“Yes.” Beaumains struggled, his boots scraping the floor. Gawain heaved him to his feet and helped him sheathe his sword. The younger knight slumped, one hand on Gawain’s shoulder, panting against the pain. “I’m fine. No bones broken. It’s just a flesh wound.”

Gawain schooled his face, hating what he was asking Beaumains to endure—but the only alternative was to move on. He hitched a shoulder under his brother’s arm and chose a corridor that was absent of the reeking carcass of a giant worm. They forged ahead, Beaumains biting back cries of discomfort until they were no more than a soft hiss.

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