Enchanted Warrior. Sharon Ashwood

Gawain peered around the corner of the Dumpster, he could see crowds packed the sidewalks, half of them children. He was more than willing to fight, but not where innocents could be harmed. But as he reached for his sword, his hand closed on empty air. He swore viciously. Of course he wore no sword. Every instinct he possessed was centuries out of date.

      Angmar gave him a feral grin, drawing a gun from a holster beneath his jacket. “This time has different ways to kill, Sir Knight.”

      “Perhaps,” Gawain growled. “But there are laws in this age that will make this awkward. We cannot do honest battle here in the open, where all can see.”

      “So true.” With a graceful flick, Angmar drew a shape in the air that burst in a blaze of rainbow light. The same instant, everything froze, the sound of the fair cutting off as if shears had sliced it. Time itself had stopped. A juggler’s clubs hung in the air. Fluttering pennons stilled as if they were painted against the sky. Only Gawain and Angmar still moved. “This should make things easier.”

      Gawain moved to help Angmar to his feet. The faery shifted awkwardly with the bundle of shirt pressed against his stomach. Despite the shallow cut, it was soaking through. Gawain gave up the effort to move him. “How long can you hold the spell?”

      “Longer if you do the chasing.” Angmar pressed the Smith & Wesson into Gawain’s hand, holster and all. “Leave me here and go quickly.”

      Gawain buckled it on and turned to go, but the fae caught his sleeve. “One thing more.”

      Gawain turned. “What?”

      Angmar’s face went rigid, as if he pushed down an inner storm. “I said Merlin’s spell changed the fae. This assassin is no doubt one of us. Do not expect compassion or mercy or any feeling at all. My people are no longer capable of it.”

      For an instant, Gawain forgot everything but the faery’s words. “How did Merlin’s spell hurt you? Arthur would never say.”

      Angmar’s face twisted. “The magic tore away our souls. A few of us escaped—I was not at the battle when the spell was cast—but the rest of my people are damaged beyond recognition. The new queen has used that to turn us into monsters for her war. We need Camelot’s protection to keep us from becoming the stuff of nightmares.”

      Gawain stared as he remembered Angmar’s words: My people love beauty and justice. We are not indiscriminate murderers, and we should not be Mordred’s toy soldiers. Horror crept over him as the enormity of their plight became clear.

      The faery gave him a gentle push. “Now go, and do what you can to save us. All of us.”

      Numb with shock, Gawain ran along the strip of grass that wound behind the pavilions, searching the possible vantage points where the archer might be hiding. Concentration cleared his thoughts. The angle of the bolt had been low, suggesting the bowman had been on the ground rather than a rooftop. Moving cautiously, Gawain approached the most likely spot from behind.

      Gawain ducked beneath a sparrow that had been caught midflight by Angmar’s spell. It was eerie, passing through the still and silent fairground. The packed sidewalks were filled with living statues. A child had been blowing bubbles, and they hung in the air like iridescent jewels. Gawain was struck with wonder, but he had too much experience to let down his guard. The bowman might be frozen like the rest of the crowd, and then again he might not. With every motion, Gawain was making himself an obvious target.

      He was right to be cautious. He heard the snap of the crossbow’s mechanism just as a black-feathered bolt streaked his way. Split-second reflex made him dive to the side. He rolled to his feet in one smooth motion and began sprinting in the direction from which the arrow had come. It was a dangerous move, but he counted on the fact that crossbows were slow to load.

      Gawain should have known in this day and age an assassin would also carry a gun. He was still weaving through a family frozen in place when he heard the shot, loud as a thunderclap in the silence.

      The assassin had fired straight into the crowd. All Gawain could do was cover the child beside him and let the bullet pierce his own flesh. It ripped along his arm like a savage claw, tearing through cloth and skin. He hit the ground, the child beneath him. Gawain scrambled to his feet, bringing up his own weapon just as he saw a dark-clad figure slip away.

      The enemy was using the crowd as cover. Cursing, Gawain shouldered through the fairgoers. Blood slid between Gawain’s fingers as fiery pain washed his vision with a red haze. “Hold, coward!”

      The figure’s dark head bobbed through the frozen tableau. Gawain followed him down a long alley of merchants—bakers, leatherworkers, calligraphers, and an armorer’s booth. As he passed the armorer, Gawain palmed a blade as he went by and holstered Angmar’s gun. He needed his injured right arm to shoot straight, but he’d trained since boyhood to use a blade with either hand.

      He’d barely gone another dozen yards before he realized they were heading in a circle. The place where Gawain had left Angmar was just ahead. He heard a whisper of movement from the left and another bolt hissed past his ear, missing by a fraction. Gawain smiled, a brief, deadly flash of teeth. The shot had given the enemy’s position away. In a fluid motion, Gawain threw the knife. He dove forward, using the side of a hut for cover.

      A sharp cry said Gawain had thrown true, but it was followed by the sound of running feet. Gawain sprang into motion again, aiming for the Dumpster where Angmar was hiding. He heard the curses and scrapes of a struggle. A moment later, Gawain glimpsed two figures locked in combat.

      He pounced, knocking the attacker backward against the side of the overstuffed Dumpster with a dull thud. An avalanche of garbage slid down around them, sending up a noxious stench. Gawain drew the gun and held it to the enemy’s throat. Then he froze.

      His adversary’s lips drew back, showing sharp canines. “Hello, cousin.”

      “Mordred.” Gawain snarled the name like a curse. Loathing welled up at the sight of his kinsman’s pale, narrow face. Lank black hair straggled across a broad forehead, framing pale gray eyes that reminded Gawain of dirty ice. With some disappointment, Gawain realized his knife had only grazed his cousin’s cheek.

      “It’s been too long,” Mordred purred. “It was your brother’s execution, wasn’t it? Poor old Agravaine.”

      “Be silent,” Gawain said between clenched teeth, but he still couldn’t stop the wave of regret and fury. He’d found what Agravaine’s sword had left of their mother.

      “Can’t blame old Aggy. He was just avenging your father. Mom poisons Dad—what’s a son to do?” Mordred said with a cruel smile. “Trust me, I know about family squabbles.”

      Rage swirled through Gawain’s brain like powerful whisky. Blowing Mordred’s skull apart would be far too quick. Gawain curled his free hand around the other man’s throat. “You were Agravaine’s closest companion. I blame you for his downfall. The serpent in Eden could have taken lessons from your slithering tongue.”

      Mordred began to gasp, his face turning red, but the time-stopping charm ran out. With an almost physical force, the cacophony of the fair slammed against Gawain’s ears as they were plunged back into a sea of motion. Mordred used the distraction to break free and stumble backward to where Angmar was sprawled facedown in the dirt, apparently unconscious.

      Gawain crouched, weapon in hand. Mordred mirrored his stance, eyes calculating. Now that Angmar’s spell had broken, they had only moments before someone discovered their fight. Gawain had to act now, but public murder would put an end to his freedom.

      He hesitated an instant too long. Mordred dropped to his knees beside Angmar, grabbed a fistful of the fallen faery’s hair and whispered a single word of power. The air shimmered as if heat were pouring over them in waves—except it was cold conjured by Mordred’s magic. Ice flowed like water across the ground, making Gawain slip and fall to one knee. Mordred gestured, and a blast of blinding cold shocked him, stealing the strength from his limbs. Frost suddenly coated Gawain’s sleeves, and