PROLOGUE

The Eastern wind whipped at Freya's face, hitting her cheeks with an invisible calloused hand. In the distance, the dying shrieks of men hung in the air, only to be eclipsed by the echoing war drums. It was not long before that was silenced too, and she supposed those beating the drums were all dead or soon to be. Looking towards Hadrian's Wall, she couldn't possibly imagine what the bloodshed behind it looked like. Part of her longed to venture out beyond the gate, but her father had forbidden her from even the thought of it. Instead, Freya was stuck in the blacksmith's shop, helping him forge more weapons, despite that everyone who was willing to fight had already headed to Badon Hill. Though she wouldn't dare say it out loud, she secretly thought that her father was only busying himself to distract him from the fear of the Saxons getting past the wall. Manning the only blacksmith shop in the village, her father was too occupied creating swords and shields for the battle to evacuate like everyone else. Freya and the rest of her family stayed with him.

It was only noon when the sound of clashing metal from beyond the wall began to disperse. Freya noticed it almost immediately, and looked towards her father for his reaction. He was no longer bent over the crucible, but was gazing at the large wooden doors standing not too far from the shop. It was then she realized, that it might not be Britons walking through those doors next, but Saxons, ready to sack and burn the village. All the Romans guarding the doors previously had went out to the battle, or deserted the post and left with the others, so that no one was there to open the gate. Without hesitating, Freya sprinted to the ladder leaning against the wall, ignoring the faint calls of her father. The scant ladder was much more unstable looking up close, and her curiosity to see what lurked behind the mass of stone dissipated into hesitancy. Taking a breath, she placed her foot on the first rung. Step-by-step, Freya rised up, pausing whenever the ladder wobbled, and continuing once it steadied again. The entire way, she refused to look down, fearing that if she did she might faint and fall to her death. Finally reaching the top, Freya pulled herself onto the stone ledge, landing on her stomach.

Clumsily, the girl stood up onto her feet. From here, the smell of the dying fires was much more ardent. Freya remembered the early morning, when villagers dropped buckets of tar into dug-out trenches; Rhoslyn had helped with that. Now she peered out to what was left from the battle, only to feel bile rise in her throat.

Scattered all over the once green hill were unmoving corpses. She could not tell if it were hundreds or thousands, just that they were everywhere. Some were disfigured, others were decapitated with their heads rolling nearby. Many had swords and daggers still wedged in them. All had wide open eyes, staring ahead at nothing. It took everything for Freya to not look away, but she recalled the reason she climbed to the top, in the first place. Scanning for those still standing, her heart beat faster when she recognized the attire on them. A few were villagers, the others, from the Roman army. No Saxons. In the corner of her eye, Freya observed the Sarmatian knights grouping together, two of the bodies limp. Though they had been posted at the wall for years, she did not know much about them, only that they were led by Roman Commander Artorius Castus, and that half of the bastard children in the village belonged to Bors. Occasionally, the knights would come by for new weapons or armor, but Freya would always disappear from the shop by then, too afraid to come face-to-face with them.

Now, they no longer held intimidating stances with threatening expressions, but looked vulnerable among each other, cradling the bodies of their fallen brothers. It was then when Arthur, already crouched down before who Freya believed to be Lancelot, put his ear against the latter's chest. Abruptly, Arthur picked up the knight in his arms and started racing to the gate.

Freya's father had finally made it to the wall, his bad leg making it harder for him to run. She instantly felt guilty for running off, but knew they had to get the doors open soon.

"Open the gate! Father, we need to open the gate!"

Freya started down the ladder, but it shook violently, making her grasp for the ledge of the stone wall. Her father grabbed the stokes and stabilized it, allowing her to climb down.

"What of the Saxons? Won't they get in, too?"

"They're dead! They've all been killed! But we need to open the gate so Arthur can get in!"

Some of the villagers who had stayed had heard her, and ran to the rope to pull the gate up. By the time Freya got to the ground, Arthur, with one arm around Lancelot and the other on the reins, was able to ride through the hole in the wall. He immediately headed for the healer's building, not stopping to listen to the villagers congratulates, but Freya was still able to catch a glimpse at the arrow tightly lodged into the motionless knight's chest. Looking at it alone, made her wince and she turned away only to see Guinevere come through the open gate on horseback, as well. The woman, decked out in woad blue and leather straps for clothes, tailed Arthur closely behind.

At that moment, Freya was feeling a surge of jealousy for Rhoslyn, who was training in medicine and would no doubt get to find out what was happening. She considered volunteering to help the healers tend to the wounded, but supposed that they would just send her out to get herbs, or worse, to the hill to collect those injured into the cart. Looking out at the carts wheeling in right now, Freya cringed at the thought, seeing them carry piles of bodies, some barely breathing, others not at all. She supposed she could ask Rhoslyn about it later for dinner, or maybe even come visit in person. For now, she would go collect some food and water for those who did come through that gate in one-piece.

Hi there! I hope you're enjoying the story- I know there are likely to be a bunch of historical inaccuracies, but I'm a hopeless romantic, not a historian. I'm trying to keep this story as canon as possible, but there might occasionally be twists from the movie.

Kay