Chapter One: Artorius Castus

Artorius Castus and his knights sat around a circular, roughly-hewn wood table in a dimly-lit corner of the largest tavern east of Hadrian's Wall. A candle, sat in the melted wax of its predecessors, flickered in the centre of the table, throwing shattered shadows against the wall. Artorius watched as a trailing swirl of smoke curled from its tip and drew patterns in the air. He sent a small breath of air toward it and watched the thin grey substance twist and expand eerily, floating on until it disappeared into the shadows.

'Arthur?' An apprehensive voice broke through Arthur's reverie. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and looked to see who had spoken. Gareth was, at a mere 17, by far the youngest of Arthur's knights and definitely the most ignorant and naïve when it came to women. Looking into the boy's wide blue eyes, Arthur felt a fatherly desire to protect him from the world. He is not old enough,Arthur thought, to die.

'Yes, Gareth?'

'You look troubled, my lord. Is it anything we -' the knight was halted by a dismissive wave from Arthur's hand. Arthur usually treated all his knights on the same level as himself, but when he felt they were encroaching into his personal life, he made it very clear how the hierarchy worked. Gareth looked frightened for a moment, then turned back to his tankard of mild ale. He looked up furtively at his friends to see if any had noticed the exchange. Although he would never admit it to his brother or the other knights, he was absolutely terrified of their leader, and always had been.

Lancelot was staring determinedly at the candle, as if he had just been looking elsewhere and didn't want it known. He seemed absorbed with his thoughts, not paying much attention to Bors and Dagonet's sexist joking. The two largest knights swapped jokes and roared loudly in turn, attracting stranger's glares and comments. Galahad and Gawain, a plate of meat stew long-since cooled between them, discussed past conquests and disappointments with women. Gawain felt eyes on him, and looked up. He saw his brother and smiled, turning back to Galahad's mutterings. Gareth shifted his gaze to the far corner of the table, where Tristan sat silently, his gold-brown eyes smouldering in the light of his pipe. The dark blue tattoos on Tristan's cheeks, stark against the pale skin, singled him out as a warrior from the Hyrci tribe of Sarmation warriors. He absentmindedly fed slivers of meat to his hawk which clung to his arm with long talons. The hawk had no name; Tristan had been quite clear on that. He felt that to name an animal was to tame it.

Tristan, like Gawain felt eyes on him and looked up to meet Gareth's gaze. But he did not smile in friendship. Instead, he kicked back his chair and stalked from the table, not looking back. A sudden silence swelled between the knights as they all looked, startled, at Tristans' receding back.

'I think,' Arthur murmured, 'that is our queue to leave.' The Roman General kicked back his chair and strode past the bar, throwing a few silver coins onto the counter. The barmaid nodded her thanks and disappeared into the back. Arthur saw, out of the corner of his eye, five men wearing hooded cloaks muttering quietly between themselves. They kept shooting surreptitious glowers toward him and the knights still seated back at their table. Could be trouble,Arthur thought.

'Bors!' he called. One by one, the rest of the knights stood too, and followed their leader outside into the cold twilight. Gawain heard a screech, and looked up just in time to see Tristan's hawk flying away into the dark. He shook his head, worried for his friend.

'Come!' Arthur yelled. 'If we leave now we can reach the wall by dawn.' He climbed into the saddle of his grey mare, Denali, and kicked his heels in to her belly. She reared and he grabbed her reins, pulling her into submission, and forced her into a gallop. Bors and Dagonet mounted their own horses, followed quickly by Gareth and Galahad. Gawain clambered onto his brown stallion, and Lancelot waved them on. The five of them cantered away, following their leader's tracks, leaving Lancelot stroking his mare's neck.

'They've gone, Tristan. You can come out,' Lancelot said softly. For a moment, nothing changed, and the wind was the only sound.

'They think the worst of me, I'm afraid,' Tristan shook his head as he appeared from within the stable, his long braids brushing his shoulders and his eyes glinting in the muted light.

'Just like me, they are worried for you. You've been so detached since we escaped those Woads in the forest. Arthur knows something happened there. He's been troubling himself over it ever since. I wish you would tell him, and put him out of his-' Tristan cut him off, placing his hand over his mouth. He drew his sword – a long, curved blade with a double-handled hilt – and indicated that Lancelot should too. The scraping of a weapon being drawn from its scabbard gave only a seconds warning to the two men. Lancelot ducked just in time to avoid being beheaded by a calculated swing of a short sword, and drew his two blades from his cross-scabbards on his back, thrusting one into the nearing darkness.

A short grunt and the sound of a body hitting the ground told him the attacker was dead. Hearing the clash of blades, he turned back to Tristan. The other knight was fighting a small, cloaked man using two short assassins' daggers. Lancelot plunged his sword into the man's shoulder, and he fell to the floor, bleeding copiously. Tristan nodded his thanks and looked around, his gold eyes piercing the darkness.

Suddenly, three cloaked men appeared from the shadows in triangle formation. They threw off their cloaks and all drew long swords, advancing on the two knights.

'Dammit,' Lancelot swore under his breath. He crouched slightly, readying his body for a fight. Tristan did the same, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. The leader of the men flourished his sword, and sliced at Tristan, whose arms shook as he absorbed the strike with his own blade. Lancelot charged at the other two men, disarming one with a quick slash to his upper arm, and engaging the other with a fast, double-sword attack. He had the upper hand, and quickly got under his opponent's outstretched arm and dealt him a fatal blow to the neck. Lancelot turned back to his friend, only to see that Tristan was out of his depth. The man he was fighting was clearly a skilled swordsman, and didn't attack, but only parried, waiting for a chance to slip under Tristan's arm and kill him. Lancelot could only watch as his friend was pushed backwards and downwards, struggling to beat back his attacker.

Tristan's arm was bleeding heavily, and the blood caused his hands to slip on the blade and he dropped it, becoming unarmed and undefended in one second. As the assassin brought back his blade to strike, Lancelot made his move, driving his blade into the mans stomach and up, piercing his lung.

The assassin dropped to the floor, writhing in pain, blood bubbling from his mouth. Lancelot lifted up his sword and brought it down on the man's chest, ending his agony. Tristan, breathing heavily, pulled himself up to a standing position.

'What…the Hell…was that?'he choked, bending over to try and regain his breath. Lancelot picked up Tristans blade from the ground and handed it back to him. 'Thanks…' Tristan breathed, sliding it back into his scabbard.

'No idea,' said Lancelot thoughtfully, bending down to view one of the bodies. He flicked back the bloodied cloak to reveal the dead mans pale skin. Over his chest and up his throat were the swirling blue patterns that identified him as Woad.

'We must have made some enemies at the last Woad attack. But I thought we killed enough of them so they wouldn't come looking for revenge.' Lancelot sighed and looked up at Tristan, who was binding his arm with a length of black cloth ripped from his tunic. Lancelot snorted. 'Levin is going to have your head for that,' he smiled, indicating the torn tunic.

'Let's catch up with the others,' Tristan said gruffly. 'Maybe they'll be wondering where we are.' Lancelot nodded his consent and they both mounted their horses, digging in their heels; the horses neighed and galloped down the dirt track, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

So… what did you think? Please review, even if it's only a few words. I'd really appreciate it.