It started out like any other mission. Track down some deserters who'd fled the garrison, heading east. Normally, such a mission would be below the Sarmatian knights, but they'd been without an outlet for too long now and Arthur had decided they needed the exercise to stop them from gambling and drinking their lives away.
They packed light and set out at dawn. Only Arthur and Lancelot, as the captain and second-in-command, were wearing any real armor; the rest preferred to travel light when they could. They carried limited supplies and only their favorite weapons, since they didn't expect much resistance from a band of deserters. Arthur rode in the lead, flanked by Lancelot. Tristan had ridden ahead to check the path for any hidden dangers. The rest of the knights followed behind, laughing and joking, happy to be out of the garrison at last.
At the back of the group one man rode alone. Atticus was a Roman soldier who'd been sent with the knights to identify the deserters should they try to hide in a village or disguise themselves. The knights ignored him completely, and he was obviously very uncomfortable. His armor and weapons were exceptionally shiny and clean and it was clear he'd never seen any real action.
"Why'd we have to bring that one along again?" Lancelot asked. "Couldn't Jols have come instead? He'd be better company."
"We have our orders, Lance," Arthur replied, but it was clear he didn't much care for the inexperienced soldier either. He knew that the boy could be a liability in a fight, and he'd hate to see one of his men get injured protecting him. He'd thought about assigning one man to him but feared that would breed resentment.
Lancelot read the unspoken concern in his captain's eyes, and blowing his curly black hair out of his eyes said grudgingly, "I'll keep an eye on him. Someone will have to." Arthur shot him a grateful glance, pleased that his best fighter would be watching over the lad.
They rode through the day, setting a brisk pace, until finally the sun began to drop behind the trees.
"Are we going to stop for the night or just keep riding 'til our balls fall off?" Bors called up eventually.
"What's the matter, Bors?" Lancelot called back. "Worried Vanora won't want you if that happens? Don't fret; I'll keep her company."
Gawain guffawed as Bors opened his mouth to shout abuse back at Lancelot, but Arthur cut him off. "We'll camp here for the night," he said, gesturing to the clearing they'd just entered. The knights set about preparing the camp, Bors muttering insults at Lancelot under his breath. Atticus was set on dinner duty, since all of the knights hated to cook. Luckily, the lad wasn't terrible. Tristan rode up just as the stew was being served.
"Where've you been?" Gawain called as Tristan dismounted. "Find anything to kill?"
Tristan's expression implied no. "Not much ahead. Rode to the coast. Tracks. Nothing definite. Saw some caves; hard to reach. Good place for an ambush. Might be there."
"Excellent work," Arthur said warmly. "Have some food. We'll head there in the morning."
The rest of the evening was spent drinking and joking. The highlight of the night was Bors attempting to tip Lancelot backwards off the log he was sitting on and accidentally knocking Arthur, Dag, and himself nearly into the fire in the process. Lancelot, of course, had jumped up before the log rolled and simply stood there laughing.
As the men prepared to go to sleep, Arthur stood to assign guard duty. "Galahad and Gawain will take the first watch, then Bors and Dagonet, then Tristan and Atticus," he ordered, following the usual pairs, assigning the boy to the only remaining knight. The young soldier glanced apprehensively at Tristan, who was feeding his eagle meat off his knife. "Lancelot and I will take the final watch. It doesn't hurt to be careful, even south of the Wall."
The night passed without event, unless one counted Tristran terrifying poor Atticus half to death by seeming to disappear at the start of their watch and reappear out of thin air just before the end in a tree on the edge of camp. Arthur rose just before dawn to wake Lancelot for the final shift, Atticus stumbling off to get some sleep.
A wave of affection washed through Arthur as he glanced around the fire at his friends' sleeping forms. Bors was sprawled near the fire, snoring loudly. Dagonet lay nearby, his head pillowed on his saddle. Gawain and Galahad were sleeping so close together they were nearly touching, a habit they'd picked up over the years. Both young knights were prone to nightmares; if one was tormented by bad dreams the other would feel them thrashing about and wake up. Atticus was already curled up in a ball on the opposite side of the fire, looking even more defenseless than usual as he drifted off to sleep. Arthur couldn't see Tristan from where he sat, but he assumed he was sleeping either in a tree or under a bush. Tristan hated to sleep in the open. Lancelot was sleeping on his right side, his back to Arthur, facing the forest. Looking around once more, Arthur shook off the feeling of foreboding he always got before leading his men into battle and moved to wake Lancelot.
When Arthur woke Lancelot for the last watch, the sky was already beginning to lighten. Lancelot rose, stretching, before looking at the lightening sky pointedly. "Well, you timed this well," he said with a grin. "There can't be more than an hour left before sunrise. That makes this the shortest watch, correct?"
Arthur smiled back at him but didn't admit to anything. They sat in companionable silence as their friends slept on. After a while, Arthur noticed that his friend was staring blankly into the distance. Nudging him with an elbow, he asked quietly, "Is something bothering you?"
Lancelot jumped and looked around guiltily. "Sorry… I was just caught up in my thoughts. There was this lovely wench and…" He trailed off as Arthur raised an eyebrow. "All right, all right. I was just thinking about those deserters."
"What about them?" Arthur asked, not understanding.
"How I almost wish… oh, I wish we didn't have to kill them!" Lancelot confessed, looking away. Seeing Arthur's confused expression, he continued, "I just understand where they're coming from. There are days when I'd give anything to leave this island and never come back. To just go home."
Arthur felt like a knife had been driven between his ribs. He always felt that when one of his men spoke of their home, but it was worse to hear it from Lancelot, whose desire to go home seemed stronger than the rest. He loved all his knights more dearly than brothers, and it pained him to know that he was keeping them here against their will. Yes, he was under orders, but that didn't help with the guilt. So many times he'd prayed to God to get his men through safely, but over the years they'd lost more and more until only a handful were left. They'd be discharged in less than two years, but Arthur felt as if the blood of every fallen brother was forever on his hands. And a lot can go wrong in two years, a voice whispered in the dark part of his mind.
Lancelot went on, unaware of Arthur's reaction. "The desire to run isn't so bad now, not with our discharge fast approaching, but until I was 15, before you became our commander… those were the worst years of my life."
A memory of a teenage boy tied to a stake, blood pooling at his feet from the gashes on his back, flashed though Arthur's mind, and he winced. It wasn't often that Lancelot spoke so plainly, and Arthur wondered why he was doing so now. Before he could say anything further, he heard Bors' snoring cut off as he sat up and stretched. He watched as Gawain rolled over, one hand smacking against Galahad's shoulder, causing the latter to sit up and yawn hugely. Beside him, Lancelot stood and aimed a gentle kick at Dagonet's slumbering form before leaving to find and wake Tristan. Arthur sighed, realizing the conversation was over, and moved to help Atticus with breakfast.
The knights ate quickly and broke camp, eager to be back on the road. By midday they'd reached the edge of the woods, coming to the shore where Tristan had stopped the day before. A ways down the coast they could see the caves he'd described, only accessible by following a thin path along a perilously narrow cliff edge. Beside him, Lancelot was looking back into the forest, frowning, his black horse dancing nervously beneath him.
"Well, you look cheerful," Gawain commented, riding up. "Is this your happy face?"
The others laughed but Lancelot continued to look grim. "I don't like this place," he murmured to Arthur. "Something feels wrong. We should proceed carefully."
"If anything was wrong, Tristan would have told us last night," he said, surprised at his friend's reluctance.
"Hmmm," was Lancelot's only response.
"There's a fort beyond those hills," Tristan called to them, trotting up. "Small. Good for supplies."
"Good. We should set up a camp here to use as a base. We'll need to check those caves and the forest around here as well. Who here is not afraid of heights?" Arthur asked, looking around. Galahad, Dagonet, and surprisingly, young Atticus stepped forward. "Right. Lancelot will lead you to search the caves. If you find the deserters, kill them; there's no use trying to bring prisoners down the path. The rest will come with me to begin scouting the forest. We'll leave the horses at camp. Meet back here at dusk."
As the other knights began to break out the supplies, Lancelot walked over to stand beside Arthur. "I'm not sure it's a good idea to split up," he said quietly. "There is something wrong here. These deserters should have left a trail a child could follow, but there's no sign of them. And why go to the caves? There's no way out!" He paused before continuing more quietly, "I don't think we should separate. Why not wait until morning and search the forest together?"
Arthur didn't understand what was going through the mind of his second. "We'll accomplish more by splitting up. Everyone here can handle themselves, and we'll take all necessary precautions," he said, wondering why his friend seemed so unsettled.
"Arthur, please, trust me on this. Something is not right," Lancelot insisted. The others were nearly ready now and Arthur saw Tristan watching him in his peripheral vision. This was getting ridiculous. He had no idea what had gotten in to Lancelot, but they were wasting time. "Arthur…" Lancelot began again. Arthur didn't know why his friend was questioning his orders but this needed to be stopped immediately before the others noticed.
"I have made my decision, Lancelot," he snapped, more loudly than was necessary. He saw Galahad and Gawain glance up at him quickly before looking away, pretending to be busy, while Atticus stared in open surprise. The boy's attention made him feel self-conscious and he turned away, irritated.
Lancelot reached out a hand to grab his arm, clearly meaning to argue further, but Arthur was done discussing this. He felt foolish, having his orders questioned in front of a young Roman soldier who would surely carry the story back to his garrison and its commander. "This conversation is over, Lancelot! I have given you your orders."
Lancelot opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur cut him off, feeling anger bubbling in his chest. "Enough! You will do as I command. To disobey is insubordination. You will follow my orders now or so help me I'll…" he trailed off weakly as he suddenly registered the words coming out of his mouth. He hadn't just said that, had he? Insubordination? No, no, no, no, no. But the look on Lancelot's face said it was too late to take it back, told him he'd gone too far, that he'd recalled memories better left forgotten.
The image of a boy tied to a stake flashed through his mind again. Lancelot had been punished frequently for his defiance and his sharp tongue when he was younger, and Arthur knew his back still bore the scars of repeated whippings. Arthur had never ordered one of his men lashed, and he knew that set him apart in the others' eyes, in Lancelot's eyes. But now he'd crossed the line, threatened his closest friend with that most hated punishment. Lancelot's eyes had gone cold with rage, and without another word he turned away. Arthur could sense the other knights staring at him; he didn't need to look at them to feel the blame in their expressions.
"Lance…" he began, not knowing what to say, but desperately needing to bridge the sudden chasm between them. But his second had already grabbed his swords and walked away. Slinging them over his shoulder, he called the others, who scrambled to grab their weapons and follow. Behind him, Arthur heard Bors shout, "Don't fall off the bloody cliff!" to Dagonet, and he knew that Gawain would watch Galahad until he was out of sight. These were their rituals. It was impossible not to form close bonds with all of your fellow knights in such a place, but certain pairs had deeper friendships than others, and it showed. That's why it was so much worse that he'd been the one to remind Lancelot of his bloody past; he knew him best of all, knew what that threat would drag to light, but he'd unthinkingly done it anyway, and now his friend was headed into possible danger without giving him a chance to apologize.
He sighed deeply as the figures disappeared into the mist rolling in off the sea, and sent a wordless prayer to God to watch over his knights when he could not.
Lancelot felt numb with anger. He'd been angry before; all of the knights had. It was impossible not to carry anger with you everywhere, given all the frustrations the Sarmatian knights faced on a daily basis. It was so easy to get angry, and so hard to find relief. Bors drowned his anger in wine and Vanora; Dagonet simply ignored those who mistreated him; Tristan practiced and killed; Galahad and Gawain confided in each other; even Arthur had his god. Lancelot had nothing, no means of coping, except to internalize the rage, let it eat away at him. He hid his pain behind a sarcastic smirk and cynicism, burying his hurt deep inside. That's what he'd done all those years ago, every time he was lashed at the post. His anger had bloomed into a hatred of Rome and all things Roman. Arthur was his only exception.
But now his closest friend had just put on the mask of the enemy, if only for a moment, and Lancelot was furious. It showed in the stiffness of his posture, the tightness of his eyes, and the fact that he hadn't said a word since they'd left. Dagonet was fine with silence and it suited him well, and young Atticus was too shy and awed to say a word, but Galahad was going crazy. He hated the quiet and he kept fidgeting with his knife. His few attempts to break the ice were met with stony indifference. He sighed, wishing that Gawain's fear of heights hadn't kept his friend from joining them. Maybe I shouldn't have volunteered, he thought ruefully.
After about an hour, they reached the base of the path that led up to the caves. The ascent was difficult and left little breath for speech. When they were almost at the top, Galahad lost his footing and nearly fell. He caught a glimpse of the sharp rocks far below and has a moment to think this is it before Dagonet dragged him back on the path. Atticus was staring at him, horrorstruck. Lancelot looked back and asked if he was okay before continuing on. Galahad consoled himself with the thought that at least he'd broken the unbearable silence.
They reached the entrance of the cave without further incident. "Split up," Lancelot whispered, signaling that Dagonet should enter the cave from the left with Galahad while he and Atticus entered from the right.
The setting sun had passed behind a cloud, so it was almost impossible to see anything. Nevertheless, they went in, swords drawn in preparation. The only sound they heard was the crashing of the waves far below and the shuffling of the stones beneath their feet. "I don't think anybody is home," Galahad muttered eventually, when suddenly the sun emerged and shone directly into the cave.
It was like something out of a nightmare. The walls and floor of the cave were awash in blood. The remains of several men were strewn across the floor, hacked to pieces. Limbs were piled up on one side, with torsos opposite and heads at the back. From the scraps of red cloth and armor that were visible, they were probably looking at the remains of the deserters. Behind them, Atticus could be heard retching.
"What… what did this?" Atticus asked fearfully, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, refusing to look back at the grisly sight. "Woads?"
"Aye," said Dagonet grimly. "But not the kind you know. These are far more dangerous and cruel, and they've never come so far south before. Now we're really in trouble."
"What do you mean?" the boy whispered.
"He means that now we're dealing with Picts," Lancelot said bitterly. Galahad's face paled slightly and Atticus gasped.
"But… but… they never come south of the Wall! Ever! How could they even get here?!" the boy demanded, obviously terrified at the mention of Britain's most dangerous tribe.
"Those questions are really not important," Lancelot snapped. "We need to get back to the others, now. If there are Picts still about, you can bet they're in that forest."
Galahad and Dagonet nodded. As they turned to leave, Dagonet stooped to grab the boy's shoulder and half-carried, half-dragged him out of the cave
Lancelot surveyed the scene one last time. A knot formed in his stomach at the thought that his unprepared friends were about to walk right into an encounter with the merciless warriors of the far North. He hoped that Arthur's god would protect him until they could get there.