Thank you for your great reviews, Addicted2LancelotAndTristan and Priestess of the Myrmidon!
Again, this is the new version of chapter one. The revised version of chapter two should be up in a few days.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters mentioned, except original ones.
2. Grey Skies
***
Grey fog clung to the grassy clearing. There was no sound in the air, save for the occasional chirp of a bird. But slowly, a moist wind came up and along with it came the sound of riders.
They broke out of the fog then; shadowy, dark horsemen, only to disappear in another wall of that fathomless grey mist, that enveloped them like the embrace of a harsh lover. The wild chase finally brought them to the edge of the woods and into the relative warmth of the sun. Lancelot shuddered slightly, when he looked back to the grey mass they had just emerged from.
"I hate this weather," he grumbled, annoyed. "If it isn't raining, it's snowing. Or storming. And when there is neither rain, nor snow, nor storm, then there is this impenetrable mist."
To his surprise, it was Tristan, whom the strange atmosphere in the fog obviously hadn't fazed in the slightest, who replied to his bland statement impassively:
"You can complain about it for an eternity. It won't change."
"Yeah, you hear that?" Bors grinned. "It won't change and we've been here for eleven years. One might think that you'd have become used to it by now, Lance."
"Oh, leave it, all of you." Lancelot scowled, his mood dark.
"Tristan," Arthur called.
Tristan rode up to him.
"I would like you to ride ahead now to ensure that there are no ambushes or enemy activities in this direction. Return when you deem it right."
Tristan only nodded and his hair obscured his eyes. Then a sharp wind came up, blowing his hair out of his face and allowing a glimpse into sharp amber eyes emphasized by high cheekbones.
Arthur stared at him, feeling how a strange feeling of foreboding overcame him. Tristan still waited, impassively.
Arthur knew that the scout was aware that he wasn't finished yet.
"Tristan," he said finally, not able to put the strange feeling in words.
"Be careful."
Tristan's hand holding the reins twitched, a sure sign for Arthur that the independent scout wished to go now, however, the Sarmatian evenly replied in his thick accent:
"Do not worry. We have had Saxons on the island often enough."
"Yeah," Gaheris said, "but we know they are violent and they don't spare anyone."
Tristan slowly turned his head to look at him, annoyance now clearly visible on his features.
"I'll be careful." With that and a last nod of farewell to Arthur, he was gone, dark cape flying behind him, the hawk flying over him.
When he had disappeared, Galahad shook his head. "Stubborn fool."
Bors laughed: "Make sure that he doesn't hear ya talkin' this way. He'd skin ya alive."
Arthur, however, was silent, troubled thoughts chasing over his face like clouds.
He had a bad feeling about all this.
***
The horse's hooves pounded on the ground eagerly, as Tristan covered miles and miles of ground. He kept a careful eye on everything.
Something caught his eye and he quickly drew in the reins.
"Hush, Byaczt" he whispered to his horse. The horse raised its ears and snorted softly.
Tristan looked at the ground. Footprints. A piece of leather. Fresh earth.
They were close.
He quickly mounted Byaczt again, the hawk flapping on his arm.
The sound of twigs breaking alerted him and he scanned his surroundings with keen eyes.
There! Two flashes of brown in a tree. An arrow took care of these flashes and soon a Saxon was lying in front of him, dead. Tristan looked at him in distaste, recognising him to be a scout. There was the unmistakable sound of a hitched breath on a tree next to him and a second arrow took care of the other Saxon. It was a young one, who had probably frozen up, when he had killed the older one. Tristan sighed in disgust, he hated when they were young like that. It always made him feel as if he was killing children like Bors's herd of bastards.
He quickly dismissed the thought and performed a search of the little clearing, but even Tristan made mistakes sometimes.
And so it came that he failed to see the third Saxon, who had disappeared quickly back into the woods, to inform his commander of Tristan's arrival.
Meanwhile, Tristan lowered his bow and for a second a weary expression flitted over his face.
He was weary, exhausted more, not in body, but in spirit.
He was a lone hawk, a silent savage, and he knew it, but despite the blood sticking to his skin- it always did, even when there was none visible- they all didn't know the whole truth.
And he would never permit them to see it.
**
"What did you say? A rider?"
"Ja," the scout answered to the unspoken query. "It's like you think, mîn Her. A Sarmatian killed Sighard and Hunwald."
"Ah," the Saxon Leader grumbled, stroking his beard. "That is partly good news, Wulfric. You may go now."
The scout bowed and turned away.
"Wulfric!"
He turned around. "Yes?"
"Send Hengist to me and tell his men to ready themselves for a hunt."
The scout allowed himself a smirk, showing yellow teeth. "As you wish, mîn Her."
***
A screech owl was, what alerted him.
Byaczt neighed anxiously.
Tristan patted his neck and his eyes took in his surroundings. He was on a ravine, surrounded by steep hillsides. It was a trap, but maybe they hadn't seen him yet.
He urged Byaczt in a sharp gallop, only to be forced to take a tight grip on the reins, for Byaczt reared up, when they were faced with a herd of Saxons, whose speers glinted menacingly in the midday sun.
Byaczt reared up again and Tristan turned him sharply around on a mad chase in the other direction, but it was too late.
Saxons were already closing up on him from the other side.
He drew Byaczt in by the reins and whistled for his hawk, who promptly appeared at his side.
"Fly my friend, fly and warn Arthur," he mumbled quietly to the majestic bird, throwing her in the air and allowing himself a brief moment of longing as she spread her wings and flew away.
Then he dismounted and drew his scimitar from its scabbard, swinging it in a deadly circle, daring the Saxons to approach him.
And approach they did, though they seemed hesitant. With a feral smirk, Tristan ended the first Saxon's life. But there's only so much one man alone can take, and Tristan couldn't keep his eyes on all of the Saxons. So it came that he didn't see the large shadow loom up behind him. Pain flared up in his head and he dropped his sword, trying his best to stay standing, but it was a futile battle and he sank to his knees, while the red haze in front of his eyes slowly transformed into cold darkness and he still struggled while he sank in its arms.
***
Lancelot wasn't sure what had compelled him to stop his valiant stallion to look up in the bright sky. The sun hurt his eyes and he shaded them, peeking through his fingers.
"What is it, Lancelot?" Arthur and his comrades had stopped as well.
"I don't know," he replied, then cried out in surprised pain, as a quick shadow swooped down from the sky and sharp talons sank into his shoulder.
"Damned bird," he gasped sharply.
Tristan's hawk croaked, a harsh sound and abruptly flew up again, flapping her wings and hovering on the strong eastern wind just above the heads of the knights.
"We won't hurt you, hawk," Dagonet called softly.
The hawk inclined her head, sharp yellow eyes eyeing them. Then she abruptly flew to Arthur, hovering in front of him, unsettling Arthur's proud steed, which promptly started prancing.
"What is the matter with you, bird?" Percival asked.
The hawk screeched, stayed at a certain spot, flew abruptly up again and returned to said spot.
"It wants us to follow it," Gawain murmured suddenly. The other knights threw startled looks his way, but it was Arthur, who said: "I think you are right. Let's go."
Anxiety gripped them as they followed the hawk deeper in the forest, passing murmuring streams and solemn oak trees, paying no heed to potential Woad threats.
Geraint's horse unexpectedly threw its head up, neighing. A loud whinny answered and a grayish horse bolted into view, clearly terrified, foam flocks around its mouth.
Tristan's horse.
"Hush," Galahad soothed, dismounting and holding his hands up. Arthur watched in awe as the youngest knight was able to calm the horse, an ability that all of his Sarmatians seemed to have.
"Hush, Byaczt," Galahad stroked Byaczt's snout.
"Where is your Master, huh?" Sharp talons clawed at his hair abruptly, suggesting that they were wasting too much time in the hawk's opinion.
Bors gave a half-hearted snort at Galahad's disgruntled expression, but he was far too worried for a real laugh. That would have to wait until they found Tristan.
It wasn't too long until they reached the grassy clearing.
Slain Saxons awaited them, often wounded at their midsection, a trademark sign of Tristan.
Bors, who was fuming, grabbed a still writhing Saxon by the collar, wrenching him up and screaming at him:
"Where is our comrade? What did you do to the man, who passed through here on this horse?"
The man's eyes widened, he was terrified of Bors.
"Please, no, he …he….we…one of our spies…told us…he would….ar-rive. He was a devil, killed….many of..us. Don't recall….anything else….think…they took him…with them. Left…me…here…to …die."
He choked and his eyes glazed over, forever mirroring the passing clouds.
"Bors." Arthur put a hand on his arm. "He is dead."
Bors quivered with fury. "I know," he snarled. "Probably, so is Tristan."
A harsh, surprised sound came from Gareth and they turned around to him.
"Tristan's dagger," he said, holding the aforementioned weapon up. It was encrusted with blood.
"He's put up a hell of a fight," Bors said, sounding proud.
"Let's go before it is too late!" Dagonet had spoken up, a harsh light in his eyes. Gone was his usual gentle disposition, leaving room for a merciless knight with no intention to spare anyone.
"Yes," Iwain hissed, his eyes flaming up in irate anger. "Let us slay Saxons."
But they were too late. After little more than an hour of following the good visible trail of the Saxons they arrived at the coast, where the foot prints ended suddenly.
Lancelot raised his eyes and thought to see a white sail, which was blending in with the horizon. Mutely, he raised his arm.
When the other knights followed his eyes, the same hopeless thought haunted their anxious minds: Tristan was out of their reach now.
"Damn it, " Bors cursed and kicked a piece of driftwood away. "Damn it!"
Gawain stared at the horizon, disbelief etched on his features. He was wrenched out of his stupor by Galahad's passionate voice: "He is not dead! He will return!"
Gawain spun around, eyes flashing. "Shut your mouth Galahad! Do not speak of things you do not know of!"
It was not often, that he spoke to the young knight this way, and visibly hurt, Galahad turned away.
"He is dead," Iwain said dispassionately, fingering his dagger.
"Oh. It's not as if you would bloody care!" Bedivere shouted, lunging at him, only held back by Percival's arm. "You do not care!"
"Iwain, find us a place to stay for the night," Arthur said wearily, casting a meaninful glare at Bedivere. "And you Bedivere, calm down."
Iwain's blue, icy eyes flashed , but he gave a simple nod to Arthur's request, disappearing in the approaching dawn.
Arthur simply gave them another exhausted look, which made the fiery Sarmatians instantly look guilty and ordered them to sit up.
***
Later, they sat around a campfire, gloom and sadness hanging in the air.
Not even Geraint's little jokes could have chased the feelings of emptiness away, not as if he would have tried.
"He was a good man," Bors said finally, breaking the silence.
"One of us," Gaheris agreed.
"Why do you all speak of him in the past?" Galahad sounded incredulous.
"We have no proof at all that he is dead!"
But the others simply looked at him wearily and it was a sign of this bone-deep weariness, that they felt, that Gawain ordered, without looking at him:
"Sit down, Galahad."
In the distance, the hopeless screech of a hawk sounded.