Contractual Obligations

by Deer-Shifter

Fate is a fickle thing. Time and time again, the Once and Future King has woken from her slumber to aid her country in its time of need. The World could not refuse her plea, her prophecy, but it has entered a never-ending loop as a result. Fed up, Alaya sends one of her dogs to fetch the key to a new Guardian. Fuses myth & FSN. Very Slow build. Cowritten with UniverseCreator.

10. IX: Make a Sound in the East then Strike

Author's Note: So, you guys somewhat like the update, I hope? It's been over a year since I last posted, I know. Part of that is one troublesome scene which I finally had to get rid of when it wouldn't come out right. Let me know if you guys want a deleted scene section elsewhere, and I'll think about possibly posting it.

But, to make up for it, even with the deleted scene, this is an extra long chapter, beginning a few weeks after where we ended last time. Arturia and Archer have conversation, Vortigern makes his move, we have another new character perspective, and even a couple battle scenes. Chapter title is a reference - let me know if you figure it out.

Potential trigger warnings for graphic battlefield violence, and the appearance of a man-eating supernatural creature.

Chapter IX: Make a sound in the East, then strike in the West

Second Week of August, 527

In the month and a fortnight since the Queen's visit to the blacksmith, she has yet to have a conversation alone with her husband, despite her best efforts to speak to said spouse. Such a thing is generally difficult when the king will not stay alone in her presence for more than a few minutes, at which point some page or other will come running up with a message for this or that lord or knight, or a reminder of the king's schedule.

Guinevere quite justly calls it by name in her head: avoidance. Her husband, who she'd thought her friend, is avoiding her, as subtly and politely as possible.

The closest she's managed to spending time with Arturia is to take a piece of sewing and a chair to one side of the king's during counsel or audiences, and sit at her husband's side in silent support while she works, her attention pointedly on her work or on the petitioners rather than the King. Always in public, always with other people.

While Arturia never ignores her wife's presence, she does not acknowledged her verbally or with any public touch beyond the polite hand-kiss as they sit.

A marriage is two people. Guinevere cannot fix it by herself. She has gone so far as to leave notes. Notes, to her own spouse! She can't say anything of importance in a note!

She'd just like one answer. To know what happened, why she is being punished by her spouse when she has already condemned herself to be punished by the world for barrenness in choosing to enter this marriage with full knowledge that it would never produce a child.

But the one with the answers is avoiding her. Making excuses to do so.

At least, that had been the case for the first month.

But then scouts' reports begin to come in at odd hours. Arturia spends more and more time practicing in the courtyard or studying maps, snapping at Kay to track the food rents from their vassals and the vassals of vassals. There is an odd tension in the upper levels of the castle. For the first time in weeks, Arturia speaks to her, asking her to inventory their supplies of all food, wood, water, metal, weapons…

Preparations for war. But against who?

She gets the answer sooner than she expects, when a messenger arrives, both rider and horse half dead of exhaustion. Three days they've ridden to bring the news. News now four days old.

---

Four days since a pair of children rode a horse bareback into a town twenty miles inland from their home, arriving at dawn, and collapsed, begging for aid against a nightmare come to life.

Four days since the scouts had investigated, and reported back, telling of a sudden overnight raid, as thorough as it was devastatingly quick. A boat coming in with the pre-dawn light, somehow passing the coastal watchers without a murmur of alarm. Not more than an hour's travel up the river, rowed with oars muffled with cloth wrappings, hidden under the evening fog. A raid that was obviously planned by someone already familiar with the shore, to be so confident in a night landing without disturbance or risk of damage to the boats.

Smuggler's aid? Possible, certainly… But smugglers are generally locals using their superior knowledge of concealed coves to evade tax collectors at the main harbors. Murdering their neighbors is quite another story.

There was little to no defense. Men had quite literally been slaughtered before they had a chance to grab weapons not already to hand. No time to arm, no time to barricade the wives and children away. Surely, an alarm should have given them at least time to snatch up bows or daggers, or to bar the doors?

But no alarm bell had rung. No cries or screams. The raiders had been lighting quick to attack, and escaped as soon as they had set fire to fields and houses, and slaughtered most villagers – but not all, and why not all? Why leave some alive, let alone in any shape to pursue or escape?

What reasons for the raid? Not to steal resources, surely – the crops were not ripe or in the storehouses yet, and both burned. No slaves – the bodies might be mutilated, and left unburied under the sky, but not beyond identification unless fire or rot had touched a corpse. And the areas attacked had no common thread – empty buildings burned as readily as storehouses, shops, residences, barns – any structure with man's influence appeared fair game, even those not currently in use, such as one empty hermitage a good five miles into the woods. Yet not even 'man's influence' suited the targets of the fire, when the glaring exception was clear – no bridges had been touched! Wood or stone or earthen causeway, they remained intact.

That first report is nothing that makes sense; the words convey sound, but the mind refuses to comprehend the meaning.

Men, women, children, poor, rich, brave enough to stand and fight, coward enough to offer others to the foes' blades – it does not matter. They slaughter indiscriminately yet methodically, a paradox that strains comprehension. It appears mere chance that any escaped the blades. Who knows how long the slaughter might have gone undiscovered, with none to bring word?

Regardless of the unknown hows and whys, as green eyes lift from the report to meet the face of the advisors, King Arthur Pendragon has one certainty. Whatever the reasons, this is not a single raid. It is only the beginning, even if she does not know what has begun.

Scarce hours after the initial report, further tidings arrive from several southerly and easternly directions.

Only the first report comes from survivors, as it turns out.

Several of the reports are from the coastal watchers who live further inland when not on duty; most begin with attention to an oddity. One spotted smoke and raised the alarm for a possible forest fire. Another group of soldiers was bringing a regular resupply of provisions to the current sentries. In three places, sailors' complaints of a lighthouse gone dark leaving them unable to land prompted a lord living a day's ride away to send men to see if an accident or a wreckers' plot was the cause.

None of them expected to enter a nightmare of sacrilege, to have to frantically seek survivors or perpetrators.

"The amount of damage, costs of people and crops and buildings and morale, is climbing," Kay informs her. "But even if it stopped at this moment… I would say we are in for a hard winter. It is too late to replant any of the fields, even if we had the farmers, plows, and oxen needed to work them."

They stand across from each other at a small table, where the best map they have is spread. Several sets of knucklebones have been used to mark the spots of attack.

"Do we have any idea where they come from?"

Ector shifts a few reports from hand to hand. "None of the trackers have picked up footprints leading to or from the area, other than the locals. Our best guess, given the locations are along the rivers and the coast, is that they are travelling by water from across the Channel." He glances toward Cleges.

The white haired man scowls at his wrinkled fingers, callused with a lifetime of polearm training – a halberd in his youth, a quarterstaff since his first attempt at retirement under her father. He is perfectly competent with a sword, but she rarely sees him draw it. "My king, I regret to say that my spies only extend so far – and that is less than I thought, since this attack began with no forewarning. Several of those overseas have not reported recently. The one message that managed to get through this morning is one I would prefer to have verified if at all possible… but it is all I have at the moment."

It takes Arturia a moment to identify his expression; it is not one she associates with Cleges. Helpless fury is not something the old knight tends to indulge in – his default is stoic calmness or tranquil amusement.

"The message suggests the Saxons are massing again…"

Ector frowns. "So soon? I thought it would take another few months to choose a new leader."

Cleges laughs – but not his usual warm chuckle. No, this is a harsh, hacking sound, infused with gallows humor; a death rattle that suggests fluid in the lungs and useless attempts at expelling the problem. "Not a new leader, Sir Ector. An old one."

For a moment, the knights who served Uther before they served Arthur are instantly identifiable merely by their shared weariness. Each man buckles under twenty additional years weighing them down, loaded with cynical anger and pain – the scars of battling a foe that refuses to lie down and die, no matter what is thrown at him.

Then Lucan scowls, and turns to Arturia, dropping to a knee before her, his sword offered to her. "Your Majesty. I don't care how superstitious it is, or if it's poor taste to treat a Pendragon's body like a common criminal. When he's killed, I beg of you, make sure you recover the body. I want the head and limbs separated from the torso. I want them burned, the ashes buried in separate places, and the burial sites salted and glassed."

The request ought to sound humorous in its thoroughness, if nothing else, when said aloud. No one doubts that Lucan is entirely serious in his request.

Ector and Cleges make no effort to hide their repulsion at the idea.

"Executing a man is one thing, Sir Lucan. Desecrating his corpse, even if he's a criminal, is quite another!"

"Even a traitor is entitled to correct burial. What sort of precedent would you set with this?"

Lucan's eyes do not leave the King's. "I would set a precedent where a man who is responsible for two kings' deaths is not allowed to claim the life of the third king – as I should have done years before now. I would seek to go and claim his life myself, had I not my duties to defend the King personally or defend the city in the King's absence, as he commands. But I do request to deal with that body personally – to identify it, and to dispose of it."

Guinevere sucks in a sharp breath. "Sir Lucan, who has spoken to you, that you would call yourself guilty for Uther's death? That is at Vortigern's hand, not yours." Arturia blinks in realization, snapping her gaze towards her wife without reflexively flinching from it, for the first time in weeks. This is why she married her Queen, who can see what the King cannot.

"True. But vengeance should have been his, years ago. I swore an oath, as Captain of the Guard… and it has gone waiting and wasted these many years since."

Arturia sighs. "I cannot promise your method of burial is allowable. But we will recover a body this time. I promise. His identity must be buried in a tomb, and never to rise again, if this land is not to fragment into kingdoms led by feuding warlords once more."

Rising from her chair, she leans over the table, ignoring the ache of her back; she has leaned over this table too often today. "My lords, let us plan. The next attack will come, and when it does, I would like us to be ready and waiting. Sir Cleges, can we predict the next sites he will target?"

Cleges sighs. "My people are still working to confirm facts; I have little more than rumors, and none that I may verify, as I have said. The only fact I can verify is that they are traveling exclusively by boat and on foot; the only horses' tracks were those already in the area, and there is evidence of a surreptitious docking for a boat larger than any local fisherman's at three of the sites. There may have been more than that, if the tide destroyed the signs at the other sites. However… given the choice to damage the sentry towers and the forts as well as destroy the crops, if they are not going farther inland, I recommend watching the settlements surrounding the forts of Branodunum and Regulbium." He taps the map in indication.

"That's at the other side of the country," Kay frowns. "Full East and North of most of the attacks."

"I am aware they are in the other direction, and the men already stationed there are most likely sufficient, so long as they remain alert. But if these raiders decide they can sail up the Thames to Londinium… they've already proven they can get past sentries without sounding alarm, if they're of a mind to." Cleges' wrinkled face further creases in frustration. "More likely, we need to worry about Portus Adurni, Anderitum, Portus Lemanis, and Dubris. And the shoreline in between them."

"Should we include the rest of the nine forts that the Romans left us? And the Isle of Wight, while we're at it?" Lucan grumbles. "We only have so many men, Sir Cleges, with all due respect."

"And only so much money," Kay adds soberly. "With the news of each fresh attack, more coastal settlements are holding back taxes to pay for better fortifications of their own. Expensive fortifications that will take weeks to build, at that. Each penny they spend on themselves is less money changing hands through the country, and less money for us to pay and feed our soldiers with. I don't know if crippling us economically is part of the bastard's plan, or simply a convenient side benefit, but it's more effective with each attack we fail to respond to."

Cleges glares at them both. "I am aware. Which is why I suggest that we're going to have to re-employ the beacon fires, which I know for a fact have been recently restocked. You'll have to position your army where you can best make use of them, between the sites."

He taps spots carefully on the map, laying three markers down as he speaks.

"I have three potential targets that I believe they will go for, given their habits so far.

"There is Sandown, on the Isle of Wight. Fine beach for landing, wide and sandy, and the Isle itself would be a fine place to stage a further attack on both Clausentum and Portus Adurni. Moreover, the Isle is home to crops, which we already know they like to target, and has minimal defenses save what nature has granted it. If we lose the Isle – the place that has the longest growing season of all the country – then make no mistake, my lords, we will have to import food, or watch our people starve this year.

"Then there's the white cliffs, at Dubris. It's the shortest Channel crossing, provided wind and weather are favorable. It also connects to the ancient path that the Romans paved, so an army can march fairly easily if they manage to get ashore, straight through Londinium and across the Thames, and then further north, if they manage to get a foothold. Again, capturing a harbor – particularly this harbor – would cripple our trade as well as our defenses." A grim smile. "Two lighthouses at the harbor, which we already know they like to target. And all the roads beyond, and the fields and towns and villages along the way… Fortunately, we have a fort already there.

"The last is here, at Pevensey Bay. A wide beach. If you wanted to stage an invasion fleet and have a harbor ready once the conquering was done… it's an ideal spot. And the fort has increasingly fallen into decay since your father's reign. The only reason I would call it less than likely is the lack of rivers around it. If this is where they target, they'll have no cover for their ships, and no easy way inland without giving themselves away. There are relatively few settlements nearby to destroy, given the fens and marshes on three sides of the ruined fort. What they will have is a perfectly defensible location, so long as they stay put. If you wish to draw them inland, and separate them from their ships… they will not have an easy retreat."

"If they land there at all," growls Kay.

"I expect they'll also target the Channel Islands, but unfortunately there's not much that can be done to reinforce them at this stage, other than to send a warning…"

King Arthur's head rises, slowly. "Sir Cleges, are you suggesting that I deliberately leave my people defenseless? I am the King. I took an oath to defend all my people."

"I am saying you may not be able to send further reinforcements at this point. They have some fortifications and weaponry already there; they have heard of the raids by now. And you do not have the ships to send aid there, especially when I cannot give you certain intelligence that the raiders will stop there."

"You cannot give me proof they will stop anywhere, it seems," the King says bitterly, staring at the map, numbers whirling through a mind trained to calculate acceptable losses, remembering a time when there was no such thing, not to her. Her back is beginning to ache from the prolonged hunched position, a sign of age she rarely has a chance to observe in physical effects. She ignores it. She has a battle to plan. How many men can she place at the Isle? At Londinium? At the beaches near Dubris and Pevensey? At least she knows that a beach is necessary if they want to bring all the men ashore – the flat-bottomed hulls that are preferred in Northern ships tend to drift sideways if left in the water, so they must be dragged ashore if the men want a way to leave.

"…But your suggestions are the only strategically viable option."

"What of Londinium, if you worry about them coming upriver?" Merlin inquires. It's the first time he's spoken in the meeting, uncharacteristically focused and silent.

Lucan shakes his head. "The city of merchants and soldiers can defend itself, given fair warning. We have enough of the defensive walls intact to keep it from being taken. I request you not go there, sire – Vortigern knew the ground well enough to make Uther's victory costly. He travelled within three days of the city before we got warning of it, and we barely made it there in time to hold him off from the walls."

Ector snorts. "Londinium was a secondary goal that day, Lucan. Vortigern got exactly what he wanted – the king's location. Whether he slaughtered his brother on the battlefield that day, or had his witch-wife poison him later, it mattered little so long as the Pendragon was dead!" Shaking his head, he turns back to the maps. "Supply Londinium with a good commander who knows Vortigern's face – in fact, make sure that there are at least two people who can identify the Usurper on site at every location you send men to, sire. Lucan is right about making sure we have the body of the right man when this is over. The fortifications and the men already there are loyal and knowledgeable; leave them to the work they've trained for, my king, while you focus on more difficult problems of defense. For example, where do you plan to stage your main army?"

A grim smile, as the young King selects a carved dragon, placing it southwest of Londinium. "Guildford."

Lucan nods, slowly. "Midway between Londinium and Portsmouth. Twenty-seven miles to Londinium, and twenty-six miles from there to Camelot, if you go over land."

"Not to mention, the Sand Ford is there, straddling the Old Way, and that road connects Seaton on the southwest coast to Rochester, Canterbury, and several ports on the south-east coast. It's the perfect place in between the raiding locations to position the bulk of the army," Kay murmurs.

"And the perfect spot to catch him, if he starts marching down the road from either spot." Teeth flash in a wolf's smile. "This kinslaying usurper has killed enough of the people he claims responsibility for with his games. I doubt he'll resist a chance to come and take another crack at killing me, if he and his men know where I am; he can't risk a reputation for cowardice after our last encounter. Scouts at each village and the beacons to send warning will do the rest of the work."

"Even with warning from the beacons, the response will be slow if the army is not already there," Cleges sighs. "But without a navy of our own, we cannot stop them from landing. We must do our best not to give them more than a day unimpeded, lest they tread inland and continue their mischief." It goes unsaid that a proper navy will take years to finish building – the single year since Vortigern's expulsion is not enough for the ship yards to have crafted vessels sufficient, and no vessel built under Saxon rule went to any service save the Saxons' own.

Merlin frowns. "How do you plan to ensure he doesn't just continue his raiding tactics? If he's aware of the economic effect, he could destroy the country that way, simply by continuing his current modus operandi."

"He could," the King agrees, "if he were working with troops that were more loyal to him than to profit, vengeance, and their promise for land. But the Saxons expect rewards when they raid – slaves, treasure, goods. In his efforts to terrify the country, Vortigern has taken none of those things when he attacks. It's worked, but it also means he can't pursue the tactic overlong without grumbling, restive troops. And he's already been using it for nearly two weeks – fifteen attacks. He can't continue to use it beyond another five attacks at most if he wants the soldiers to stick around. He needs to escalate, or change his tactics so he can pay the raiders with their choice of loot. That means a bigger attack farther inland."

"Last time he did that, he attacked Londinium, remember? Not the first time, either," Merlin notes. It isn't a disagreement, not quite; just a clear refusal to put blind faith in this plan without first double-checking all of it. "You plan to use yourself as bait to make sure he attacks where you want him to? How, then, do you intend to hide the army you have with you?" His eyes narrow. "I can't make you a stable magical gateway between the distances you want to cross, not for you, not for a small strike force, and certainly not your entire army. That kind of working takes months of preparation if you want it to remain stable at that kind of distance while limiting who's allowed to cross it. And if you plan to make me create an illusion of you at the head of each force, I refuse. That was a political disaster when your father tried it—"

King Arthur snorts. "If I wanted that strategy, I'd use body doubles, not magic. I need your eyes, Merlin. Your eyes, and your magic to pass messages quickly over short distances. How many familiars do you have at your disposal?"

"One."

"Can you make more? Owls, ravens, badgers… I don't know what's best. Anything with good eyesight that you can monitor at a distance. I need eyes in Londinium by the Thames, and by the ports along the coast. We need to know which direction they are coming, and if they decide to split their forces. If I only get warning by the time they're sighted from shore, it will be too late. Unless we're already moving." A pause. "Also, shore up the magical defenses here, please. I won't rely on those, or on your communication, to the extent of fully leaning on them, but they are the swiftest warning system we have."

Merlin frowns in thought. "…Doable. At least I won't risk biting my tongue from trying to cast spells mid-battle this way; once I activate them, they'll stay on their own. Sword and staff for me, once it gets to the actual fight."

"I wouldn't expect anything else, Magus of Flowers."

"Who will you be leaving to guard Camelot, sire?" Lucan inquires.

"You, and half of the able-bodied men I have here will stay, under your command. In addition, all those with arms training must stand ready to defend. Let the women and children of the lower town be gathered closer to the castle, and stay within its defenses – this must happen the same day the army departs. Have them bring enough supplies to feed themselves for a month. This business should not last beyond then."

Lucan's expression does not flinch at the knowledge that he will not be allowed to seek Vortigern's death. Still, Arturia feels compelled to add, "I will send someone back to relieve you of command as soon as we have the body for identification, to stand as witness to its disposal." Lucan bows in acceptance of her judgment.

"And the army's supplies?"

"We will take them from coastal villages whose inhabitants have gone to shelter in the towns." The king is not blind to the unhappy looks from around the table at this notion. "Better us than the raiders – we'll reimburse them for it, and it gives the raiders one less target."

Guinevere scowls at the map. "And it is utterly impossible to build and fortify bridges to block any passage upriver?" It's a question asked more to ensure that a potential solution has not been ignored than anything else; they're all aware that if it were a feasible solution, Arturia would have already ordered it.

"Not in the amount of time we have, I fear. Not even for foundations," Kay sighs. "Certainly something that we will implement next year though."

If there is a next year. But no one says that aloud.

"Even if we had the time, it wouldn't solve the issue of beach and harbor landings," Cleges says briskly. "Just inland targets within a few hours by river travel."

"For now, let's plan for Guildford," King Arthur says. "We'll split our forces in two for marching. Sir Kay, I'd like it if you could hide your men here…"

---

It's difficult to find a moment to slip away amidst the preparation for war, but Arturia is desperate to get out of the palace. Her wife is no longer trying to actively corner her, busy with her own work of inventory. But the memory of those accusing, uncomprehending eyes pierces Arturia worse than any splinters, and she cannot rest. She needs a moment of normality, a moment to remember what she's fighting for, a conversation that will not remind her of war or responsibility or the consequences of kinslaying. Consequences that will not disappear even if the deed is to avenge the same crime.

Once, the stable was her sanctuary from people, but right now, the horses and their caretakers are busy with their own preparations.

Now, her sanctuary is a forge – and she is proud to say that if one good point has come of the current crisis, it is that Farran has entered the blacksmiths' guild. If only so that they have enough workers to keep up with the demand of weapons, new or in need of repair.

This will be her first visit since that news came. Even if he's working, he'll let her stay if she's not in his way, even talk if she's quiet when he requires concentration. He always has before, anyway…

Furious, swift, high pitched, the hammer sings to her ear, even through the door of the forge. Farran's evidently gotten a nice start on his assignment of spearheads for the guards. Arturia thinks of her own spear, back in the castle, and shivers at the thought of it, absently rubbing at her bicep. Beneath her sleeve, Farran's armlet grips her muscles like the hand of a friend. If he crafts weapons as well made as this jewelry… she doubts his blades will let any of her people down. He's steady in a way that other people expect her to be, and the same goes for his work – it may not overwhelm with a single blow, but it's reliable, and it always comes back for more. Powerful as the fairy weapons are, sometimes they're too powerful for her taste. Maybe she'll commission something more ordinary from Farran once she gets back. A personal practice sword, perhaps, or maybe a dagger.

"The shop is closed!" a voice booms from the inside before her hand even strikes the door. "I'm already busy with the orders from the king, same as any smith in this city; whatever it is, I doubt I can attend to it for a week. If it isn't immediately needed horseshoes, come another time, because I'm already flooded with this work!"

Arturia flinches in surprise, before firming up her courage. There's no avoiding this conversation. Farran deserves to be told in person why he's been asked to stay in the city, excluded from the call to arms.

"Is the smith free for conversation while he works then?"

Silence. The hammer's song is halted.

Just as she's about to call out again, his voice returns, gruff and strained. "Yes, sire." There's a snarl in the words, half bitten off, but still as dangerous as a sharp and rusty scrap of metal.

Taking a breath, Arturia reaches for the latch and enters the smithy, shutting the door behind her.

The shelves no longer collect dust on goods finished and unsold, crowding onto the floorspace, but gleam with newly finished orders. In one corner, a stack of spear shafts wait, covered in a leather sheet to protect them from sparks. On the shelf above them rests a stack of nearly finished spearheads, waiting for heat-proofing and attachment. She hopes Farran will have less worries lining his brow and haunting his sleep now that he's getting a chance to prove his reputation.

The bellows begin to creak again. It seems Farran has modified his system yet again since her last visit, the complicated pulleys and foot pedal replaced with a simple hand-lever extended at eye level above one side of the hearth. One hand works the bellows while the other grips a pair of tongs, placing the cooled iron back in the glowing charcoal.

He glances over to her with half an eye, clearly waiting for her to speak. That minimum of attention isn't because he needs to concentrate on his work; Arturia's seen that before. The spearhead project at the moment requires little more than both hands and half an eye, a fact that generally speaks only to Farran's skill. Right now, his focus is an avoidance tactic. This won't be one of the days when he's willing to tease out the reason for her visit. If she doesn't speak up, that half-glance and sullen silence will be the sum total of his acknowledgment of her presence.

She shifts her weight to her other foot, then back again. Clearing her throat, she tries to move her tongue.

"I suppose congratulations are in order. Kay tells me you've been accepted into the guild."

Pleasantries are supposed to be a good place to start, right? Except, she shouldn't have said 'suppose'. Farran deserves that membership and its benefits, and they both know it. 'Suppose' implies doubt.

He doesn't stiffen or relax, his hand never ceasing its pump of the lever, rising and falling. "Yes. I suppose problems fall over their own feet to solve themselves, when the king or the king's brother takes so pointed an interest." His tone is flat as one of those hammer-pounded metal bars turned to sheets. The absence of his usual sarcastic drawl, even as an undertone, is strange enough that if she couldn't see his lips moving she wouldn't be sure it was him speaking.

And his word choice is odd, too. Maybe she'll make more sense of it if she says it out loud? "Interest… yes…" She frowns, still puzzled.

"You have another word for it, sire?" He pauses the bellows, extracts the glowing iron bar with the tongs, and turns back to lay it on the anvil. Picking up a hammer, he begins to tap the bent end of the rod, deepening the curve around the anvil's horn. It's a slower rhythm than what she heard before entering the smithy, likely so he can hear her while keeping both eyes on his work.

No point dallying. Time to see how bad the damage is. "Farran, was it Kay or your guild's head smith who informed you that you'd be staying behind in the city to forge for the guards?"

His hammer pauses in its arc, long enough that its next ring is a half-beat later than she anticipated. "…My new guild's head, Your Majesty."

Arturia winces. Addressing her formally every time he speaks to her? She expected him to be angry, and justifiably so, but this… is awful. With each reminder of the divide between their ranks, the crown's weight presses deeper into her skull, and the king's stoic face begins to consume her own.

She pushes past it, determined to continue the conversation. If Kay wasn't the one to inform him…

"Then he didn't tell you why." Her brother won't have gotten the chance even if he came later with that purpose, if this is the mood he found the smith in.

Farran laughs once, a single bark devoid of any real humor. "He didn't have to."

The ringing strikes are slowly but steadily picking up speed, as the curve of the spear socket increases from a half-circle to a gibbous moon. With each hit piercing Farran's words, the forge grows hotter and more stifling.

"There's only one reason someone of my age, with no obvious physical or—" Clang.

"—mental deficiencies to keep me from fighting fit—" Clang.

"—would be excused, and that's—" Clang.

"—the king's favor." Clang.

"But I haven't been—" Clang.

"—ordered to join—" Clang.

"—the city guard, only—" Clang.

"—to attend on—" Clang.

"—them. Which makes—" Clang. "—it—" Clang. "—an—" Clang. "—excuse—" Clang. "—that's—" Clang. "—clear—" Clang. "—to—" Clang. "—anyone!"

Yanking the cooling metal away from the anvil, he gestures at her with the tongs-extended spearhead, the socket pointed directly at her throat. His metallic eyes meet her own for the first time today, and Arturia finds herself recoiling from what she sees there. There is none of his usual fondness or mild irritation in those grey eyes today – only the gaze of a predatory hawk, sighting a target.

The moment is broken when he sets the half-shaped spearhead down momentarily on the anvil to pick up the socket-end with the tongs instead. He turns away to thrust the unfinished blade-end back into the charcoal to heat, his free hand returning to the bellow's lever.

Glancing to the side, forcing her hands to move away from her automatic grip for a sword, Arturia is shaken. She has somehow never considered Farran to be a threat before, not to her, even when fully aware of his potential to be a threat in general. Tall and broad enough to loom over every other male she can think of with ease, he nevertheless embodies the image of a gentle, if habitually grumpy, giant.

Her eyes catch on the unstrung bow on the wall, clean of dust in a way that speaks of frequent removal and use rather than general care for the weapon. Ector's words come to mind – that Farran may be a personal name and 'Archer' a former profession. If that's true, and the soldier-turned-smith still regularly practices his skills for battle…

Of course. Any soldier worth his weapons would be outraged at the slight on their skills, to be delegated to any role less than a proper guard for the women, children, elderly, and infirm. To be sent to serve under the actual guards is worse than any formal demotion.

Formalities are inadequate, but they're all she has left when she gropes for words. The phrase, 'I am sorry', is a struggle to arrive at, and insufficient without an explanation for her decision attached.

"Forgive me, Goodman Farran. Clearly, I have offended you when I did not intend such. I merely—"

"Do you realize, sire, that if I had a wife or daughter, she would currently be rumored to be your mistress – nay, your whore – and her reward for services would be assumed to be my life's assured safety from the threat of battle?"

Farran's irreverence is a matter of course, but ignoring someone's words, to speak over and through them, is shockingly out of character. Not even the rudest customers endure such treatment from the ever-professional smith. Then, the implications of his musings hit her like the frozen contents of a washbasin on an icy midwinter morning, leaving her scrabbling for stability with a clumsy grip on the shelf.

He's accused her on occasion of naivety, pigheadedness, and a lack of common sense – but never once has he suggested that she might be bribable with a pretty girl's skills in the bedchamber. That he even suggests the matter as a hypothetical rumor speaks volumes of the fury behind his frozen features, dissent and the restrained urge to riot bubbling like nine-day-old porridge on a testy stomach.

"As it is," Farran continues, bellows pumping steadily and furiously, "the current suspicion is that you want me away from the battlefield because I might be a spy for the usurper."

Oh, hell. This is the trouble caused when she paid Farran in a crown all over again. If the Smith's Guildmaster not only implied such, but believes what he's saying… then current rumor is implying that she's asked him and his colleagues to harbor a known but unproven traitor in their guild.

How could anyone think that? Farran is the most loyal man she's ever met, without any of the pomposity or officially witnessed vows that men of greater rank swear and set store by. How could anyone who's met him believe he'd betray his home like that, when he's worked so hard to settle here for good?

"Funny how that rumor assumes that you'd trust me, a spy, in the same city as the wife you'd leave behind," Farran sneers. "Unless it has taken that into account? Do you care so little for the life of your queen?" His glance at her flicks from head to toe, lip curling in contempt.

Guinevere? He dares bring Guinevere into this? They've met only once, when Guinevere was from all accounts at her best, and he thinks she could and would do that to her best friend? A woman he acknowledged as having a worthy mind, and treated as an equal customer, and he dares imply that Arturia would risk her unprotected? Fury sparks, raging past worry and sorrow. "It is precisely because I care for both your lives, and believe in your fighting skill and loyalty, that I want you to stay here, Farran the Smith!"

Farran's arm freezes on the bellows' lever. There is a ringing silence, unbroken save for the crackle of the fire.

The smith straightens, turning to face her with a scowl and leaving the iron unattended in the charcoal as he takes the two strides to the anvil, bending to brace his hands upon it while maintaining eye contact.

He's going to yell at her, for not asking him what he wanted, and for making him less than a bodyguard who likely won't fight. Perhaps he'll even chide her for her rumored neglect of Guinevere, now that her reaction has proven her wife a sore point of discussion.

Fine. She might be in the mood to yell back at this rate. Kings do not back down.

"So… not only do you not trust your advisors to question your decisions enough, but now you do not trust your city and castle guards to adequately protect your queen?"

Arturia blinks, missing the instant his face shifts. His scowl smooths, leaving only his lips to twist into that familiar smirk of ready mockery and self-disparagement.

Her shoulders relax under the cloak automatically at the bantering tone – hopefully he's willing to listen now. "Does that mean you're volunteering, Goodsmith Farran? Because I can think of no other soldier who I'd trust more, if the situation occurs."

Her tone is a match for his banter, but she means those words. Even without having ever seen him fight, she knows the way he moves, the way he handles his deadly merchandise. He's killed before, when he's needed to. He's not a murderer, but he knows how to pay in blood for his own life.

The last traces of the frown fade slowly, banter giving way to gravity. He folds his arms, raises his eyebrow. "Do I have a choice?"

A request from the king can have the force of a command from any other person. 'Optional' is not as much of an option, Arturia has learned, when a king clearly prefers a particular answer. Farran is more aware of that than her. He lives a life where 'requests' are anything but, if they come from a noble customer, and refusing has consequences.

But it still bewilders her that he asks her that. "Of course you have a choice," she says, slowly, carefully. "You're my subject, not my slave."

She doesn't want any more misunderstandings here, regarding their relationship. She doesn't want him to assume double standards of it, expected to be her friend and refuge, but forced to follow her orders at the same time. He has to understand that he has a right to refusal, even if there are more limits to it than she likes to admit.

"I, as the king, have an obligation to protect my subjects, and that includes you."

She hates to acknowledge her own position in this forge, calling him by name, when he calls her 'sire', 'your majesty', 'sir', or 'my king'. But she has to, right now. She has to make him aware that she recognizes this situation as a bind. He deserves her honesty.

"And… as a person, I have a wish to protect you…" She hates her own hesitation, the way her voice lowers without her consent. She maintains eye contact, trying to impress that this is truth, that she believes it, even if she has trouble with the words for it. "As my… friend?"

She watches his lips part, drawing in a breath, and raises her hand to halt what is likely a chiding she's more than earned. "But that doesn't take away your free will," she adds, almost too quickly, letting her hand drop as soon as the last word is out.

Yes, she wants him to stay here in Camelot, but she'll understand if it's too much to ask him to be her friend as well. He evidently resents her now. That's fine; she won't blame him. It's a selfish desire of hers, dragon and hoarder of people that she is, to want one of her precious people to be out of harm's way. She hates the risk of losing him, but would rather he stay alive and a stranger than a friend and dead.

But… even so, she can't cage him up, blinding him with a hood and hampering his feet with jesses like one of her hawks.

Farran's eyebrow lowers, his arms slowly uncrossing as a mixture of emotions runs across his face. Pain, anger and grief she can glimpse, if briefly. The rest are as visible as the riverbed beneath the surface of a muddy, swollen stream: that is to say, hidden by the rushing waters over it.

"…I see." He steps around the anvil, ignoring the unattended spearhead still in the fire as he moves closer to her. His face has smoothed into something both blank and raw when he stops in front of her and extends his right hand.

She blinks, uncertain, then glances up at him. "Farran?"

She doesn't know what this means. She can't read him, and she needs a hint as to what he wants. Is he asking for a handshake, as agreement to signal that this is an end of friendship, and the start of a purely business relationship? Or is he trying to pull her in closer for a punch? Not likely, considering how much provocation he avoids as a general matter of course, but anything seems possible today.

He shakes his head, a small but genuine smile crossing his face at her bemusement. "Archer. And should it fall to me, I will defend your city and your queen with my life… my friend."

Arturia can feel a wide and likely foolish-looking grin growing across her face. She doesn't care. She couldn't care less. Raising her own arm, she clasps his elbow, and lets him clasp her own. It's a warrior's shake, a gesture of trust and comradeship.

"Thank you… Archer, my friend."

His fingers' grip on her elbow is just as firm and painless as the iron armlet higher on her bicep.

---

Gaheris is not a coward. If he were a coward, he wouldn't bother coming to weapons practice and its near-certainty of public humiliation each day.

"No, no, use your sword, boy – don't just dodge! That only works in a one-on-one fight! Block! Attack! Defend! Deflect! Don't just hold it like a dead weight dragging you down – Yes, tripping your opponent works, but you have to follow through! Wyclef, you're relying too much on that overswing! Watch for the leg blows, damn it!"

Nor is he clumsy, even if he can only make his sword connect with his opponent two times out of five – three, if he's willing to forgo all defensive blocks, but he's not so hungry for glory that he'll cover himself in stupidity in the process. A clumsy boy couldn't choose to dodge every hit from his opponent successfully and without bothering to block. Even with the weight of armor, he's fast on his feet. If his older brother has managed to train him in nothing else successfully as a fighter, Gawain has most definitely given him lightning-quick reactions and motivated endurance.

"Damn it, fight me, Gaheris! That's what we're supposed to be doing," Wyclef pants.

The best way to win a fight against a stronger foe is to outlast them, forcing them to use energy on useless attacks while minimizing the damage and energy for oneself. Carry that logic to the end, and a dodging fight is perfectly acceptable when faced with an unbeatable foe. Gaheris is quite sure of that.

Pity that Sir Cleges doesn't agree. Wyclef hasn't managed to hit him in three minutes. Gaheris has even managed to get him to trip once, but couldn't get the blunt practice blade up in time to swipe at the hamstrings. Even a blunt sword would offer a serious bruise for that target. But since he couldn't make the swing connect, it doesn't count to Sir Cleges.

Wyclef herds him back against the quintain post, currently bare of its usual swinging target and weapon for repairs. Shame, that – Gaheris isn't too shabby when it comes to making use of his environment, and unlike Wyclef, he's short enough to duck the quintain's blows when he's off a horse. Still… he waits until the last possible moment, then rolls to the side. Wyclef's blade bites into the post instead.

"Halt!" Sir Cleges barks. "Gentlemen, this is intended to be sparring practice, not mixed target practice and dodging practice. Nor is it intended to humiliate your opponent, Gaheris! Do you think yourself above participation, young man?"

What? "I've parried and blocked exactly like you said last lesson, sir. I don't understand what you want from me." He's only started exclusively dodging in the last three minutes.

Cleges' eyes narrow. "What I want, young man, is for you to pay attention and attack! I've called out at least six openings that you could have used during the course of the fight. I know you're learning to spot them. Now, you need to learn to take advantage of them. And if there aren't any openings, you make them. This isn't something you think about. We train so that your body remembers the patterns of how to attack and defend instinctively, precisely so you don't have to think about it. Thinking isn't the goal here. I know your reaction time is up to it; you need to stop thinking about it so much and just react – by attacking."

Damn it. He's going to have so much quarterstaff practice when this is over.

When the bell rings for the noon meal, Gaheris takes off into the upper castle. He's not so hungry he can't wait an hour or so, and he doesn't particularly want Wyclef to corner him and try and continue their conversation over why Gaheris won't fight back. He's pretty sure Wyclef isn't intending to be a bully, but the taller boy won't accept a non-answer. A yes, a no, or an explanation, but no answer at all results in Wyclef dogging the question until some kind of answer comes clear. Unfortunately, Gaheris' answer of "I don't know," is apparently equivalent in value to a non-answer when it comes to the question, "Why won't you fight me properly?"

He's fighting as best he can. But he's yet to meet someone who'll comprehend that truth. They all think he's holding back, or has some mental hurdle he needs to get over about hurting other people, or that he holds himself above the need to practice with all of his effort. They also believe that, once he gets past the issue, he'll quickly catch up to the standards Gawain had set at the same age.

Gaheris has never been able to convince anyone otherwise.

Not even his parents, or Gawain.

He loves his family, but it is hard sometimes to be expected to live up to your brothers' talents. Especially when you haven't even the average success in fighting.

The only one who understands that Gaheris won't ever become the near-matching copy of Gawain they expect in arms training, as awful as it is to say, is Gareth. Gareth, who does match Gawain's standards, is never more than three months behind their eldest brother in age in mastering any given skill in the knightly arts, and promptly decided Gaheris was stupid and not worth the time to instruct in weaponry the first time he beat Gaheris, when he was eight and Gaheris ten, in a swordfight.

Gaheris loves his family. Even Gareth, as difficult as that sometimes is. But he doesn't like his little brother very much, even now that they're living at a comfortable distance to each other. Logically, he understands that all siblings compete for the attention of their parents, and the parents' spare attention is limited by their other duties as adults. He understands the principles of sharing, that Gareth requires more oversight as the youngest and least mature, and Gawain needs personal attention as he trains to be their fathers' heir.

On good days, Gaheris even takes pride in the fact that he is the most self-sufficient of his siblings, able to pack his own luggage and care for his own horse without the aid of a groom.

On bad days, he admits he's lonely.

Gaheris knows that there are more skills of worth than just the fighting arts, even if they aren't the most prominently useful in wartime. He knows something of how to settle disputes before they become feuds, to listen to all sides of an argument, to ration supplies of seed and tally the bounty of the harvest, and to interpret the law for various crimes.

But he is a younger son of a lord of little land, and even when still a prince in his own right he could not expect much in the way of inheritance. There is no life for him, save as a knight, whether he serves his brother or their uncle King Arthur, and so his inability to do battle drags down his family with him. Gareth says so, and as loath as Gaheris is to admit it, Gareth is right.

It is, thankfully, the only thing Gareth is right about.

Gareth might have something of Gawain's skill at sword and lance and tactics, but that does not make the youngest son of Orkney the authority on all weapons and their users, nor the authority on Gaheris. Gaheris may not be able to wield the sword himself, but his theoretical knowledge is memorized and tested against any situation or historical battlefield his tutors throw at him. On the occasion Sir Cleges asks them to analyze a match of their peers for openings and mistakes, he gets half-decent marks for any comments while it's ongoing and better for any post-bout analysis. It's not the knights' skills he'd prefer, but it's better than nothing. It means that Gareth's claim that he's useless and not worth training is not true.

Gareth's other claim – and this is the one that truly gets under his skin – is that Gaheris is a liar. He is not. He knows what he saw and felt – that strong arm sweeping him behind the archer, the bow and quiver previously obscured by the man's cloak now half-visible as he nocks the arrow, that shot that somehow twisted through the chaos of the battlefield to the horses and riders about to clash. He knows that shot should have been impossible to make, not for the claims of distance and aim that Gareth cites, but for the fact that nothing else was touched, no one else wounded, on the arrow's flight path. But the shot occurred, nonetheless.

His insistence on the truth has consequences. Generally, it favors him as a witness. But in the months since the incident, Gareth has used it to cast doubt on Gaheris' observations in other circumstances – his ability to accurately calculate a distance, or estimate a large number of forces without double-checking his math, are no longer trusted without verification. Not even Gawain trusts him to give an accurate report, now. It's why he left him behind at the castle. A silent statement that Squire Gaheris is unreliable as fighter, servant, or battlefield scout.

There's the castle gate. A walk in the city will clear this bleak mood, hopefully, before he has to return to training.

"Ah, Gaheris. Might I have a moment of your time?"

…Seriously? Just when he was about to escape court and its protocols for an hour? Gaheris groans internally, but his feet automatically turn to face the speaker, face clear of either dissatisfaction or any falsified pleasure at Queen Guinevere's attention. Waiting on her approach, counting her steps until it is time for him to bow.

"My lady Queen. How may I aid you?" Protocol is his guide with this stranger. She may be married to his uncle King Arthur, but Gaheris doesn't know the King, and he certainly doesn't know the new Queen. He's hardly met her aside from a handful of feasts, generally spending his days with the squires and his evenings with Gawain. He certainly doesn't know her well enough to call her Aunt and drop her title.

She pauses, then offers a curtsey in return. Not as low as his bow – one must be mindful of rank, of course – and the hesitation is something of a slight, but he's ready to overlook it since she began this conversation informally.

"Squire Gaheris, of the ruling house of Orkney. Will you walk with me for a moment?" Queen Guinevere's voice is warm with welcome, the gracious hostess even when she's about to escort him back to his class like a tardy scullery boy. "If your schedule is free, of course," she adds hurriedly. "I understand Sir Cleges and Sir Lucan have been keeping the pages and squires busy."

Gaheris could say that he needs to get to his meal, or back to his lesson, and escape her that way, but he'd be a liar the moment he walks out the castle gate. One does not refuse a queen when she requests your company, unless the king summons you at the same moment. His fists clench at his side in frustration momentarily before he forces them to relax. "I would be delighted to accompany you, Queen Guinevere," he says, and it's not a lie when the alternative is returning to class or lying to the Queen. He steps to her side and accompanies her down the hall, farther from the gate.

It takes a moment for the Queen to speak again. Guinevere is a careful woman from what little he's seen of her, aware of the power of her words, choosing and forming her sentences before uttering even one sound. Today is no exception to that, as she waits until they near the corner to ask, "How have you adjusted from living with your parents to living here with your older brother, may I ask?"

Family again? She likely means well, but Gaheris doesn't really want to think about this, let alone talk about it with someone else. His lips purse unhappily, but he answers, "Fine, my queen."

It's true. He's adjusted very well – no nightmares or homesickness like some of the pages, no spending his sleeping hours burning candles to write letters to beg his parents to let him come home, and no trouble listening to Gawain. Admittedly, he's grateful his brother isn't responsible for seeing he gets fed or putting him to bed – Gawain has a lot to keep him busy, and Gaheris is plenty old enough to see to those things for himself. Besides, if Gawain nagged him about meals or tried to tuck him in, it would be humiliating for both of them. As for discipline, it has yet to come up as an issue, and Gaheris intends to keep it that way.

Even if he wasn't adjusting well, he's hardly going to cry into the skirts of a woman he barely knows about it. She's likely asking for form's sake, in any case, so there's no point in giving more detail.

"I am glad to hear it," Queen Guinevere says, and he can see why King Arthur selected her as a bride, because she has the knack of saying things in a way that they come out true no matter what. It's a talent he wishes he had, because while he's always honest, Gaheris tends toward curtness and some people take that as insincerity.

"Is there anything that might make your life more comfortable here? Or more enjoyable?" She turns to face him, halting in the middle of the hallway. He's uncomfortably aware of how many servants or guards they'll block from using this passageway while they're here. "If it's in my power to help, I will."

Gaheris feels his shoulders jolt a little at her last words, still so sincere, despite his suspicion that anyone else would speak them as a mere afterthought. His first thought is an automatic refusal to that assumed afterthought, knowing in such a case that while the speaker might honor the obligation if he called for it, chances are they will not do so gracefully. But he chokes on the words, remembering how Mother offered him help with fitting his new cloak, that last day, after Gawain and Father and Gareth had left the room.

He refused, still smarting at the accusations of 'liar' and 'useless', too wrapped up in his own pain to focus on farewells.

Mother boxed his ears that day, and her words ring through Gaheris' ears just as loudly now – 'One does not growl at a queen like a wounded kennel hound.'

But that is Mother, who just so happens to be a Queen as well. She feels it her duty to fuss over all her sons, and it's she, not Gaheris and not his brothers, who chooses the matters that need fussing over.

Help? When was the last time someone offered me that, when it wasn't his or her job to help me?

His tutors help him regularly of course, if he stumbles on a difficult topic in his studies. That's what they're paid for. Sir Cleges and Sir Lucan try to help him with weapons practice, as they would any squire and page. Gawain and Father do the same, because they're responsible for his training and want him to be a capable warrior they don't need to worry about. But it's the same situation: other people are the ones who decide what he needs to learn, what he needs to be able to do, what he needs help with, and what form the help comes in.

When was the last time they left the method of help, or the decision of what I might need help with, up to me?

He stares at the queen, not sure how to respond, only half aware that he's been silent long enough for it to become potentially awkward, and soon to be understood as sullen and rude. Her brown eyes are still warm and welcoming, remaining patient despite the passage of time. What could a queen possibly do to help me? Why would she want to help me?

"Admittedly," says Queen Guinevere after a long moment, "the war preparations mean that my help is currently limited by the city walls. But once the battle is done with, I'm sure we could send to your home for some things if they'd make you more comfortable – a book, or perhaps some clothes? I know your family keeps hounds – we can send for one, if you'd like that. Or, if you'd like to study a particular subject, I can speak to your tutors now and see what can be done."

Gaheris shakes his head, unable to process the offer. "That's very kind of you, my Lady." It is – those suggestions are well within her power, and her effort would mostly consist of ordering other people to make it happen, so it's almost certainly sincere. But sending for things from home, if he hasn't forgotten something he cannot replace here with less expense, will gain him an instant reputation as a spoiled brat hanging onto his queen's skirts. "But I'm sure the tutors have their own reasons for my current workload." More to the point, the tutors won't approve of him changing his current lesson plan when his knight-master is absent – they'd think he was taking advantage of Gawain's absence to do so. Without their recommendation to move on, or Gawain requesting a particular subject be focused on, Gaheris can't leave one lesson unfinished to study another. No matter how much he'd enjoy applying his mathematics lessons to siege engines or farming tools or monetary accounts, all of which are practical uses of an otherwise abstract subject.

"Maybe," says the queen, her tone wry with understanding of the delicate balance of inoffensiveness, "but sometimes people can use a reminder to reassess and potentially adjust their plans. Challenge your own expectations of yourself, and the expectations of others, and you will likely find some pleasant surprises along the way." She chuckles. "I certainly have, in the course of leaving my father's house to lead married life here in Camelot."

Gaheris looks straight ahead, fighting down a scowl. He's not going to manage it if he has to meet her eyes. "Sometimes, no one will take such a challenge seriously, my lady. No matter how hard you try." She has the protection of the names of both her father and her husband if she seeks to challenge expectations. He has that form of protection too, if he makes a challenge of honor. But that's no good if he doesn't have the fighting skills to back it up. And at this point, he knows better than to challenge his own expectations and hope for any change for the better there. Women are merely laughed at, and while humiliation is painful, it is survivable. Going up against a foe he is unprepared to face, and cannot fight even to a standstill or to exhaustion, would be deadly for Gaheris. He does not understand why Queen Guinevere is encouraging such risk. Has she not heard from his training masters? She should have inquired with them first, if she wanted to discuss such matters and not make a fool of herself.

The queen's lips twist. "Yes, I know a bit of that. It is generally hard for such men to take a woman seriously."

Does she think him a woman, to phrase her advice so? Gaheris is certain this would be more useful for one of her ladies than for himself, and the same is true for her offer of help. Restraining the scowl increases in difficulty.

"In truth, I have only met two people in my life, who take me seriously as a person regardless of my sex or heritage," Queen Guinevere says thoughtfully. "But they do exist."

She is luckier than Gaheris, then. Age and skill matter more in the world he must inhabit.

"And I am certain," she says firmly, "that someone exists who takes you seriously. You don't have to spend your life searching for them. Just… keep your eyes open for someone." She turns, ready to retrace their steps, and adds softly, "I hope I can be one of them."

Gaheris knows his place, and his place is to agree. But he also knows better than to make promises without two conditions applying: first, that he is capable of keeping the promise, and second, that the promise is something he is willing to do. So he replies, politely but without eager commitment, "If it please the Queen, who am I to gainsay her?" and tries not to let his eyes too obviously stray back to the escape of the gate.

Guinevere sighs. "I would not force you into my company when you so clearly prefer to be elsewhere. No, don't apologize – I may as well make one person happy today. Squire Gaheris, unless you hear the alarm bell ring to summon you to your post, consider yourself excused from your schedule until supper – please be back in time for it, and in the castle for the curfew, but go where you please until then. If you intend to go into the city, take at least your cloak and some sort of weapon just in case. I pray it bring you some peace."

Gaheris blinks at her for a moment, stunned, before his wits return and he offers a bow and a fervent, "Thank you, my queen!" He's dashing past her to his room to fetch his cloak, a dagger, and an apple in a moment, determined to get back to the gate and out of the castle before she changes her mind.

He probably ought to regret such a display of eagerness to leave her, but this is the first indisputably good thing that has happened all day, and he can't regret anything leading to that.

Bounding happily past the guards on his way out, he debates going by the stables, but decides that traveling on foot will ultimately clear his mind more. Besides, taking a horse would mean he would have no chance to leave said gelding, and so be unable to climb the city walls. He needs the peace that the view brings. Just as well that it's a clear afternoon; he can keep track of when he needs to leave to make his curfew so long as he's got a good view of the sun's position. As Gawain's squire, he always needs to keep track of that; his brother forgets to keep track when fighting, running the risk of exhausting himself abruptly once it passes noon and his strength is no longer instantly replenished.

It takes an easy hour for him to walk down the hill – a half-hour if the streets were clear, but that's never going to be true on market day. He makes a point not to cling to the walls – he had a bath yesterday, and he's no desire to get doused with a champerpot's contents and have to do it over. Passing the afternoon market, he takes in a cacophony of merchants crying their wares, smells of fresh and less-than-fresh food mixing. And something sharp and acrid that makes him wrinkle his nose – a leatherworker must be here, if he's smelling the stuff they use to treat skins.

"God give you good morrow, masters! Two o'clock, and all's well!" That's the town crier – one of them, anyway. Camelot has several to cover the city. "Curfew is still in effect; be home by dark!"

"Who'll buy apples! Early harvest, ripe red apples!"

"Bread, bread, loaves of bread!"

"Hot meat pies! Hot meat pies, still steaming! Only a ha'penny each!"

Gaheris grins. This is familiar, if much larger in scale. It was one of his favorite errands back home, if mother needed him to run to the market. He's always felt this is the heart of the people, not the law courts or the royal audiences. He makes a point to visit here every two or three days no matter what, keeping track of the prices, what goods are available, and the mood of the crowd. He's small, smart, and quick, and it's rare for a cutpurse to try him as a target unless they're even younger than he is. One of the few obvious advantages of his own lack of height that he thoroughly enjoys.

A few blocks beyond the market are the stairs to the guard posts, the towers built into the walls at regular intervals so the guards can have some shelter from the storms if they come, or protection for archers if someone's trying to scale the wall. The market is kept far enough away from the gates so as not to block traffic, but close enough to be convenient to any farmers or craftsmen who come to market from outside the city, as well as limiting the distance anyone can penetrate the city using the market as a pretext.

Now, Gaheris knows that he's not actually supposed to be going up to the top of the walls unless he's running a message to the guard. He's not a guard himself, after all, and he's not supposed to be distracting them. In peacetime, the walkway behind the ramparts is accessible to civilians, allowing them to cross the town without wasting two or more hours simply to navigate muddy and crowded streets. Due to the current concerns of attack, the guards prefer to limit access rather than risk anyone trying something.

So he's not surprised when the guard stops him.

"Oi, lad! You're not supposed to go up there. No one is but the guards and the castle staff!"

Barely one foot on the stairs, and Gaheris has already gotten called out for his presumption. It's William, the gate sentry.

Fortunately, Gaheris has a prepared excuse – a true one, too. He's been hoping to have a conversation with Sir Lucan, to see if the only possibility he's found for a potentially meaningful career in Camelot has any chance. It would take him away from Gawain's path somewhat, at least, even if he still had to become a knight in the process.

"I'm looking for Sir Lucan. Do you know where he is?"

William comes closer, squinting at the boy. "Gaheris, as I live and breathe! Aren't you supposed to be at your lessons now?"

"I got the afternoon off until dinner." Saying it aloud thrills him all over again. "I was hoping Sir Lucan might be here; I've wanted to speak to him for a few days now. Figured I'd come and find him at a time when I wouldn't have the audience of all the other squires."

William shakes his head in bemusement. "Do you have an official message for him?"

"No message, but—"

"Then you know I can't let you up there, lad. And who gave you the afternoon off, anyway?"

"The Queen herself," Gaheris says, surprised that this is what's being questioned. "Please, William. I just need a couple minutes to talk to the guards, find out where Sir Lucan is."

"Not without an official message, Gaheris! You know this."

Gaheris' shoulders slump. He really shouldn't be doing this, but… "The Queen's words aren't official enough?"

William raises an eyebrow. "What does the Queen have to do with this?"

"She said I should go where I pleased, as long as I was back in time for supper and curfew. You have my word, I have permission." Assumed permission, anyway.

William stares at him, then guffaws with laughter. "I have a feeling you're stretching your permission a bit, Gaheris, but I know you're a good lad, so I'll let it slide just this once. You listen to the guards up there, you hear? Don't lean out over the wall, don't step into the notches to play, do what you need to and get back down here without lingering – twenty minutes is the longest it should take. Is that clear?"

"Clear as springwater at the source," Gaheris promises, checking the angle of the sun once more. "Thanks, William. Apple?" He pulls an extra one from his pocket, offering it.

William scoffs. "Do I look like a man to accept bribes? Be off with you. You'll lose me my place!"

Laughing, Gaheris takes the stairs two at a time, bounding up. The stone wall surrounding Camelot is as tall or taller than three men of Gawain's height standing on each other's shoulders, about two thirds as thick as it is high, and the towers might be three times as tall as the wall. He always feels better when he's up there, where he can see everyone and everything. Not quite as free as a wild hawk, but certainly as if he's temporarily granted the advantage of their eyesight to look for opportunity and danger. Even when he's back on the ground, time on the wall leaves him more certain of himself and his power to choose his own fate in the immediate future.

The guards challenge him again at the top, demanding to see his lead-stamped token of identity, to confirm him as a castle resident. They're less good humored than William, in their layers of quilted leather and mail and the cloak for bad weather on top, plus the helmet; given the heat, it can't be comfortable. Gaheris approves of the belligerence, honestly, even if it's not such good luck for him personally. If they were any less suspicious, he'd be worried about spies slipping past them.

Finally, they agree to go and check with one of their fellows for Sir Lucan's schedule; he is certainly on the wall at this hour, but which part of it, they do not know.

Two minutes alone until they come back. Even if that's all he gets, Gaheris will enjoy them. The cool breeze tickling his hairline under his hood, the spread of his hands gripping the stone of the battlements, the noise of the city behind him as merchants begin to pack up their wares and a steady trickle of farmers leaves the gates below his feet. It's not suppertime or near it, not yet, but close enough that people who aren't spending the night in the city need to prepare to leave.

He closes his eyes, just to enjoy it for a moment. To exist, to imagine himself as one of Father's hawks, gliding on the wind. Let the breeze do the work for a moment, as he glides even higher. Can birds climb to the clouds? Could he maybe see his body in Camelot, his birthplace in Orkney, and his brother in Guildford all at once, if he was that high?

Below him, the ground stretches out, the road and its surroundings clear of any trees or other cover a sneaking army might hide behind. It's not evening yet, even if the sun is sinking lower. The string of wagons, horses, and walkers have begun to exit, slowly but steadily, streaming out onto the road before him. To the imaginary hawk's vision, they look nothing so much like a stream of ants exiting their sandy mound on business for their tiny city, the illusion only more apt with every upward beat of the hawk's wings. Busy and important, to the traveling insects' grand scheme of the world, but easily crushed, even in the protection of their home, should a boot tread on it. Though a hawk's nest is just as vulnerable, if the eagle or serpent finds it – which is why his brother and their new king-uncle are away, and leaving the nest-citadel lonely, to draw the predators away…

Heh. He really must be maudlin, if his thoughts are shifting into such obvious animal metaphors. He knows perfectly well that this train of thought is doomed to end on a depressed note, as soon as he returns to reality, where he has no wings or beak or claws, and no skill at any recognized weapons to fight on his own behalf for his own choices. Usually, he has better sense than to let himself start down the path to this daydream. Maybe if he extends it, instead? Imagines his way to a birds' eye view of the south, to check on his brother? He could use good news, even if there are no facts to back up his imaginings.

The daydream is shattered when the breeze abruptly dies. His hair hangs flat against his forehead, sticky with the heat, clammy with the cooling temperature. Gaheris sighs aloud, unsurprised that his excellent streak of luck has finally broken. Ah, well. If it had to break, this was probably a good time for it. But why did it get so cold…?

He opens his eyes, then blinks.

"Huh? Did I fall asleep for a moment? No…"

Where did the light go? He checks the sky for a storm cloud, but sees nothing to explain the sudden decrease in light. It's too early to be starting on sunset yet.

He looks lower to the ground, then stares.

He's found a cloud, all right. A fog bank, thick and steady, climbing to meet the travelers and overtaking them swiftly. A fog bank that shouldn't exist. He's seen this kind of land-fog before, knows it behaves differently from what forms at sea. In Orkney, he wouldn't be surprised at it suddenly appearing like this. But land-fog is different. It can form like this, close to the ground and quickly, but not during the day. It may linger for the whole day, once it forms during the night, if no winds or sufficient sunlight come to disperse it, but it can't appear by daytime!

Yet appear it has, creeping up the castle walls, climbing them slowly but steadily. "Some weather expert I am," Gaheris mutters, moving closer to the tower. He doesn't want to get caught outside on top of the wall in something that thick; that's just asking to take a tumble and break his neck.

The guards should have been back by now, right?

A whistle, whirling through the air, comes from behind him. Gaheris turns, instinctively raising an arm to protect his head – he knows that particular whistle best from slingshot practice with shepherds on Orkney, the stone released to pass through the air.

Just in time, too.

"Ah!" A heavy weight rips at the material of his sleeve, before catching in the notch of the battlements, the attached rope pulling taut beneath it. More whistles, and the battlements next to it are likewise hooked.

That's not a slingshot. That's an iron weight larger than his fist, three pronged and shaped like a miniature anchor, with a rope attached to one end. But this isn't the sea, and the not-anchor has been thrown up, not down.

And the rope… is extending down the outside of the wall.

Instinct saves him then, as the door opens at his back, and he whirls away from the tower and the spear coming at him. That isn't the guard, nor Sir Lucan. The man's wearing the right uniform, but it's oddly stained. Gaheris knows all the guards, and knows that there haven't been any new recruits for a month.

"Intruder!" he bellows, as best he can, the way Sir Cleges has trained him and the other squires to bellow across a battlefield and have their voices carry, and he doesn't have the energy to be embarrassed at the way his voice cracks on the shout. "We're under attack!" If he's wrong, and this is a bad prank or a misunderstanding, he'll live with the embarrassment. He'll even be glad of the humiliation for once. But he doesn't think that's going to happen. That's a bloodstain. Not animal blood on the butcher's clothes. Human blood.

The guards aren't coming. Should he try for the signal fire on top of the tower, to warn the castle, or the lookout on the hills outside, before the fog ruins it? But he'll never get past this man, not without another weapon. He's half the brute's age, scarcely more than half the thug's size. And more men are scaling the rope ladders attached to those not-anchors.

"That wasn't very smart, boy."

The spear whistles again. Gaheris dodges, overbalances, and finds himself slipping over the edge of the wall. He screams again, trying to warn someone in his last moments. He is a squire of Camelot, and he won't sell his life cheaply, not like this, not without warning of the danger.

He lands, unexpectedly, in the back of a cart, by the gatehouse, full of hay. No horse hitched to it.

Someone's under him. They're sticky, and bony, and ow, he's going to have bruises if he lives through this. "Sorry! Are you—"

He scrambles up, half aware his face is stained, and sees William, half his face ruined from a sharp blow, dead eyes turned toward the sky, body half-covered in hay where Gaheris hasn't disturbed the camouflage. Stripped naked of clothes and weapons.

The guards are dead. The merchants are dead. Their bodies and carts block the gate.

He has to get out of here. He has to warn the castle, before they open the gates all unsuspecting to their doom.

Gaheris runs. Stumbling out of the cart, feet over the cobblestones. No sign of any horses, not living. Dammit. He leaps over a patch of mud, barely dodging a pile of horse droppings on one side. Forget the smell; if he skids and falls now, he's never going to be able to get back up and away from the attackers in time.

Arrows whistle past him. He barely dodges to one side, trying frantically to break the line of sight. He can't scream and draw attention, and he doesn't have the breath for it anyway.

How did they even get into the city? How long have they been inside? Slitting the guards' throats is one thing, but stripping them and dressing in the corpses' clothes would take time, even if only a few minutes.

No time to think about it. Run, run, run. He has to get away. He has to…

The market is too open, and too empty. The crowd is gone. Where is everyone? Are they all killed? Where are the bodies? Don't look, no time, no time…

Behind him, he hears a scream, cut off within two seconds. Gaheris bites his lip, and keeps moving, knowing it's too late for him to do anything about it. If he wants to save anyone, including himself, he has to keep running. He never goes too high, never slows down. If he has to roll under a cart, so be it, but he won't crawl. Too much risk of getting trapped or losing momentum.

The pottery stall overturns with a crash, mere yards behind him. His legs are beginning to burn, but he can't stop now. They're too close. He pushes the apple baskets to the side, letting them spill over the road.

He needs a weapon. Not his own dagger, that won't be enough, but a spear could be useful. Hell, even just a shield to sling over him so he wasn't wasting so much time – thwap! – dodging arrows! That one almost went through his foot.

He has to get back.

He's living up to everything Gareth has ever said about him – coward, useless, worthless for training…

It doesn't matter. He's not craven; he's smart. It doesn't matter that he doesn't want to die. He'll die if he has to, but he has to warn the castle. His life, his honor, they don't matter in that scale. His duty is to warn his lord, or the authority appointed in the king's absence. He's the only one who can do this.

"You can't hide forever, boy!"

That's true. But if I can just hide long enough…

There! The smiths' street. There's a fire smoking out the chimney from one shop, still. The door is closed most of the way, but Gaheris needs a damned weapon, and he'll leave his money pouch there and pay the rest back later. He has to hide long enough to catch his breath.

He ducks, rolls, and lands on his feet, running the last step around the corner, yanking open the door, and slamming it shut behind him, yanking the heavy bolt down. Hopefully he's bought enough time to actually choose a weapon.

His shirt is sticking to his back, soaked in sweat and probably other things he really doesn't want to think about right now. He's breathing harsh and fast, too loud to hear anything else in his own ears. He can't listen for outside noises to see if they're catching up. And the bolt is catching, and heavy; he can't force it the rest of the way down without making more noise than would be helpful.

The fact that he hasn't heard any screams aside from the one, along with the fact that the attackers are stealing uniforms, suggests a priority on the element of surprise, and therefore a need to eliminate any witnesses or suspicion for the time being. If he can hide long enough for the searchers to lose track of him, they'll likely avoid a more thorough search in the interests of secrecy.

At least, until they're done with the need for surprise…

"And where do you think you're going in such a hurry, young man?" a voice inquires from behind him.

Gaheris whirls, a hand going to his belt for a sword that he doesn't have. I didn't lose them. They got here first.

He can barely make out the figure standing in the shadows of the forge. A tall man, not obviously armed, but with arms crossed and most of him a silhouette further obscured by flickering shadows of the embers of a banked fire. That's likely a trick of the light. And any of the smith's work, or tools, within the man's reach, would be suitable weapons in a pinch. This one's fond of subtle intimidation.

I'm not craven. If they've run me to ground, I won't give them my back to wound. I'll die with my head held high, and making as much trouble for them as I can… but I refuse to accept that it's over yet.

"I won't let you stop me from warning the castle," Gaheris says, surprised at how steady his voice comes out. "I don't care if you've caught me, I won't stop running unless you kill me." He takes a bold step forward, towards his attacker and the embers. It will burn his hand, but if he can fling hot ash in the man's face, it will blind him a bit.

"Wait, what? Warn the castle?" The man sounds surprised, and concerned. "What's happened?"

"Don't you know?" His voice isn't one Gaheris recognizes from the calls of the men searching for him. But it could be a trap. He won't let down his guard.

"All I know is that you came charging into my shop like a pack of rabid dogs were on your heels." The man – the smith, possibly – turns to keep facing Gaheris as he moves, head tilting like he's trying to get a better view. "Are you injured? That's not only dirt you're covered in, and I can see a lot of stains on your front. I'd say you've had a bloody nose, but it starts higher on your face than that."

His face. Where he landed in the hay, face down, on top of – no, he'll be sick if he thinks about it. He can't be sick; he needs to keep thinking and keep moving. And he'll not give a potential foe an excuse to get close and give him more wounds. The ash attack won't work very well if the man's watching so closely that he closes his eyes in defense, so Gaheris dismisses that plan and backs toward the weapons shelf instead, never taking his eyes off the man. In the corner of his eye, he can see a sword hilt. That will have to do.

"If you're the smith, come into the light and prove it," he challenges. "Or I'll assume that you're one of the 'rabid dogs' I've tried to evade." He won't use the word 'outrun', because he is not prey to be hunted.

The man takes two more steps, slowly, stopping when Gaheris wraps a hand around the sword hilt. He's only half in the light, and the shadows obscure all of his face above his jaw, but he's wearing the smith's clothes at least. Not that clothes mean much tonight. "Yes, well, I'd like to know who the rabid dogs are, in this case. Did you get into a fight with a gang of your fellow street urchins? It would certainly explain all the mud."

Fellow street urchins? Gaheris gapes, a mix of indignation and astonishment momentarily overwhelming the desperation and fear that's kept him from collapsing. He's aware that he's filthy, but… "Do I look like I've been running from children? I'm short, not a child. I'm fourteen!" Even twenty children bent on making his life hell couldn't push him to this state of desperation, let alone leave him with this many developing bruises. If it were kids, he'd have stayed right where he was and dealt with the problem then and there, not run to get help.

The man snorts. "And clearly not used to stressful situations. A tip, boy; never divulge information that you don't have to."

On a normal day, Gaheris would bristle at such blatant condescension. It is anything but a normal day. Assuming he is dealing with the shopkeeper – more and more likely, given the man hasn't stopped him from going for a weapon or come any closer – he needs to explain why he's about to take a weapon without paying fully for it. "Fine, then. I don't have time for this anyway. I only came in to borrow a weapon so I could survive out there."

The smith's arms cross. "Oh? Then I hope you have the money for it, or you won't be leaving with one. I don't take kindly to thieves."

"I swear I'll pay it back later if this isn't enough." Gaheris fumbles at his belt, untying his money pouch and tossing it at the smith. "But I need it now. I have to get back and warn the castle."

One hand slips out lightning fast, catching the pouch, clearly near empty. The smith is unimpressed. "Do you take me for a half-wit? If I had a silver coin for every time I heard 'I'll pay for it later, let me have the goods now', boy… well. I wouldn't need to work anymore, at the very least. Now, how about you calm down, and let me see what you've done to your face. You're in no condition to be running with a sword that size in your hand. You're like to cut your own foot or nose off if you try."

"It's not my blood," Gaheris says. He should be moving, trying to get the blade up between them. But he can't make his trembling legs move. This man feels dangerous in a way Gaheris would expect of a grizzled soldier rather than a craftsman. Not dangerous to Gaheris personally, though, at least until he suggested taking the sword without full payment.

"Then whose blood is it? All over your face and hands, and some on your clothes…" The man's grey eyes stare at the sword. "Did you just kill someone?"

No, I was just unfortunate enough to land on the body. Gaheris doesn't dare open his mouth and risk verbalizing that thought. Instead, he raises the sword, ignoring his faintly trembling arms.

The man sighs, turns and grabs something from the side table, ignoring Gaheris' shift into a blocking stance. He drops it into a bucket, liquid faintly sloshing, then pulls it out, dripping and limp, wringing out the excess liquid. "Clean yourself up, and let's discuss payment and who you are. I refuse to get a reputation for selling to already bloodied troublemakers when you leave here."

Gaheris scowls at the rag. He's wasted enough time here as it is without cleaning up and discussing payment. He has to get to the castle! But if he argues, will that waste even more time?

Splat. His eyes are covered. The wet cloth blocks eyes, nose and mouth. He grabs it and pulls it off, swiping it roughly across his face as it goes, getting it as clean of the blood as he can. "I told you, I don't have time. Here, this is probably valuable enough to cover the remaining coin." He drops the rag, pulls the pin and brooch out of his cloak, letting the cloth drop to the floor, and tossing the fastener with its emblem to the smith. "I'll pay you tomorrow and reclaim my pin, if I'm alive to do it. Now can I go, or are you going to let everyone at the castle and in the city be slaughtered in their beds before I can raise the alarm?"

The smith blinks at him, his catch absent and half hearted. It's his only movement, otherwise oddly still. It's oddly familiar; Gaheris thinks of hunting trips with his father, where a suspicious animal would freeze in its tracks, hoping it hadn't already been spotted and wouldn't be if it didn't move. As if Gaheris is the predator. Hah. Like he could really pose a threat to this guy.

"Is the payment fair? Clap hands and a bargain?" If the smith isn't who he appears, this is when the man will go for him, when he comes in close. Gaheris leaves himself apparently open, offering one hand.

"Add in the story of what's going on out there, as much as you can get out quickly, and yes, I'll call it fair," the man says slowly. "I get the feeling this isn't the children's game or a tussle with boys too confident in their training, as I initially assumed."

Gaheris groans. "More delays?"

Outside, there's another scream. It's cut off too.

"Fine. We've got invaders over the walls, and they're smart enough to want it to be a surprise attack for the castle if the stolen uniforms from the dead guards mean anything. I was fortunate enough to witness it, and started running. They didn't like that." Gaheris speaks as fast as he can, inching toward the door. "I have to get to the castle and warn them so they can ring the alarm bell. Also, some kind of unnatural fog happened, along with a lack of sun well before sunset, and I'm pretty certain everyone on the walls is dead and that's why they haven't raised the alarm. And they've blocked the gates with dead merchants and dead horses and their wagons, slaughtered as they were going out."

"Ah. I suppose I'd better get my bow, then." The smith pulls the leather apron over his head, folding it and placing it on the workbench. "Thank you for the warning, lad."

He believes me, just like that, as soon as I've told him the full story. Gaheris nods in grateful acknowledgement to the smith, now shrugging on a quilted black gambeson and a black hood over his head, pulling an unnoticed bow from its place on the wall to string it.

Gaheris takes a good grip on the sword. His other hand is on the bolt, ready to lift it.

The door shudders at his touch. Someone's pounding on it, from the other side.

Gaheris flinches, hand drawing back. "Can I get out by the rooftop?"

The smith doesn't respond for a moment, eyes narrowed on the door. Gaheris repeats the question.

"Not without a distraction. I guess I'll have to provide one," the man says slowly. "Are you any good at roof-jumping?" Stepping forward, he places one hand on the door, pushing the boy aside. Blocking the whole frame with his body for a moment as he mutters something under his breath, before stepping back and shoving a bench in front of the door.

Roof-jumping? Gaheris did that back in Orkney, on the occasional dare. But the buildings were much closer to the ground and to each other if he fell, and he hasn't tried it here since he first arrived. He says so.

The man snorts. "It'll have to do. Get back to the castle as fast as you can. I'll send a warning that should draw attention from both the enemy and allies in the meantime, and keep it away from you." He strides toward the back of the smithy, pulling one door aside in the storeroom. "Bring that dark cloak of yours with you. I've got a spare pin you can borrow."

Gaheris follows, nervously glancing back at the door. The pounding on it has increased. "They'll try to set fire to the roof if they can't get in, you know. Smoke us out."

The man laughs, truly amused. "Good. They'll have a fun time wasting their efforts, then. I've put a great deal of money into this smithy, and it's not going to burn down easily. I made sure of that when I repaired the place. There's a reason I don't have a thatched roof, unlike every other building in this town." Grabbing a long stave off the smithy walls, he shoos Gaheris through the entry of a storeroom, shutting and bolting the door behind to leave them in darkness. "Let your eyes adjust; I need two minutes to finish arming and getting the materials for my distraction together." A chest's lid impacts one of the walls, and then Gaheris can only hear leather and metal scraping against cloth, metal sliding against metal, chain mail clinking before cloth muffles it. String, sliding against wood and catching, wood bending, and string catching again.

Beyond the door, the pounding slows in regularity, but increases in volume. What the hell are the men outside doing, and how long will the door stand up to it? Not long enough.

"There," says the smith, his voice satisfied, as the chest's lock catches. "Now, let's get onto the roof, and give you a clear path home, lad. Remember – no matter what you hear or see, don't stop running. I'll make sure they have other things to keep their attention on."

"You're going to die almost certainly for the message I'm carrying, you know," Gaheris whispers, as they climb the ladder to the loft where the smith sleeps and its window with the hidden shutter. He doesn't want to doubt the smith, not when the man had believed him instantly as soon as he had the full story rather than bits and pieces. But he saw those odds, and the enemy has bowmen too.

"Maybe," the smith agrees, good-humored in a way that suggests agreement that the possibility exists, but the odds of it coming true are infinitesimal. "But I don't intend to do so. I intend to give these people a warm welcome for their trouble. Seems a suitable repayment for the welcome they've given the town, yes?" He chuckles darkly, then bends at the waist, pulling Gaheris up the rest of the way and kicking the ladder to the floor beneath them.

"Ready?"

"No," admits Gaheris. "But if I don't go now, I never will."

"That's the spirit. Be quiet, now; you don't want them to hear us." The shutter slides open, and the man climbs out, once more pulling Gaheris behind him. It's a familiar strength, that protective arm. Just like the archer who saved Father. Gaheris supposes it must be a requirement for all archers and blacksmiths to possess such strength, but even so, he takes comfort in the stranger's strength.

In the faint light left, he can barely make out the smith. One quiver of arrow on his back, another strapped to his right thigh, each containing at least twenty arrows and likely more. Over the black knee-length gambeson he's added a black hood, a leather skullcap and a long vest. A bastard sword at his left hip, fingerless gloves, and tall black boots complete the outfit. The black stave from the wall of the forge lies at their feet on the roof, somehow not rolling off the edge.

Beneath them and to one side, the men are still pounding at the forge doors. If they look up… they'll see him. How can they not?

The smith lifts one finger, points to it, gestures across the way, picks up an arrow in his other hand. Then he raises all five fingers, and lowers one.

A countdown. Five…

Gaheris takes one step higher on the roof. Four.

Three. Another step.

Two. One more.

One – Run.

His feet pound over the roof, his heart pounding in his throat the minute he takes that one weightless step –

He's flying – falling – not going to make it – going to die – going to –

He hisses, calluses tearing like soft wheat bread against the bite of the stone ledge. No time to cry – get up – hurry.

If he falls, it will be men that kill him, not impact with the ground. That gives him the strength to dig his fingertips into crumpling mortar, brace with his toes, and yank himself onto the ledge, arms burning with the effort of hauling his full weight around, not daring to cry lest he blind himself. The sword bumps his leg, and he prays it doesn't bang into the wall.

Someone shouts behind him, horrified.

Time to go. He's over the roof ridge and jumping onto the next, and it's easier somehow when he remembers that someone is fighting behind him, trying to give him time to escape because that message is worth the potential sacrifice. He's got no sense of time with the stars missing and the sun gone, but he can see the distance still.

There's a burst of light behind him, high in the air, making the shadows flee for one glorious moment, followed by a bellow of rage. Gaheris winces at the sound. Part of him wants to slow down and look at whatever it is, so he can see what's coming for him –

"Remember – no matter what you hear or see, don't stop running. I'll make sure they have other things to keep their attention on."

It's the only thing the smith asked of him, besides getting his message to the castle.

Gaheris keeps his eyes to the path in front of him, and runs.

---

The attack comes from an inland river venture, as predicted, but with far less warning than anyone had expected.

One of Merlin's avian spies catches the raiders sailing up the River Arun, past sentries who kept staring anxiously out to sea and never saw the longships slipping past. Then, somehow, the rowers got the longships to the River Wey, despite the distance overland and no water to bring the boats through, and no explanation for how they could get the boats so far so fast when the only way to move them was to carry them. Yet somehow the raiders must have done it, for even now, their crews were sailing them downstream from Tilford.

A bare seven miles from Tilford, the River Wey flows eastwards and northward through Godalming. Past that, the river flows eventually to Surrey and into the River Thames. From the Thames onward, it is easy to guess at the raiders' plan of travel.

"Londinium," says Kay flatly. "Only this time, they're coming at it from the side no one knows to watch, because they'll all be watching the sea. Even with only five of the smaller ships, that's… around two hundred men. Every one of them armed to the teeth, and riding as much a reputation of terror as their own skill."

"We don't have time to debate this, Kay," Arturia snaps, double-checking the buckles of her armor, shaking herself to see if anything sticks in place or falls loose. "Even the slower longships have an average speed of five knots. We'd less than an hour for them to get here when we got the warning. Now, we've only ten minutes at most. The curve and bend of the river is the only thing slowing them down enough for us to even ready ourselves like this; Merlin's warning is the only reason we even know to do so. Merlin, can you block the river faster? Ector's taken his men to watch the hill pass."

The magus is hopping from foot to foot, back and forth across the river ford, as well as a length of some distance on either bank. Flowers build beneath his feet with every step. He shoots Arturia an annoyed look, but never ceases the pacing. "I assure you, I'm walking as fast as I can, my dear king. But the flowers' growth isn't something I can control very much when I'm overlaying steps like this. It's tricky to ensure they all have firm roots in the ground and not in each other, not to mention the two-foot thorns you requested, and keeping it all tied to the underwater trellis of spiked logs you've given me to work with." His head tilts. "Of course, if you'd prefer me to go faster, I can. The longships will only need a nice strong push to tear through the flower-root barrier, in that case. Or perhaps you'd prefer I push so much mana into this that it grows solid as petrified wood? I wouldn't have thought you enjoyed floods as entertainment."

"What do floods have to do with it?" Kay asks.

The magus shoots a look at the sky in answer. Weather has not been cooperative; less than an hour past, a fierce rain was turning the ground muddy and slippery, and limited their ability to see beyond the closest bend in the river.

"The narrow valley that creates an advantage for bottleneck tactics and shield walls moving from uphill to downhill doesn't serve to herd men alone," Arturia says, quietly. "It will also herd water, if the water doesn't have a place to go."

"But the riverbed… oh."

"Yes, the riverbed, which Merlin is partially blocking at my orders." It was a tricky thing to create a barrier like this, potentially raising the water levels without flooding when you had no other track to divert the water into. Merlin had accordingly begun by raising the banks on either side of the river into firm hedges, which her army was meant to brace with earthen dykes, intending to create a dam. Arturia had stopped him before he flooded her intended battlefield, and told him to actually listen to the army engineers when they explained how to anchor the plan of joined spikes without blocking the river entirely, driving them deeply into the riverbed so they wouldn't drift but still keeping them close enough to the surface that they would pierce a longship's shallow draft.

"We can't simply dam the stream, by design or by accident, or our men will have nowhere to stand on land. The water has to keep flowing, and the barrier must be invisible, or they'll just reverse oars and go back the way they came, and we'll never catch up. We can't just sink one of our own ships intentionally, because we don't have anything larger than a two-man fishing cog. So, spikes it is, driven into the riverbed, and the flowers and roots to anchor it, with some thorns as additional spikes. A barrier made invisible under the water's surface, but ready to pierce any longship hull that comes near it."

Originally, the engineers had not wanted to use Merlin's magic at all, more confident in their own efforts. But they had run out of time to construct as planned. Now, she just had to hope that the makeshift barrier was enough of an encumbrance to block the longships from continuing further. If they could sink one or two ships, even better; the scuttled vessels would be not only be useless in their own right, but in their graves they would halt other vessels from continuing to sail further.

The crews would have to get out and fight, killing every last man in her army, before they could keep sailing. If they decided on a fighting retreat and making a run for the hill pass on foot instead of defending the boats… Sir Ector would be waiting.

"You've sent word to Londinium?" she asks, tightening her swordbelt.

"If the worst happens, Pellinore will have heard of it. My best riders took the message." No matter what, Pellinore will know the new danger to prepare to defend against.

"Then godspeed to you, brother, and be ready with your portion of the shield wall."

Excalibar and Avalon are at her side, and the dagger Carnwennan is securely sheathed at her spine. Her hair is braided out of her eyes; her helmet is on her head. Her men are in place, save for Merlin, who still paces the ford. Llamrei stands patiently waiting for her master, along with the other horses.

Arturia stands and moves to face her men, waiting with their shields.

"Today, we face a vile foe indeed," she begins, slowly, trying not to let her voice carry on the water. "For weeks, we have lost villages, farms, fields of crops, and all the people who worked and lived there. Now, the men responsible are sailing towards us to do it again. If we do not stop them now, the country will slowly starve. If we do not stop them here, Londinium will swiftly fall." She smiles bitterly. "I say I am going to stand in their way, and end this today. We must save our war cries if we are to preserve our foes' shock, so, those who will fight with me, raise your blades."

A mass of spears and swords and pikes, even seven bows off to one side, lift to the sky in a silent answer.

Merlin pauses, tilting his head, then leaps onto the riverbank and strides toward her. "They're about to round the bend." Behind him, the flowers submerge themselves.

Arturia nods. "Archers, to your arrows. They've made a great rain of blood. Let us repay them with a rain of fire in their sails. And let the war-cry be the thunder to follow it."

As the first wooden prow turns into sight, seven arrowheads dip into the pot of oil, then into the flaming torches. The archers nock their bows, draw the arrows back so far Arturia wonders how the bows are not set alight as well when the arrow shaft is beginning to burn, and let them fly.

Two arrows overshoot, ending on the far shore. One lands in the river just past the stern, the archer having underestimated the speed of the first boat. One hits the bow of the second boat. One manages to land in an oarlock on the first target, and is quickly snuffed out by the crew. The last two hit the sail, high above where an oarsman can deal with it easily. Cries of alarm carry to the hilltop.

The steersman and most of the rowers stay at their places. But others pull their oars in and arm themselves to defend the rowers, or yank at the sail ropes, shouting to the boats behind them about the attackers. Or so Arturia assumes; she's not the best speaker of Saxon dialects, even when she's standing close enough to make out the individual words.

Another archer manages to start a fire on the second ship, but the last three boats are working full speed, furling sails, coiling ropes, and trying to lower the masts into the deck. The archers are sending arrows at the crews as well, trying to pick them off before the men have a chance to grab their shields. The rest of her army jeers, howling at the Saxons.

"You had a lot of fun fighting people who couldn't fight back, or who didn't have a chance to fight back, didn't you? How about you come and cut your teeth on a real warrior? Come on, or are you too scared to fight without the protection of your ships, eh? That's right, run away in fear!"

"Come on, you sons of bitches, fight me! Or should I go find your mother and give her a real son to be proud of? I bet she'd enjoy it!"

"Too craven to raise a spear and face me, eh? Will you give me a better fight if I piss on your father's grave first?"

Insults are a standard battlefield tactic, as much as Arturia might feel personally that they're a waste of breath. The insulter raises his own confidence, and the insulted is angered and more likely to do something stupid.

Right now, it's just one more distraction, one more thing to keep the men from looking further along the river to see where they're going.

The last boat has rounded the bend, trying to row backwards just enough to avoid a collision. The third boat has slipped to one side, trying to get around the ones in front of it.

Perfect.

"Merlin, I believe it's time. Let's give them another problem."

The magus sighs, readying his staff. "Remind me why I agreed to this, my student. Wouldn't it be quicker just to punch them? Or use my sword?"

"We are punching them. Punching holes in the bottom of their ships."

Merlin chuckles. "Fine. I suppose it will be a fun prank, to pour water into their boots. But I am never letting you talk me into using my poor flowers like this again. From the edge of paradise, you shall hear my words! Awaken, my Garden!"

The water bubbles, boils, churns with the thrashing under the surface.

There is a hiss of water, and the ship begins to falter, slowing down, one end abruptly lower in the water, and dipping further with every lap of the river. One, two, three vessels are all compromised. The final two boats are shouting at the men in front of them, trying to find out what is going on.

Behind her, the army cheers.

One man snarls, shouts back at the two boats still intact. The oars reverse course, trying to back water until they can turn around without colliding. Someone recommended a partial retreat, then.

"Merlin, would you?"

"My king works me so very hard. I shall need at least two weeks of nothing but rest, food, drink and the comfort of sympathetic women after this," Merlin laments, opening his palm in front of him. "It is a good thing I can make dreams reality. Behold, King Arthur, they are fishes, and I am a fisherman, catching them in my net. For now, they can swim along easily if they stay in its boundaries, but when I pull the net tight…" He clenches one fist.

Behind the boats, another set of spikes raise themselves from the water. Three foot thorns are always intimidating.

Steersmen bark commands swiftly, and one side of the rowers back paddles, while the other side rows forward, sharply turning to land on the shore, away from the spikes. They've decided to fight.

They pour onto the shore, oars stowed, ships dragged up the beach. Save for ten men left as ship-guards, they all come racing up the hill, roaring, striking their shields with their swords and spears. The three sinking ships are fighting a losing battle with the river, but will join their comrades soon or drown. She must face thirty, sixty men for now, perhaps, but soon? Soon, there will be a hundred and more.

"Shield wall!"

In the front rank, men drop to crouch at the bottom, shields overlapping at the edges. Behind them, another group, raising their shields to lock over the front row's faces. A third row, to protect the heads of all, and a fourth row of the tallest men with shields facing the sky, ready for arrows and spears. Behind the barricade of men, the rest of the army readies their own spears, to hurl them over their comrades' heads.

This is a good tactic for flat fields, but it is also advantageous when one has the high ground and the enemy does not. The river valley's sides make for a steep climb, and their enemies will exhaust themselves in part coming to them.

It is not a fair fight, but Arturia cannot think of her ideals of fairness now. She is a king, and to protect her people and their happiness and safety, she will be ruthless.

One crew, having gotten its sinking boat to the opposite shore, has dragged it up and set a small portion of men to repairs, while the others wade back over the river to join their comrades.

"Your brother wants to know if he should move, or hold back," Merlin says.

"Keep his forces hidden for the moment," Arturia says, mindful of Merlin's warning that his familiars cannot pass on messages beyond a nonverbal 'yes' or 'no'. "If another boat lands there and starts fleeing, he can deal with them. For now, I'd prefer they not come near our baggage carts."

She raises her voice. "Spears!"

A row of spears whistle over the shield-wall, meeting the enemy's first charge. One man takes it in the throat, another in the leg. Each is trampled swiftly in their own comrades' rush forward.

Sword against sword, shield against shield. They crash and push and struggle at each other. Occasionally, the wall breaks for a bare moment, allowing someone to target more directly, engaging with spear or sword before closing the break in the shields lest an enemy take the opportunity.

Rushing like this, without forming a wall of their own… they'll die like this, easily, if they don't learn fast. Saxons learn quickly, so Arturia intends to deal as much slaughter as she can with this.

The crews below are coming out of their boats, angry but careful. They're taking the time to form their own shield-wall, and march up with it, roaring battle cries and insults of their own.

"We do not need magic to hold what is ours! Once your spell-singer is dead, you will be lost!"

"You call yourselves men, to follow a boy without even stubble as a king?"

"Mighty fine spear you've got there, Briton! My son will enjoy playing with it, until he's old enough for a real weapon!"

"Do you bed your wife as limply as you thrust with this spear? No wonder she came looking for someone who could actually give her what she wanted!"

There's the last of the stragglers, save for the boat guards, joining the Saxon shield wall. Motioning to her lead archer, Arturia tells him, "If you have a chance to take out the guards, do so. Don't make the lot of them retreat beyond the river if possible; save that until the end of the battle. But if a straggler comes to join the fight…"

"Fear not. If the opportunity to remove one comes, it will be done, my King." He bows gravely, and offers her a javelin. She accepts, and moves to take her place among the soldiers.

After that, it is all one long clash, slamming shields against shields, slipping in the mud, the screams of the dying and the silence of the dead. The blood and the mud and the corpse-making. The pleading of muscles that grip a weapon so tightly they cannot let go of it. The stink of sweat and piss and vomit as warriors foul themselves in fear or in death. The smoke of the fire where it creeps up from the river. The sound of wood splintering as a shield finally falls to pieces, and the scream of the man behind it when an enemy takes advantage of the new vulnerability. It is nothing Arturia has not experienced before, but it will never be something she enjoys or can fully get used to.

Because she is the King, she cannot take her turn in the shield wall like any other man, not when she has no heir and it is the area of battle where a warrior is most likely to die. She cannot add Prydwen to the mass of shields. She cannot stand and fight and die with her men.

Instead, she mounts Llamrei, and when the enemy pushes the wall near to breaking, she charges out on her horse, making herself a target and a more available foe all in one. They try to knock her off her horse, to kill the mare under her, to get a spear inside her helmet or armpit where the armor joints leave a necessary vulnerability for movement. She dodges them all, taking the blows on Prydwen when she can, jabbing Excalibur out to decapitate or remove a hand or thrust to the heart or gut, buying the men behind her time to repair the wall of shields keeping them all safe.

One Saxon sidesteps her, trying to tug the blade out of her hand. It's an unwise move so close to the shieldwall; the man next to her slips his own shield sideways just enough to bash an axe into the bridge of the would-be thief's nose. The Saxon screams, blindly thrusting forward with his spear, and Llamrei screams as he slices at her flank and her tail. Another man thrusts his sword into the opening, separating the hand on her blade from its wrist before continuing the movement to sever the head at the neck. Blood splatters on them all as her ally draws back and pulls his shield closed. Arturia thanks him, but cannot be certain she is heard over the fury of the battle screams.

She urges her steed out of the way when another man shouts for the wall to take a step back, leaving their dead mixed with the enemies for the living foes to trip over. The dead will be treated with proper respect when this is over, but until the battle is ended, to reclaim a corpse is not worth risking anyone's lives on.

How long has the battle been going on? She was halfway through breakfast when they got the warning of the ships, and her stomach's complaints suggest it might be closer to lunchtime at this point. She ignores it, of course; the only battle that takes time for meals is a siege.

She could probably end this battle on her own, if she used Excalibur as the fairy weapon it was forged to be. Every moment she does not draw it allows more men to die.

Merlin reminds her endlessly that humans around her are not as sturdy or enduring as she is – she knows perfectly well that drawing it would harm her troops as well. What if she had never called the army, save for scouts, and set out to defeat Vortigern herself? She could have used its power without fear of harming her allies, for she would have none around her.

But Lucan's plea in Camelot rings in her ears every time she thinks to lay hands on the blade as anything but an ordinary sword.

"When he's killed, I beg of you, make sure you recover the body."

She cannot use Excalibur at anything less than its full power. Perhaps in the future, when she has known and trained with the blade for longer, but at the moment, it is impossible. Thus, she needs an army, and she needs to fight as closely to the level of an ordinary warrior as possible. She does not want to risk her men; she cannot risk her people's fields; and she will not risk Vortigern getting away, not when the possibility pushes a man like Lucan so near to panic. So she must limit the damage to a small area and achieve a speedy and thorough victory, and afterwards, she needs to see if Vortigern is among the bodies, and seek him out if he is not. She will not leave this threat to linger over her country.

The possibility that Vortigern is here shrinks with every hour of the battle, as no leader save the steersmen speaks to rally the men. The hour grows later, the rain clouds part, and the sun, which was at her back when the battle began, is soon nearly overhead. If this lasts much longer, it will be in her eyes, and the eyes of her men, and the Saxons will take advantage of it.

The Saxons begin to draw back down the hill, leaving a third of their number behind as cooling corpses or walking dead men. Those who have fatal wounds but are still capable of making trouble stand their ground together, holding the line for the retreat to the boats to prepare the ships – or perhaps to prepare another stand, across the river, so they hold the high ground instead, and the sun at their backs soon?

"Not so fast," Arturia breathes, reaching for her belt. Two strong blasts from the horn is all the signal she needs. Across the river, Kay leads the remaining knights out of the trees and down the hill in a charge on horseback, sword over his head. Sir Gawain is at his side, eager to prove himself, spurring his dark bay stallion towards the foe with sword at the ready for a low pass; the dark horse and the silver knight move as one being, trying not to outpace Kay in their eagerness.

The ship guards leap to their feet, grabbing the weapons at their side to defend the ships from further destruction. On the hillside, the fleeing fighters slow in horror, seeing their escape route cut off. Arturia lifts her sword in triumph, and gently kicks Llamrei's sides, leading her warriors down the hill to complete the pincer.

Merlin is ahead of her, beyond the remnants of the Briton's shield wall, broken as her knights and levies pursue their prey, laughing as he duels the fighters one-on-one. "Come on, no need to be shy! I won't even use magic if you give me a good fight!" His sword is bloody with the work he's put it to, but the rest of him is pristine, despite the mud and blood and sweat that stains everyone else who fights today.

"Monster!" someone shouts at him.

"Leave him be! You know the White King's orders. Vortigern wants Merlin for his own vengeance!" shouts one steersman. "Shield wall! If we are to die, let our swords be bloody in our hands!"

Kay's forces are upon the guards before they can retreat to the relative safety of the river. It is no contest, when the men will not stand their ground. The mounted knights are as terrifying as the mythological centaurs, swift and deadly with hooves and swords alike. Too few to form a shield wall, the boat guards stand no chance. Indeed, their comrades on the eastern riverbank are now forming a shield wall where they stand rather than fording the river to give some aid. Clearly, they judge their survival chances better against the infantry than the knights. And the guards know it.

One guard is desperately trying to launch the boat, clearly intending for his comrades to retreat there in hopes that the horses cannot follow into the water.

Gawain doesn't give him the chance, urging his steed closer. The bay hardly needs the direction, snorting happily as it gives chase, idly launching its back hooves out to kick at a foe – the man gasps fruitlessly for air as his ribs and lungs cave in from the force of it.

One swift frontal kick, and the escapee is knocked over the side of the boat, into the shallows, where he sits spluttering. The well-trained steed places one hoof on his chest to keep him there, leans closer, and – Arturia blinks. "Am I seeing things, or has my nephew actually trained his horse to pull an enemy's helmet off with his teeth?" she asks Merlin.

"That's not training," Merlin says, leaning on his sword in interest.

A scream of agony echoes over the battlefield – not from pain, or dying, but sheer terror. "My ear! My ear! He's eating my ear!"

The dark bay tips its head back, mouth bloody, something between its teeth – its very sharp teeth.

Arturia stares, forgetting the sword in her hand, the battlefield around her, convinced for a moment that she has stepped into Hercules' eighth labor and encountered the Mares of Diomedes – for those are the teeth of a carnivore, and the stallion is clearly anticipating his second bite. The Saxon no longer fears drowning, one hand clamped to his head, staring in horror at the creature above him. She'll never get there in time to bind its mouth. It will eat her nephew, and her brother…

"No!" Gawain snaps abruptly, swatting his mount on the neck. "Bad Guingolet! Don't swallow that! Spit it out!"

The slap spurs Arturia back to wakefulness, raising her blade to meet an enemy and parry it. This is a battle. She hasn't got time to stare like that, not even out of the corner of her eye.

The steed, which has teeth sharper than any horse, turns its head to look at Gawain, certainly not in obedience. Its ears are laid back flat against its head, lips peeled back, the meat stuck between its teeth, as it blows air through its nostrils. It's ready to bite again.

"Spit it out, Guingolet," Gawain says firmly.

The man across from Arturia stares in horror at the sight. Arturia doesn't waste the opening, bashing her sword over his head and cutting his throat to make certain after he falls. She can vaguely hear her nephew's scolding as she counts down the men left to deal with.

"…packed more than enough red meat for you to gorge yourself on, cooked as rare as possible while still keeping it from rotting… bought you a fresh raw cut yesterday in the village… rare and even a little bloody still… "

Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen men left. She'd wondered why Gawain hadn't brought food for his mount with the other men, but evidently he'd just stored it in a different part of the wagon train. A meat-eating horse, however, brings to mind some interesting stories besides Diomedes' mares.

"…certainly not hungry enough to excuse this backsliding behavior. Don't think I'll excuse bad habits in your diet… Spit it out."

Arturia reminds herself to speak to her nephew after the battle is done – ten men to go, now – about when the appropriate time to reprimand his horse is. Unless it is trying to buck him off, he cannot stop for a verbal scolding in the middle of the battlefield when men are still trying to kill him.

"Drop it. Now. Or I will feed you only jerky for the rest of the week!" He's actually holding out one hand for it, free of any weapon, to take the bit of bloody flesh, fending off a rescue of his hostage with his other hand and a sword.

Slowly, very slowly, the stallion's lip curls down – and then he spits the ear into Gawain's gauntlet, precisely as instructed.

"Good job!" Gawain says brightly, tossing the bloody flesh onto the bank. "Thank you, Guingolet!" Reaching for his belt pouch, he offers a drink of water, not noticing that the entire battlefield has stopped to stare at them as the last Saxons are cut down, save one, who Merlin is holding at bay.

"What," Kay says flatly, "is that?"

Gawain looks up. "Hm? Oh, I'm just washing the blood away so he doesn't keep tasting it, Sir Kay. Don't worry, he won't break the man's ribs or let him get up until I say so. Guingolet's got excellent balance. And I'm perfectly capable of defending anyone who attacks us one-handed, if they try."

"That's nice, Sir Gawain," Kay says, very slowly, "but what is your mount, exactly? Don't tell me it's a horse. No horse has teeth that sharp."

"Fae horses do," Gawain says helpfully. "Guingolet is an aughisky."

The men on the field instantly back away, some very carefully and slowly, some as fast as possible in panic, others just following their comrades and watching the horse uneasily to see what could provoke this response. The trapped guard looks as though he would very much like to do the same, but the front hoof still pins him in the water. At least he'll have ample disguise for his shame if he feels the need to piss himself in terror.

"An aughisky. You mean, one of the Orkney-dwelling, water-dwelling, man-eating ones?" Arturia says quietly. "As I remember hearing, the breed's idea of a fun time is to give someone a ride on land, not let them get off as they ride into the water, and then eat the rider." She stares at her nephew.

"That's true of the wild ones," Gawain agrees. "But I tamed Guingolet myself. I have to personally handle him, of course, but he's very well behaved. Hasn't once snapped at a stable boy. Even eats hay on occasion, in moderate amounts, though he prefers seaweed if he has to eat plants. As long as I keep him supplied in animal meat, he's very well behaved. And he has never once tried to bite me. Try to buck me off, yes, especially at the beginning, but never to bite." He pats the stallion's head cheerfully. "You're the fastest horse in all of Orkney, aren't you? Such a well-behaved steed!"

"Get it away from me! I don't want to be eaten!" the Saxon screams. Beside Arturia, Merlin is half bent over his sword, shaking with laughter. The men around her stare at them in shock.

Merlin's erstwhile opponent, the final living steersman, swallows, and throws down his arms. "I yield, and submit myself to be hostage for ransom, to whomever the commander is. Just – please let my brother up and away from that beast?"

"Guingolet is not a beast, and he isn't going to eat you!" Gawain protests.

"Sir Gawain, that's enough," Arturia says firmly. "Do you agree to this? Both of you?"

The trapped guard nods frantically. Death in honorable combat is welcomed; death without a weapon in hand, eaten by a monster, is not.

"Then I, King Arthur, accept your surrender as hostages, unless any of you be Vortigern. Collect their weapons, please. Remove your helmets. Gawain, let your captive up."

"Yes, my King. Back, Guingolet." The stallion blows its nose in disgust, but steps back, letting the guard scramble up to join his brother. It blows again in his face when he stands, and snickers when that makes him run. Gawain just sighs, and continues to quietly bribe his mount with butcher's meat, while the other men begin to clean up the battlefield.

Neither of the faces of the two survivors are familiar, and Merlin declares them free of disguise magic. So, they begin to line up the corpses, while Arturia orders the prisoners into Sir Ector's care, to be taken to Winchester and guarded.

It takes a while to confirm that none of the dead whose heads remain attached to their bodies are Vortigern, and longer still to confirm that they have enough heads to match the headless bodies and none of those are Vortigern either. Questioning the hostages offers no information, only that Vortigern was at the head of another force, and they were to meet him in Londinium.

"This is wasting our time," Merlin says in disgust. "You don't know where he is, and neither do they. I'm going to get something useful done." He stomps away.

"And where will you be?" Arturia calls after him.

"I'm tired of Vortigern making us foolish dogs chasing our own tails! I'm going to find him with magic! We've got two Pendragons by blood here, and another one in Camelot – that's enough for me to find the fourth point of a square when I know he's on the island!" With that, Merlin tromps off to work.

Arturia sighs, giving orders to the locals and the knights alike to bury the dead. Except for Gawain – for the sake of everyone's peace of mind, she orders him to keep well away from the bodies, along with his mount, and to explain in detail just how he came to acquire the steed.

It's an interesting experience. Gawain tries to be always calm and stoic and polite and respectful and ready for anything, close to the perfect knight she dreams of becoming. But when he speaks about his horse, he… gushes. There really isn't a better word for it.

If this were any other topic, she'd tell Gwen about it in a letter, and know it would make her best friend laugh. As it is, while Gawain's behavior remains somewhat amusing, the consequences he is apparently ignoring are less than funny. Some of the risk-taking is to be expected – Arturia knows that her own behavior tends toward impulsivity in the moment, and part of that is because she ceased to age physically when she drew Caliburn from its stone, and then again once she acquired Excalibur and Avalon after a few hours without any sword. Possession of the fairy artifact halts any further development of her female body, but according to both Kay and Sir Ector it also prevents her thoughts and attitudes from growing and changing as fluidly as before.

People between ten and twenty take risks, push limits and break boundaries. They come to adulthood's privileges and responsibilities, and explore those privileges beyond what common sense prescribes. Sometimes, it gets them killed, or nearly killed. But if it doesn't, then eventually they no longer believe that there is a risk. Until they learn otherwise and gain an adult's rationale, should they survive to that point.

Gawain is not as bad as some she has known. He believes that his horse is not a lethal risk to others so long as he is there to control it, but does not discount the fact that he has trained that lethality to be used on his command. He ignores the stallion's very real interest in eating human flesh as a potential problem so long as he can provide it with substitutes of meat. And he genuinely does not comprehend why everyone is terrified of Guingalet after the battlefield's revelations, not when he has offered reassurances of the horse's behavior.

To Arturia's mind, Gawain's luck has skewed the issue to a point that he acknowledges the possibility of danger but disbelieves that it will ever occur.

Kay's focus on the horse rather than its rider suggests he's noticed a different problem; she'll have to talk to him. Later. For now, her brother is riding up to meet them, a grim mood cloaking his thoughts. He halts a short distance from her, warily eying the aughisky beside Llamrei before returning his attention to her and bowing in the saddle, shoving up his visor.

"We checked the bodies. All two hundred and three corpses are accounted for on their side. None of them are Vortigern."

Arturia sighs, but nods, expecting the news already. This was merely confirmation that they haven't missed anyone. "What about our own casualties?"

"Out of our fifty of the local levy, thirty-nine lie slain. Out of the other levies, ninety-six corpses have been identified with certainty; another thirty are almost certainly our side's, but all beyond recognition. Of the five hundred total of the levies, local and from elsewhere, there are three hundred and thirty-three living; at least twenty are too badly wounded to fight ever again, and another fifty or so who will need to recover for some weeks. That leaves just over two hundred and sixty still fit for fighting. Of the eleven who live here, half will be useless to work for a month, but they would be staying here anyway." His lips twist. "Your archers and knights survived comparatively better. One archer dead, and one living who will not be drawing a bow again this year, and the five others are merely low on arrows. Three knights of the twenty dead, all of them on your side, and one on mine with a severe blow to the head who is having trouble walking at the moment. Head wounds are tricky, so he could be fine, or we might see problems in the next couple of weeks. I am probably going to need a secretary; my wrist is badly bruised, and lifting quill or sword is going to be very troublesome for a week. Sir Ector and his forces, of course, saw no battle, so they are fine."

Arturia nods, scanning the valley again. "Thank you, Sir Kay." Military formality is necessary here, as much as she would like to pull off her brother's gauntlet and reassure herself that he is alright. Trying to distract herself, she scans the valley. "Has Merlin come back yet? I'd like to move on before night falls, even if we still have a good amount of light left for travelling."

Kay snorts. "He's gone? Good riddance to bad rubbish." Arturia frowns at him, and he rolls his eyes in return. "Yes, yes, I know. He's useful when you need a magic weapon, sometimes. And it's certainly better to have his aid, dubious though it might be, than have him as an outright enemy. Doesn't mean I like the cost of that aid. No, I haven't spotted him. Why? When did he run off?"

"Just after we managed to get the planned meeting in Londinium out of the Saxon survivors," Arturia says, worriedly. "Have you sent the second message to Pellinore?"

"That you've survived, the battle is won, and we've no sign of Vortigern?" Kay sighs. "Yes, I sent the first two bits hours ago. I wanted to wait until we had confirmed Vortigern's absence before I sent that last part."

Gawain tilts his head, looking beyond them. "Ah, my King? Forgive me for interrupting, but I see a rider crossing down the hill from Sir Ector's posting."

Arturia followed his gaze, frowning. Yes, there is a rider, coming swiftly down the hill, pointed in their direction. The horse… the horse is in terrible shape. It's been ridden hard for hours, she can tell even from this distance. Mount and rider are sweaty and filthy, sides heaving, and foaming on the mouth. If Ector let them by in such a state…

"Let's go meet him," she says, "and whatever bad news he carries." No good news kills a horse to carry a message. She urges Llamrei forward, Kay and Gawain at either side.

Up close, the messenger and his mount are wearied near to death, but still, they push on. Skidding to a halt, the rider practically collapsing in his saddle while his mount is ready to collapse beneath him, he breathes, "My lord… King… news from Londinium…" He proffers a scroll in a shaking hand.

Kay frowns. "A reply already? We sent the messenger less than twelve hours ago. He can't have arrived yet."

The messenger stares at Kay as though he is speaking gibberish, then shakes his head and slides off his horse. Stumbling forward, he pushes the scroll at Arturia's fingers, and she has to grab it before he drops it.

"My king… the commander of Londinium defenses… Pellinore… is dead. Killed. We had not yet found the culprit when I left. And there is worse news… read the scroll."

Yanking a small knife free from her belt, Arturia cuts the seal – the Londinium ring, and an unfamiliar sigil, likely belonging to whoever wrote the report. Her eyes scan the words once, twice. It's been hurriedly written, as a report intended for Pellinore himself. An added postscript explains that the commander has been found dead, and the defenses will be mustered while the news is sent off. She's crushing the parchment in her fist long before she reads the end.

"A host managed to slip past Londinium. Undetected. They've found traces of the ships they used to do it," she manages to say after a moment.

Kay stares. "What? How is that even… wait." He rounds on the exhausted messenger, who is too tired to even flinch. "When, exactly, did someone find Pellinore's body? How long had he been dead? Did they use the chaos to slip through when the alarm was raised?"

The messenger shakes his head. "That's written by Sir Agravain, Pellinore's third in command. Some of his scouts found signs of where the ships had been anchored, in an outlying area. He found the body when he went to report their findings. Some hours cold."

Arturia would very much like to know how, exactly, Pellinore could go several hours undiscovered when he was commander and supposed to be talking to all those many knights under his command to coordinate the defenses. Even when he was sleeping, it wouldn't have been for long, or shouldn't have. Before she can ask, someone else is abruptly there, in the empty space between them. The horses whicker nervously, the riders curse in startlement. Arturia just takes a deep breath to prepare herself, certain that the day is about to get worse.

"Merlin?"

The magus doesn't acknowledge her. His entire attention is trained on Gawain. "Have you confirmed that your family arrived back in Orkney and did not leave it again?"

Gawain looks at her and Kay in confusion for a moment, as if wondering if they have family there, rather than him. "I – yes. What's going on?"

Merlin ignores the question, and turns to her. "We have a problem, King Arthur. The two points of the square that aren't here – they're both in Camelot. Along with a presence I haven't felt since I was a boy. A white dragon."

"Camelot's magical defenses are not responding to me," Merlin continues, "nor do they respond to attempts to awaken them from dormancy, so I can only assume they no longer exist. And my attempts to relocate myself there have been blocked. Very rudely."

"Gaheris," Gawain says, face pale.

Gaheris. Camelot. Archer. Guinevere.

Vortigern.

Oh, god.

"He turned our strategy into a trap for us, with five boats of bait, and made havoc where we weren't," Arturia says quietly, then snaps, "Soldiers! Parcel out food from the baggage carts to each man. We're eating as we march, and anything they can't carry is left behind. Including the baggage train."

She's going to get them all back to Camelot. If Merlin can't teleport them, they'll go the shortest possible way and march all night.

"My king?" the messenger ventures.

"Rest. Your charge is ended, mine begun. If Vortigern wants to play games with a dragon, it's high time he found out the consequences of losing to one," says King Arthur Pendragon.

Post chapter notes:

Wreckers: When a ship founders close to shore, locals may take valuables from it – only valuables, because if you save people, you might find the loot's owner. Rewards for saving people appear as a legal concept for the first time in 1870. A traditional legend is of wreckers deliberately decoying ships to run aground using tricks (in particular false lights). Devon and Cornwall both have rocky coasts and strong prevailing onshore winds, an ideal combination for wrecks.

Knucklebones: ancient name for the game of jacks. Originally the bones were those of a sheep; modern jacks are made of metal or plastic.

Nine Forts: Romans built a series of forts in both Gaul and England to defend what is known as the saxon shore, nine of which are in the Notitia Dignitatum. All forts are referred to by their historical names. Clausentum is Southhampton, Portus Adurni is Portsmouth.

Beacon Fires: Light travels faster than any human messenger. While it can't convey complicated messages, a series of fires on high points, lit quickly, can act as a simple message over a vast distance. Historically, England used a chain of beacon fires on hilltops as recently as the Spanish Armada to warn of a possible naval invasion. Fictional examples can be seen in Mulan and Lord of the Rings.

Locations: all the sites Cleges suggests have been targets of actual historical naval attack on England at some point, and are valued for the reasons mentioned. Camelot's location has been borrowed from Berkhamsted Castle, in Hertfordshire. The real castle is deliberately something that did not exist when Arturia was around. However, the location remains plausible, both because people historically tend to reuse the natural geography if it works for fortifications, and Berkhamsted has evidence of people living there since Neolithic times onward. Also, it lies along Akeman Street, a trackway that joins the two ancient trackways of Fosse Way and Watling Street. Perfect for an army to march along and reach in a relatively short time – namely, under two days from when they left their ships if they march fast enough. An invading army will need spells to hide themselves, of course, but this also means a relatively quick way for the defending army to come after them, once they've reached the road.

Camelot's wall: Based as accurately as I could find on the most impressive defensive walls surrounding medieval cities and towns of such a size, the wall is approximately 18 feet high and 12 feet thick, using modern measurements. Towers are built into the walls at regular intervals, about 50 feet tall. A gatehouse is placed beside every gate in the wall to help defend the city.

Bastard sword: also known as the hand-and-a-half sword, a longsword type named for its extended grip, allowing it to be wielded with one or two hands. Terminology dates to the nineteenth century, but we've already mentioned that Camelot was made to include and update anachronisms…

Longships: The ships in this chapter are all based on the Viking snekkja. It holds at least 20 rowing benches, with a crew of 40 rowers and 1 cox, approximately. They are also incredibly light, which makes it feasible to carry them once the mast is lowered and secured. Like all longships, they have a shallow draft, enabling passage through the river.

Knots: 1 knot is 1 nautical mile per hour, about 1.15078 mph. Godalming is about 7 miles upriver from Tilford, and Guildford a bit further along. This gives Arturia less than an hour's notice that they've arrived.

Underwater barrier: Arturia is following the same tactics as the Continental Army's Hudson River Chain from the American Revolution in blocking the river. She has opted for an underwater chevaux de frise rather than a boom chain due to (1) a lack of time to make and install an iron chain rather than wooden logs, given she didn't know where the barrier would have to be, and (2) putting a hole below the waterline will force the invaders to a land battle.