ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra

Author's Note: Hey, I don't have one! I should probably thank my muse 'cause he/she is being kind to me right now. Be warned, things are going to get grisly quite soon. Lisa, I hope this means you've put those bamboo shoots away!

A big thank you to Kal's Gal, kar-chan (I forgot about that little Roman/Sarmatian thing myself, so I put something in about it in this part!) and Lilyofthevalley4 (Would I be giving much away if I said there's going to be a big violence warning at the beginning of the next chapter?) for your reviews. I'm really glad you're enjoying it & especially happy that you took the time to review for me. You're the kindest people!

PART 11: HALF A LEAGUE FORWARD, TWO LEAGUES BACK

Arthur was dreaming. Fields of fire with flames licking the skies like banners, forcing his horse to rear and baulk at the encroaching heat. In the distance, through the rippling transparency of the air, Arthur could see men fighting. Blood and sweat mingled as blow met blow and weapons clashed loudly. Arthur could not go to meet them. He was separated by the fire, unable to leap over the towering inferno. The Roman clutched his beloved sword in one hand, knuckles whitening as they tightened over the sturdy hilt. Somewhere within his heart, he knew this to be his fight and that half the men beyond his grasp were risking their lives because of him, for him.

He reigned his stallion in once again as fire licked at its face and the animal whinnied in protest, churning the burnt grass up with its hooves. Arthur narrowed his eyes as he looked across the field, trying to gain a better view of the scene unfolding there. He recognised the men out there, the way they fought as familiar to him as his own strategies. Yet, Arthur struggled to recall their names, hearing syllables form on his tongue before dying away unfinished. Panic began to rise in his chest.

Those warriors were his friends, no, more than that. They were his family. The heat of the fire burned his eyes, making them water and the fighting figures beyond whirl in a ill-defined haze. Arthur blinked but the scene was growing fainter, even as he struggled to remember the names he knew were ingrained in his brain. The clouds grew stormy overhead, obliterating the sun and casting ominous shadows across the scorched plains. Arthur heard himself cry out against the blackness and, in that moment, he thought he saw a comrade's face turn towards him. His eyes were pleading and pained. Then, there was nothing but blistering heat, all consuming in the empty, blinding night.


"No!" The voice was desperate, choked with sorrow and fear and it startled Berys from her sleep. The strange Roman was sitting bolt upright in bed, his green eyes wide and full of terror. Sweat poured down his face and the thin undergarments were already damp.

His eyes were fixed on the wall opposite and his breath came in ragged gasps. Berys felt her own heart thumping fiercely in her chest at this sudden reaction but tried to steady herself. She gently pushed her hands against his chest and shoulders, trying to force him back onto the pallet. "Sssh! You still have a fever. Lie back."

The man started at her touch and his fevered eyes stared at her with incomprehension. His breath came in short, shallow gasps and he resisted her strength for a moment. Berys continued, insistently. "You have been asleep for many hours and are weak. You need to rest." He continued to stare at her even as he lay back.

Berys had been expecting, even hoping, that he would sleep, but he was alert now. "Where am I?" he asked, quietly.

"You are safe in the village of Cowfold. You were found in the woods, pierced through the shoulder by an arrow." She looked for an indication that he recalled anything of the incident. "Do you remember what happened?"

The Roman's brow furrowed in concentration, but after a moment he shook his head. "No, but I…" he began.

"What is it?"

"There is something more. I know I should be somewhere, that there is something I should be doing now." He fell silent for a moment, his mind lost in thought. "I cannot stay here," he announced, levering himself up on his elbows.

"You are in no state to leave here yet," Berys said, firmly. "You need to eat and get well."

The stranger shook his head. "Why can I not remember!" There was anger as well as anxiety in his voice and Berys offered him a cup of water, trying to calm him.

"My name is Berys. Do you know your name?"

The green eyes searched her face again before turning away. "No." His mouth worked but no more sound came out.

"Do not push yourself. The arrow in your shoulder was poisoned. Together with your weakness and loss of blood, a little lapse in memory is perhaps to be expected." She was grateful that she sounded so convinced, for Berys was no more knowledgeable in such things than Peter or Ben. "You are a Roman. Your clothes indicate that you are a man of status, a fighter." Arthur did not respond, but sipped the water slowly. Berys stood up, dragging back stray strands of hair from her face. "I will see to some broth for you. Then, as soon as you are well enough to find your feet, we will take some horses out. A man such as yourself will surely not have gone unnoticed. Someone will recognise you and your memory will be restored to you."

Once again, the Roman said nothing. His face showed utter dejection and Berys could hardly blame him. It must be hard to watch your entire life slip through your fingers like so much sand. However, she was confident that all he needed was time to heal and the world he came from would return to him in vivid colour.


"Ah! What a striking figure you do make, my friend," Unferth declared as Gawain stepped into his tent. The blue eyes cast quickly over the food laid out there and the Saxon knew he must be hungry. "Please, sit down. Today is the day, Gawain, when you will prove your loyalty to me. There is much to be discussed before we set off."

Gawain nodded. The past few days had been leading up to this moment and yet he was filled with mounting apprehension. He should be grateful that plans were finally being set in motion but, simultaneously, the knight feared what he might be asked to do. There were many tasks he was willing to do for the greater good but some entered his mind which were beyond his ability as a knight. "Very well. I am ready to listen and learn."

He sat and took some cheese and chicken from the array of platters before him. Putting food to his mouth suddenly made Gawain realise that, although his stomach roiled with hunger, he had no appetite for eating. Still, Unferth's beady eyes watched his every move like a hawk and the knight had no wish to offend his host at such an important juncture.

Conversation began as always with discussion on the fairness of his sleep and the weather of the day ahead. Then, it frequently turned to talk of war. Gawain allowed Unferth to continue in his misguided belief that he was a Roman, even though he knew he had more in common with the Saxons themselves. It somehow made his part easier to play when the world was black and white. In this fight, he was as much a Roman as Arthur and it gave him a sense of pride and purpose to think he was doing all this for his Italian leader. He refused to be drawn into a mutual hate society for Romans this day.

Still, amid the usual banter, Gawain detected a change in Unferth. There was a sharpness where there might have been a smile the day before, an air of irritation where he usually found a reason to laugh. It was disconcerting and Gawain found his mind wandering repeatedly back to Tristan and Galahad's nocturnal visit. The blonde knight had complete trust in Tristan's stealth but perhaps not Galahad's. Was it possible that Unferth had seen them? Was it this that marked the change in his behaviour this morning? Gawain kept trying to concentrate on the words issuing from Unferth's mouth, but with every passing moment, his fear grew. He mumbled replies and answered in monosyllables, hoping them to be what the Saxon wanted to hear.

If Unferth had seen them, why had he not acted yet? This unsettled Gawain the most, for a pre-meditated, measured attack was likely to do infinitely more harm than an immediate, impassioned one. Gawain swallowed dryly, taking another sip of mead. It did not take long in the presence of Unferth to realise the danger he posed. There was a thirst for blood, a yearning behind his eyes which told of torture and horror beyond the knight's imagining. Then a sudden thought hit him like a mace in his chest and, for a moment, his very breath strangled in his throat. Lancelot.

Whatever Unferth had seen would have no direct impact on Gawain whatsoever. It was Lancelot who would suffer unimaginable pain for his friend's error. The prospect blanched the blonde knight's skin and, even as he tried to focus on Unferth's animated face opposite him, all Gawain knew was the thunder of blood in his head and his heart all but beating out of his chest. Was Lancelot lying dead at this very moment?

"Gawain? Are you well? You look as if you have seen a nether spirit." Unferth's voice was light, tinged with concern, but more with suspicion. It did nothing to allay Gawain's fears. On the contrary, it were as if the Saxon were toying with him. The cold, slate eyes bore into him like a scholar watching an insect struggle beneath the pin piercing its body.

"Yes," he replied, a little to quickly. "The plum was quite tart," he added weakly and Unferth looked none too convinced either.

"It is growing late and it is time we spoke of business now."

"Very well," Gawain replied, feeling as if his voice were not his own. Then, another thought struck him. Unferth's annoyance might stem for a very different source. Had Tristan and Galahad not promised to do their best to free Lancelot from his prison? That would give Unferth even more reason to be angered because, secretly, he must have enjoyed torturing Lancelot. That would also explain his inaction now. Relief washed through the knight as all the pieces of the puzzle fell together in perfect synchronisation. That must be it. Lancelot was free and Unferth would say nothing because he had lost his only bargaining chip.

Gawain considered testing the waters to find out how close he ran to the truth but thought better of it. Unferth was about to reveal the day's plan and the Sarmatian had no wish to disrupt it. He took another sip of mead and settled back in satisfaction. Now he could complete his mission unimpeded and without fear for his hot-headed friend's welfare.

"I have spies along the Stane road, spread out from the sea. Traders are coming. We have been creating a road block if you like to gain control of these parts." Unferth watched Gawain intently, gauging the other man's reaction.

"You mean starve out the people of the north? At the Wall?" Gawain nodded in understanding, pretending to be mildly impressed. "A good plan."

"Your Great Wall, Gawain. How do you feel about that?" Unferth smiled, flashing his rotten teeth with glee.

"I cannot pretend it gives me pleasure but neither can I deny it is a worthy plan. However, we could still arrange trade from the coasts in the north."

Unferth nodded, brightly. "That is true but such routes would take a long time to negotiate. You would lose half your men by then. I am convinced this is the way. Besides, the goods we are impounding consist of more than mere grain and food. We have weapons from Europe such as you have never seen. Swords take time to manufacture and you would have to wait long months for replenishments."

"And you wish me to help with this…relieving of goods as the traders pass?" Gawain asked. "Why me? Surely you have more than enough strong men to quell a few tradesmen?"

"On the contrary, you are very valuable to me. A Roman soldier, nay, a true knight, armed and carrying orders for defence of this land? You will make our task all the easier. Simply by presenting yourself with a few stern words, these men will bow to your authority. You see, word has already begun to spread of the dangers we pose. More wealthy traders are travelling with an entourage of hired thugs and I have lost more men than I care to lose again." Unferth's eyes once again roamed over the immobile face before him. "Your appearance will lessen the fear."

"I am to relieve the people of their goods and that is all?" Gawain asked, determined to extract a full job description from this man.

"There is more. We have on occasion intercepted Roman orders, issues from Rome herself. These men are instructed to guard the orders with their lives and, unfortunately, not all of them are as cowardly as I would like to believe. The orders have been burnt upon our approach, eaten, even smeared in their own blood as it emptied from their guts to smudge the ink beyond recognition." Unferth smiled at this last thought. "With you there, with your knightly papers and the power of the legendary Arthur behind you, such weaklings would never dare withhold these orders from you."

Gawain nodded once more. This was the exact plan Arthur had brought them here to stamp out and, here he was, joining in. Still, he had already gained a good insight into what the knights already knew to be true. Now he needed to see where the spoils were being kept and whether there were more Saxon groups carrying out similar enterprises elsewhere in the vicinity. "When do we leave?" he asked.

"Immediately!" Unferth grinned and stood up, shaking the table with his vehemence.


Galahad was in better spirits the next morning when he and Tristan set off to search for Arthur. Gawain had been of little help in directing their efforts and it was a thankless task when Arthur might well be wandering about with equal futility. Still, Tristan was a resourceful man and knew how to leave signs that Arthur would recognise but that, hopefully, would elude the Saxons. They searched for much of the day, occasionally having to take to the ground to avoid being seen. They approached a couple of villages but no one had heard or seen anything of a Roman officer. Every pair of eyes were fearful and apprehensive, bearing the fear of Saxon attack they all felt.

As the blood red sun flooded the sky with her dying breath, the two men had to admit defeat. Still, there was work to be done. They had decided to return to their starting point and prepare to move in another direction the next day. However, Galahad suggested they make the most of the cloak night time afforded them and see if they could free Lancelot.

Leaving the horses well concealed once more, they made the now familiar route back into the forest, taking care to tread a slightly different path to ensure they did not leave too obvious a track in their wake.

To their relief, the camp was quiet and sounds of relaxed chatter issued from various abodes. Fortunately, the Saxons had been here long enough to make shelters for themselves and no one was sleeping under the stars. That made the knights' mission that much easier. Galahad followed Tristan's lead, creeping through the undergrowth until they were within sight of the stone prison Gawain had described to them.

Two guards had been posted there and they leaned heavily against the walls, clearly trying to fight off sleep. Galahad could not help feeling their discomfort, remembering only too well the onerous task of being made night watch. It was perfect torture trying to keep awake when every inch of one's body begged for sleep and rest. Tristan gave a quick jerk of his head and Galahad knew what was expected of him.

Tristan had explained that they could not risk Gawain's life by killing the guards. They needed to look as if they had simply fallen asleep on watch and were wide awake by morning. The scout had scoured the ground during the day's travels for herbs which, concocted just so, would act as a potent sleeping drug. However, he had been disappointed and was forced to resort to more base methods. He had explained the strangulation process in grisly detail to Galahad and it had been enough to make the young knight's heart quell at the prospect.

Tristan had been firm. The Saxons must not have their lives extinguished for their meeting with Gawain would be discovered. The strangulation must be precise, resulting in a loss of consciousness which would return after a few hours in the fresh air of the night. Galahad knew he did not lack the strength for it but the fear of taking the act too far haunted him. If Gawain's death was on his hands, he would never be able to forgive himself. At the same time, it reminded him that Tristan had a strange approach to torture and death.

The scout was taciturn, like a part of the very earth they trod upon. He seemed to have respect for life in all its forms, whether it be a tree or insect, bird or horse. Yet, there was something lacking in his affection for human life beyond his own and that of those closest to him. Tristan had an aptitude for cruelty to his foes beyond the comprehension of all his fellow knights. It set him apart from the rest and was, perhaps, some of the reason for his isolated existence. Tonight only reaffirmed what Galahad had come to recognise in his friend, that he harboured secrets darker than any of them. No horror was too great for his eyes, no torture too horrific for his mind to imagine inflicting upon an enemy, whether Woad or Saxon.

As the two knights moved close to the guards and Tristan's strong hands folded tightly around one of their necks, Galahad felt a chill run through his blood. Tristan hissed at him when it became clear the other guard might draw attention to them both before Galahad had done his part. Quickly, the young knight gripped the man closest to him tightly round the throat, feeling hands instinctively scrabble at his vice-like arms. A gurgling issued from his throat but the Saxon's rough hands still held strength. It took all of Galahad's might to maintain his chokehold but, out of the corner of his eye, he could see the serene expression on Tristan's face, as if he were simply deep in thought. Gradually, the hands dropped limply to the Saxon's sides and Tristan gave the signal for them to stop.

Tristan leaned over one body and then the other, his fingers moving under the thick beards to find a sign of their still beating hearts. He nodded in approval and Galahad breathed a sigh of relief. Yet another obstacle had been overcome, but how many more would he pass before he stumbled? The pair propped the two men up in fairly convincing sitting positions before lifting the heavy beam barring the door.

There was no time to consider what they might find inside and that, perhaps, spared both men some thoughts they could do without. Peering into the gloom, Tristan made a low chucking sound, a sound he often used to alert the other knights when enemy hoards were near. There was no response and the two men moved further into the building. Unable to restrain himself, Galahad hissed Lancelot's name, but still there was no answer. Maybe Lancelot was unconscious or gagged and unable to respond, maybe his tongue had been cut out or worse. The youngest knight's brain tore through the potential scenarios before Tristan shook his head and beckoned him out of the building.

Leading Galahad back to the safety of the undergrowth, Tristan murmured, "He was not there."

"But where else would he be? Gawain said he was there." Galahad tried to hide the urgency in his voice. He just wanted one part of their plan to go accordingly.

Tristan put his finger to his lips. "He must be held somewhere else. We wait and watch. We will find him." The two men sat and watched and waited until the skirt of Dawn swept across the sky and they knew they could stay no longer. Lancelot was not there. He was no more within their grasp than Arthur. He was lost to them.


Lancelot had stowed some of Gawain's food offering for leaner times but found himself already sharing it with local wildlife and, with each bite, its mud flavour increased. Still, it was better than nothing and nothing seemed to be order of the day. No, make that order of the week.

In the day that had passed since his friend's visit, no one had so much as opened the door to his makeshift cell and were it not for a few chinks in the walls, Lancelot could easily have imagined the darkness his own blindness. The swelling on his face had been numb at first but that was gradually wearing off and utter, excruciating pain replaced it. Most of the cuts were healing on their own but the coldness cracked his skin and Lancelot winced with agony every time he had reason to move a limb, even a muscle. So, he tried to remain as still as possible until his body had done more healing. Unfortunately for him, such respite was not to be.

Late in the day, voices could be heard outside the prison, but one of them was a foreign tongue. From the sounds of it, none of the Saxons understood the man either and it was almost comical listening to the incoherent grunts. He wished he could see the gestures they were making to go with this puppet-like conversation. Then, the heavy beam was lifted and bright afternoon sunlight poured into the dark hole. Lancelot lifted his arms to shield his eyes from the onslaught and his breath hitched in his throat as all consuming fire ran through his body.

It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the alteration in light and, by the time Lancelot could look around him without blinking constantly, his two Saxon guards were standing in front of him, accompanied by two more burly men and a shadowy figure he could not see clearly. As if in response, the man stepped forward from where he was silhouetted against the door frame. Lancelot was surprised and a little unsettled by the apparition.

This man was no Saxon. His body was slight but every feature was long and lanky. His arms hung simian-like at his sides, seeming to stretch like shadows towards the floor as did his legs which were no thicker than a young willow branch. His face was paler than the waning moon as if it had never been turned to the sun in his three score years. The eyes were a shade of hazel and Lancelot imagined they should have been kindly if there was not an unnatural glint at their heart. His lips curled in something resembling a smile but the motion was unnatural, like a stiff simulation of a smile he had once seen.

Lancelot watched with barely concealed fascination as this foreign man stepped closer and one long jointed finger slid from within the folds of his cloak, like an alien appendage, in a sweeping gesture. The two Saxon guards heaved Lancelot up into a standing position and it was all the knight could do to keep from crying out. He had lain in one position since his beating and the strain on his swollen muscles was almost unbearable.

The stranger would have been about Lancelot's height were the knight not sagging between his captors. Instead, the man towered over him and the oddly sinuous arm slid out once more to touch his face and the dark-haired knight felt his body quiver at the oddly warm touch against his own freezing flesh. A flicker of a frown crossed the man's forehead and he made a soft clucking sound beneath his breath. The warm hand tracked down Lancelot's chest, pulling at the loose fabric of his tunic which had been restored to him after his beating. The bruises were still clearly visible and it Lancelot winced as the coarse material was tugged away from oozing cuts. Once again, the brow furrowed and the man glanced disapprovingly at the oafs holding his charge steady.

Even in his pain, Lancelot felt confused. Who was this man? He was a mysterious figure, gentle and oddly compelling, yet he simultaneously held an air of danger like some venomous spider waiting to pounce. Was he here to pull him out of his misery or to send him hurtling into an even greater hell? Lancelot dared not hope for the first. The man's hand rested momentarily on the charm Lancelot's sister had entrusted to him before he was ripped from his family on the plains of Sarmatia. It had been a blessed relief that the Saxons thought it unworthy of stealing and now, just seeing it, restored a little hope in the young knight. It was perturbing nonetheless the way the man's hands wandered over it, as if he understood its significance to Lancelot and would have it for himself.

Suddenly, the man spoke. His voice was low and soft, the sort which should be lost in the slightest rustle of the trees, yet seemed to carry like a clarion in battle. The tongue was alien to Lancelot, each syllable savoured with rounded delight. No one moved at his words for none understood him and the man was clearly tiring of this. He motioned with his hands for them to leave and the Saxons all but dragged Lancelot from the prison.

To his surprise, the knight was mounted on a horse and, although his body shrieked in protest, a determined spark had been reignited in Lancelot. Today was a new day with a new adventure and a new opportunity for escape. He only wished he could see Gawain for even a moment. Did his friend know where he was being taken? Was he even aware of what was happening here? Lancelot's brown eyes surveyed the camp for some sign of his fellow knight but was unsurprised when there was none. A couple of new Saxons fell in around him while the foreigner gracefully slipped into the saddle of his jet black steed, a fitting animal for one such as him. Ensuring Lancelot's hands were tied firmly to the saddle and his horse's reins grasped by one of the Saxons, the foreigner nudged his horse into action.

END OF PART 11