By Allegra
Author's Note: ---VIOLENCE AHEAD--- I should warn readers that there is a significant amount of violence from now on, some towards the end of this part. I have had a review in the past (for a different fandom) that my story content was sick as was I & all my readers! In my defence, the KA fandom has already proved to me that not many of you have an aversion to violence & even a bit of torture in the right circumstances. Also, these are Saxons. The film depicted them in bloodthirsty Technicolor & I am sticking to that. On a final note, if you want hurt/comfort, the bigger the hurt the better the comfort in my book! I've warned you & you proceed at your own peril – enough said!
PART 12: HOMES OF SILENT PRAYERS
The distance they had ridden was indeterminable to Lancelot who had spent the journey fighting back the aching pain all over his body. There were moments when it took all his energy just to stay in the saddle. The sky was still light when the group came to rest and they had left the dark dampness of the forests. Lancelot wondered when that had happened. The Saxons dragged him unceremoniously to the ground, not bothering to make the job easier by untying his hands. Lancelot blinked away the foggy haze of fatigue from his eyes in time to take a quick look at his surroundings.
The men were in the centre of a plain which stretched like moss coloured velvet into the distance. There were no signs of life, no villages or even a telltale sign of horses' hooves beside their own. Lancelot felt apprehensive. He had hoped the stranger was taking him to safety, but there was nothing to indicate this. As the Saxons turned him roughly, the knight noticed that there was indeed something rising out of the plains. It was a grassy mound, not unlike the mysterious burial sites which littered the landscape the south of the island. Lancelot frowned, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
He was escorted tightly towards the mound which was much bigger than the knight had realised once he neared it. The stranger led the way, his face hidden, but there was determination in his step. He knew where he was going. Lancelot wondered where on earth this little walk could lead them. The mound held no obvious opening and there was nothing in sight for them to walk to for miles around. Lancelot watched in surprise as the spindly man knelt down at the mound and began scrabbling at the grass, pulling back jagged squares of turf. At first the knight wondered if the man had taken leave of his senses but the earth quickly gave way to the sound of hollow wood. Planks were clearly visible and then a rope handle which the man pulled on. The cords in his neck tensed with the strain but he made no sound. Then, the hatch burst open and Lancelot could hear the sound of earth showering down the hole, several feet at least.
The man beckoned for the Saxons to follow and Lancelot took a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever dark magic he might find down there. Who was this man? Was he going to heal him with crows' feet and the blood of spiders? Would he call on some dark goddess to restore the knight with promises of his eternal soul?
The shaft was narrow and, as one Saxon pushed him down the wooden ladder, Lancelot's body dragged loose earth from the walls. Squinting his eyes to avoid being blinded by mud, he forced his bruised limbs to make the descent. Once at the bottom, the Saxons followed, blocking out all daylight with their burly frames. Lancelot breathed in the warm, clammy air deeply. It had the quality that made one think there was not enough air to breathe with and he fought to steady his panic. He peered into the darkness, unable to see in any direction or where the strange man had gone. He reached one hand out to find a wall, his fingers touching small roots and stones. As he moved forwards, the knight could feel occasional timbers supporting the cave which gave him some relief. At least he would not be buried alive down here.
He could hear the heavy movements of the oafish Saxons behind him, clearly employed for their brawn and not their brains. Then, suddenly, the room was illuminated by a flaming torch held by the foreign stranger. Lancelot could see that the room was little more than an entrance area, no wider than the length of a man's body but long. It stretched ahead beyond the reach of the flames but Lancelot could see that it sloped at a sharp gradient further into the earth. The stranger beckoned the men on and one of the Saxons prodded Lancelot forward, more out of his own fear than any sense of guard duty.
The floor was hard packed earth for a while but, as the downward stretch became steeper, Lancelot could feel heavy stones beneath his feet, forming crude steps. He could feel sweat beading above his lip in the confined heat of the earth. The man moved swiftly ahead and it was all Lancelot could do to keep up, his aching limbs protesting with every step. Sometimes the stranger moved so fast, the knight was almost left in the dark once more. Occasionally, he passed timber door frames which gaped open into black holes too dark to see anything by. The place was vast and Lancelot was grateful that the path they were following was straightforward. If his escape depended on good direction, at least he would not have need of Tristan this time.
After some time, the tunnel came to an end and Lancelot found himself in a humble chamber but clearly the central hub of the place. The stranger went about lighting more torches in their holders, lined against the walls, until the room was bright with dancing orange flames.
The stranger motioned for the Saxons to take Lancelot to the pallet in the corner of the room where the knight noticed, with disappointment, that shackles were firmly embedded in wall timbers. The guards pushed him down and attached a heavy manacle to one of Lancelot's wrists, then the other. The metal was heavy but he was grateful for the comfort of his resting place at least.
The Saxons began to move towards the passage they had entered by and the foreign man handed them a torch to guide their way. He gesticulated vehemently at the same time, muttering fiercely in his peculiar tongue. The Saxons did not understand any better than Lancelot but, as the man's hand movements grew more refined, the knight realised with horror that he was telling the men to seal them in…underground. Lancelot prayed there was another way out and that he would get to see it soon.
Suddenly, the two Saxons changed from being his captors to his saviours and he watched, mutely, as his hope drifted down the passage with the diminishing light of their torch. Very soon, even their footsteps were muffled beyond human hearing and Lancelot could hear nothing more than the occasional crackle of torch oil and the thumping of his own heart.
He looked up, hoping his fear did not show. The stranger paid him no heed but bustled around like an old woman seeing to the dinner. He opened some of the ornate boxes stacked to one side. Their golden veneers glinted in the firelight but Lancelot could not believe them to be anything other than bronze, a popular choice. The man was evidently wealthy. He had good manners and held himself proudly while his possessions were clearly those of a nobleman. Lancelot watched as the stranger opened pouches and boxes, emptied vials and seeds into a pestle. The smell issuing from some of them was enough to make the knight grimace but did not appear to affect the stranger at all. Lancelot hoped none of this was heading his way. That would be torture enough.
The stranger mumbled incoherently to himself as he went about his work, occasionally pausing to grind the disgusting muck he was merrily generating. Finally, he reached for a jug filled with water and diluted the mix in a clay cup. Then, with an expression only to be interpreted as delight, he presented it to Lancelot.
Aside from feeling the urge to vomit, Lancelot was taken aback by the humble way in which it was offered. The joy on the man's face was unmistakable, somehow both childish and manic at the same time. Lancelot was not sure whether his death was upon him or some juvenile game by which he was expected to eat mud before laughing about the jest later. As he pondered the situation, the stranger's face was already altering as quickly as the clouds in a stiff wind. His happiness was clouded with annoyance at the knight's rebuff. Quick to avert the man's impending anger, Lancelot took the cup. After all, he was shackled several feet below ground, in the middle of nowhere. He was hardly in a state to argue the conditions of his captivity. Closing his nostrils to the pungent smell, Lancelot swilled the thick, viscous mixture in the cup and knocked it back, sending up a silent prayer for his safe recovery to whatever god might be listening.
Berys approached Peter's home with a heavy basket of food and drink for their invalid. The Roman sat in his usual spot, a bench set in front of the wall beside the front door. His face was turned towards the sun and he squinted at its brightness. For the past two days he had followed the same routine – rising for an inspection of his wounds and some food before taking up residence outside. Peter had promised the soldier that he would borrow some horses and take him back the spot he and Ben had found him. The Roman had insisted they leave immediately but, in his weakened state, it had not taken much to prove that he was not ready for such an excursion.
As she reached him, Berys smiled at the man. "Good day to you. How are you faring this day?"
"As well as is to be expected," he replied, managing a small smile for her kindness.
She did not like to ask but Berys knew the question could not avoided. "Do you remember anything of your life yet?" He looked a little pained by the query but concealed it well enough.
"All my clothes are those of an officer, of that I am sure. I am also certain that this place is not my home. Peter says my skin is roughened by much wind and he thinks perhaps I live further north." The Roman paused for a moment, contemplating the idea, then added, "I am not sure that there is a place on this island I should call home." Aware of the melancholy turn their exchange had taken, he looked back at her, brightly. His green eyes were dull but he was trying and Berys had to admire him for that.
"Well, that is something. Do you think you had many men under you?"
"I expect so. An officer would have many men under his orders. I have told Peter that my best chance is for us to seek out any military manoeuvres being undertaken in these parts." He peered up at her once more, shielding his eyes from the sun's glare. "I have been lacking in manners. I have not yet thanked you for caring for me. It cannot have been pleasant."
Berys saw that his eyes were full of sincerity and she sat down beside him. Placing her basket on the ground, she put a hand on his arm. "Your survival is thanks enough, for a fine mess we would have been in had you died." Strangely, she felt safe in his presence and found herself wishing he were not so set upon leaving Cowfold. "Besides, you gave me time to practise my healing skills. Do you think I would make a good healer?"
Arthur raised his eyebrows, startled. "I had no considered such a path for you."
Berys studied him closely. "But you have considered me, nonetheless?" She hoped she did not sound too forward but their time alone was limited. If she was to make her growing affection known, it had to be done soon. For a moment, the Roman simply stared at her in disbelief. Then he laughed, softly but in earnest. She laughed, too. "You think me forward, no doubt."
"No," he countered, quickly, not wishing to offend the woman who had looked after him during his hours of need.
"While I am not lacking the courage, I should also say that it is not my habit to be so forthcoming." Berys found herself blushing under his intent gaze.
"Ours are strange circumstances indeed and it would be stranger still to step back to the formality we left behind the day you began nursing me."
Once more, he had found the way to set Berys' heart at ease and her flirtatious nature took hold again. "So?"
Arthur looked surprised. "So?"
Berys laughed. "Do you think I might make a good healer?" He opened his mouth to reply but she cut him off, her voice adopting a more motherly tone. "Truly now, let us go indoors and see how that wound of yours is healing." Arthur followed her lead into Peter's house.
He felt confused by Berys' advances. She was a comely young woman, of that there was no denying. Yet, there was so much he did not know. What if he had a wife, a family? Even if that were not the case, how could he provide for a wife when he had no recollection of who he was? Arthur's eyes roamed over Berys' shapely curves as she soaked cloth for the wound and prepared a fresh poultice. She would do any man proud and bear beautiful children but something stopped him from taking the vision further. He had seen the way Peter looked at her and even recognised the way Berys played with his emotions. They were well matched and Arthur would not be the one to come between them. After all, were it not for Peter's kindness, he would be a dead man.
Berys drew up a stool beside the pallet and gently helped the Roman pull the fabric of his tunic away from the shoulder wound. She peeled back the bandages and dressing, her face a mask of concentration. Arthur watched her out of the corner of his eye, at the gentle curve of her neck and the light spattering of freckles across her curved nose. "Will I live?" he enquired, straining to see the wound. Berys prodded around the edges and looked pleased when no fluid oozed out.
"I do declare you will, sir. The wound is healing nicely." She offered him a warm smile and began applying the new poultice and bandages.
Arthur found his mind turning to more pressing issues. "Do you think I am well enough to ride?"
Berys lifted her head, her mouth open as if prepared to speak but not willing to utter the words. Arthur could read what she was thinking. She was torn between the knowledge that helping him would take him further from her and genuine belief that he was not ready for such exertion. "Please," he begged, although the gesture felt alien to him. Clearly, begging was not something he was accustomed to in his old life. "I feel better. There is no more sickness or dizziness. The wound is well stitched and healing well. Peter and I will return before dusk and he will ensure the ride is smooth."
Inwardly, Berys chided herself for succumbing, but she could do no less in the face of such pitiful pleading. "Very well, but I am not stitching you up again if you over exert yourself. Do you hear?" She wagged a finger playfully in his face and was rewarded with an open smile of gratitude. Oh, how long she could have bathed in the warmth of that smile!
Arthur waited as patiently as he could for her to redress his wound before darting to the vegetable patch where he knew he would find Peter. Horses were needed and the morning was already passing.
For the first two days in the Saxon camp, Gawain had been frustrated and disconcerted by his inertia. Now, he was only too happy to spend an afternoon in his tent, alone. Truth be told, the events of his first mission still replayed themselves in his mind over and over again. Yet, the reason for this was inexplicable. Apart from the pretence of Roman authorisation, he had not been asked to do anything beyond what he was willing to. His thoughts went out to his comrades in the north who would suffer the loss of sheepskins, fresh armour and weapons, amongst other more basic needs.
Unferth had accompanied Gawain to the road side on his own horse while the other Saxons remained hidden in the undergrowth at the edge of the woods. The blonde knight had tried to remember his sense of decorum, thinking himself back into the rigmarole of being a Roman soldier. He had to be convincing. Both his own and Lancelot's lives depended on it. Once again, Gawain's mind returned to his hot-headed friend and his demise. The knight prayed he was right in his belief that Lancelot had been rescued.
The two men waited for the better part of an hour for the first signs of travellers making their weary way up from the channel. The wind had picked up and the trees rustled furiously, an appropriate backdrop indeed. The distant rumble of cart wheels and horses' hooves finally signalled the traders' approach. Unferth had already organised for heavy tree trunks to be dragged across the well trodden road, leaving only room enough for one cart to pass through at a time.
Gawain turned now to his captor, glancing down at the Saxon's sheathed sword. "Can I have my sword back? I hardly think they will take me seriously without one." Blue eyes met stony grey ones, wariness meeting defiance. For a moment, Gawain believed he could see the barren wilderness of Scandinavia reflected there – a bleak place empty of warmth. The moment was broken as Unferth unbuckled the sword from his hip and passed it to Gawain. The worn, leather scabbard was still warm from where it rested against the man's leg. The knight was surprised to see that the weapon was not Saxon but Roman and neither was it the sort of ornate spoil one would expect of such a leader. It was simple but sturdy enough. Unferth nodded in faint acknowledgement of Gawain's promise and drew his horse back to the camouflage of the forest.
Gawain had been instructed to stand his ground beside the road at this point, ensuring the Roman banner was clearly visible to approaching traffic. The knight's saddle bags had been thoroughly searched upon his and Lancelot's arrival in the Saxon camp and the banner had been amongst Gawain's belongings.
The procession of carts and horses had been fairly large and Gawain wondered if he alone would be enough to bring them to a stand still. He directed his horse into the centre of the road and signalled for the first carriage to halt. He waited for the driver to draw attention to himself. A grey haired, barrel-chested man stood up on his cart and demanded. "What is the meaning of this!"
"By order of the Roman Emperor, you are to halt and unload your wares here at the roadside." Gawain spoke loudly and clearly, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt at this moment in time.
The man's mouth closed abruptly, clearly not expecting the answer he received. "Oh." He pondered the instruction for a moment before blurting out, "That is preposterous! I will do no such thing!"
Gawain reined his horse in level with the man atop his cart, eyeing him sternly. "You will do so or I will run you through and take possession of this cart myself." The knight noted the immediate alteration in the trader's face when he realised Gawain meant business.
The tension of the moment was broken when a fellow trader marched up to the pair from a cart behind. "What's going on? We have but four hours before dark and there is still a long way to go until our resting place for the night." He stopped, red-faced, partly from annoyance as well as exertion, just shy of Gawain's horse. The animal snorted derisively at him in response.
The first trader held up a hand in protest. "No, Har, let it be. This here is a Roman officer. He says we must leave our goods with him…on orders of the Emperor himself." The last words were spoken with careful deliberation, as if he were still unconvinced. Gawain did not bother to respond but cast an icy glare at the second trader. "Do you have a problem with that, too, traveller? Or perhaps you would like to discuss the matter further with the toe of my boot." The knight nudged his horse forward a few steps, just enough to startle the man and ensure he was exactly level with said boot.
"But how are we to make our living! These wares are for trading in the north, at the Wall. We cannot arrive empty-handed! I have a family to feed, a babe in arms I have yet to see! I cannot return home with nothing!" The man's voice rose, verging on hysteria, and Gawain found himself struggling to maintain his loftiness. While he despised desperation and tears in a man, he could see from the trader's attire that his family's livelihood did indeed depend upon his success at market.
The knight lifted his head to the tree line, as if he were expecting the Saxons to have suddenly disappeared. A momentary gleam of sunlight reflected off a sword amid the foliage reminded him that no such miracle was to be expected. Gawain steeled himself before turning back to the two men. "It is for your own protection and for those at the Wall. Saxon looters roam these parts and they will show you no mercy. Just two days ago, men such as yourselves were gutted from groin to sternum on this very road. They only lived long enough to describe their assailants to me." He paused, allowing the gory story to have its full effect. "Your goods will be conveyed by military men with skills and defences to withstand Saxon attack."
"Can they not accompany us to the Wall? We must see our wares to the Wall," the second man pleaded.
"Unless you wish to travel to the Wall alone to negotiate such a deal and then, assuming it is accepted, travel back for your goods, the answer is 'no'." Gawain reached inside his belt for his papers, which carried proof of his identity. Ensuring neither man could see its contents, Gawain produced a piece of coal he had chiselled to a point for writing with. He had learnt a little Latin from Arthur. As a young boy, drafted into the Roman legions, Gawain had been schooled little beyond swordplay and fist fighting at home. Arthur had ensured all his knights understood a little Latin as well as some arithmetic before the first year of their service under him was complete. Gawain found his mind momentarily wandering. Arthur seemed so far from him now. "I am keeping a list of names. You will be paid your dues once trading has been completed at the Wall."
The man on top of his cart tried in vain to see the scribblings on Gawain's scroll. "You mean that Romans are going to seek out every trader on this route and repay them! A fine tale, indeed! How are you to find us again? Besides, the price at market dictates our next purchases."
Gawain sighed, trying to contain his annoyance while simultaneously searching for his next convincing argument. "You have wasted enough of my time with this prattle. My army waits just beyond yonder trees. Do as I have ordered or suffer the consequences." His hand moved to the hilt of his sword, taking care that his threat did not fall on deaf ears.
The two traders looked at each other in resignation before the first man shrugged and dismounted, charging his companions with pulling the many boxes from his cart. Gawain sighed inwardly with relief. His first mission was over. That was painless enough.
Now, as he sat alone in his tent, the knight returned to wondering what had become of his friends. How long it had been since they were last together! Mere days but it felt like years after all the events Gawain had witnessed in the past few days. Closing his eyes against the harsh reality of being a Saxon prisoner, the blonde knight allowed his mind to wander to happier times. Before long sleep lassoed him and he dreamed of a company of knights, free of their armour, feeling the wind in their hair as they rode side by side across endless plains.
Two long days passed. Gawain continued with the job Unferth had allotted him. Bors and Dagonet made the long trek back up to the Wall, deciding it a better choice in the long run than trying their luck in the villages of the south. Tristan and Galahad widened their search for Arthur and Lancelot, never knowing how close they came to their leader when they entered the village of Cowfold. Unfortunately, perhaps, Peter, Ben and Berys had done a worthy job of concealing their wounded charge and the two knights left the area disappointed. For Lancelot, one day blended into the other under eternal torchlight. More than twenty feet below ground, he was oblivious to the passage of time beyond his own reckoning. It had not helped the telling that he had been asleep for much of it. With food in his belly and a warm bed, he had succumbed to rest quickly.
The stranger had been gentle with him and, although it had tasted foul, Lancelot had to concede that the concoction had been strengthening. For many hours after his arrival, the knight had slept deeply and dreamlessly and, once he awoke, the pain of his injuries had diminished. He lay for a moment, eyes closed, listening to the muffled sounds of activity around him. Then, Lancelot tested his left leg, lifting it a little, and was astonished to discover it worked perfectly and without even a twinge of pain. He looked around the room but the stranger was nowhere to be seen so he swung his legs off the bed and sat up.
On awakening, the dim light of the torches seemed brighter and Lancelot took the opportunity to take a closer look at the manacles encircling his wrists. They were seamless, extremely well welded of sturdy metal with no rusting. The pins driven through to hold them in place had been bent with a heavy hammer and would need another good whack to release them. Lancelot's eyes roamed the room once more, hoping to see something strong enough for the task. There was nothing. The cavern was more of an apothecary's workplace than anything else. The strongest implement the knight could see was a wooden ladle and a few divining rods. Admitting defeat on the manacle count, Lancelot turned his attention to the accompanying chain embedded in the wall behind him. That, too, had been firmly attached, welded to a metal plate which in turn had been hammered with six strong nails into the timber support.
Lancelot knew it would take many days to work even one or two loose with his bare hands. His prospects were gloomy so the knight turned his mind to more positive ideas. The stranger had, so far, treated him with due courtesy and kindness so Lancelot tried to think how he might communicate his appreciation. Even if he had been traded by the Saxons for more sinister purposes, the knight still hoped his good conduct would go some way to swaying the stranger's plans for him.
Lancelot's mind turned to the man's possible origins. He had the dark features and waxy skin of those who lived in the north eastern reaches of the Empire. His tongue was not dissimilar to Sarmatian language but neither was it similar enough to hinge a conversation upon. Lancelot was wondering if it was worth trying to engage him in his native language nonetheless when the stranger appeared. He had changed into fresh clothes. They were still black, Lancelot noted, so a man after his own heart. He also noticed that the man was carrying a bowl of steaming liquid. Lancelot could smell its contents already and was relieved that he recognised the ingredients for a change. The scent of fresh chicken was unmistakable and Lancelot had not realised how hungry he was until his stomach rumbled in anticipation.
The stranger's mouth twitched into a momentary smile as he handed Lancelot the bowl with a hunk of bread. Then, as the knight blew on the liquid to cool it, the stranger knelt before him and motioned with his hands for Lancelot to lift his tunic. The man had been meticulous in his inspection of his charge's wounds.
Even as Lancelot obeyed, he marvelled at the gentle touch and glanced down at the slender hands which roamed over his healing skin. As he looked, the stranger's sleeve rode up his right forearm and Lancelot noticed a dark, inked pattern there. He frowned as a long forgotten memory was jogged deep in his subconscious. He recognised the symbol – a vertical line made of circles and stars with a wavy line beside it. The stranger worked on, oblivious to Lancelot's scrutiny and this gave the knight time to trace his memory.
As he looked closer, he recalled a thick finger tracing the pattern in the earth. The hand was his father's. At first, everything was bound up in sensations. Lancelot could smell the warm earth in his nostrils and hear the wind whistling through the roof timbers of his childhood home. Then, slowly, the words swam back through the knight's brain; the story of a dark order of men. Yet, they were no ordinary men.
Legend told of a horrific massacre in the heart of the mountains where a once peaceful people were raped, tortured and exterminated without mercy. Only one child escaped and lived to tell how every woman and child was brutally destroyed and their menfolk taken from them. The men were spared that end but only the gods know what they suffered later. So the story went that these men were taken by cloaked creatures to the foot of a great mountain, where the rocks parted to let them pass. They disappeared into the darkness and the mountain sealed up behind them, leaving no trace of its existence.
For ten years, nothing was seen of those men. They were believed dead and the tale of their demise became the stuff of stories, embellished and used to frighten children away from the dangers of the mountain passes. That is, until the day a town grew angry at its cruel lord. He taxed them highly but he would not defend the people of his lands. At a public tournament, several hooded figures appeared behind the dais. As they approached the lord, a villager recognised a face as one of the men who had disappeared all those years ago. When he spoke the man's name, the man turned to him as if he recognised it but could not say why. The lord insisted they reveal their faces fully and explain themselves. Not even his knights and protectors could save him from the horrific death he was dealt at the hands of these merciless people.
To this day, rumours of the dark order, whose arrival foretold of the utmost suffering and death, were still told in hushed tones around the fire. The tales were enough to chill the blood of even the toughest fighter. Over the years, the rumour had gained momentum and the tattoo Lancelot was looking at now had been added to the ways these frightening people could be identified.
The knight felt a tingling all along his spine. Had he been brought into the bowels of one of those mountains? Was he destined to become one of them, to walk the earth as a ghostly grim reaper? Then a worse fate presented itself to him. It was just as likely he had been brought here to suffer for some sin he had committed and now he was going to die the most unimaginably painful death any man could conceive.
Lancelot could not take his eyes off the tattoo and, without thought, he whispered, "Egveksol…", the name given to the order. Instantly, the stranger froze and the knight regretted his words. He watched in fear as the man raised his head. Lancelot half expected to see that some monstrous visage had replaced the calm, cool face that had been there before. Instead, the face was the same but it held a passion Lancelot had not seen before. There was a glow under his skin, a fiery pyre in his eyes that shone with hunger for all the lives he would take. A mirthless smile crawled across his face and Lancelot shrank from it. The smile was a bleached skull of death.
The stranger opened his mouth, eyes narrowing as he stared at Lancelot as if trying to understand where the knight would have heard the word. Then, he ran one hand over the tattoo, lost in thoughts Lancelot had no desire to be party to. Then, those hooded eyes turned back to him but now they were hard and impenetrable. "Vasil'ev," he hissed and, without pause, punched Lancelot so hard across the face it sent him reeling for a moment.
In that time, the man knocked him to the floor and all but flung the bed across the confined space of the cavern. By the time Lancelot had realised what was happening, he had been hauled to his feet and the man was gripping his neck with one hand. Lancelot felt the hand tighten and he was finding it difficult to breathe. He tried to lift his hands to break the chokehold but the chains were too short. Lancelot spluttered and felt the blood rushing in his ears. His eyes pleaded for release but the man continued, his hold seeming only to gain in strength. The knight could hear a ringing sound and he found it difficult to focus anymore. The torchlight faded to a pinprick in the centre of his vision and then there was nothing.
When he came to, Lancelot could smell the earth around him strongly. It filled his nostrils and he reflexively tried to move away from it. Instantly, the knight could feel and hear the heavy metal chains restraining him as well as a throbbing pain in his arms. As he opened his eyes though, it was clear that he was no longer in the same room or the same position as he had been before. Lancelot realised that he was facing the wall of the cave, spreadeagled with his arms currently bearing all his weight until he found his feet.
The memory of being strangled into unconsciousness came back to him and Lancelot winced when he tried to swallow. In quick succession, all the other memories of the past hours flooded his mind. He was being held captive by one of the deadliest people walking the earth. From the stories he had heard, this Vasil'ev, as Lancelot had chosen to call him, might not even be a man at all. The knight did not want to admit that he was afraid but also knew that if he gave his torturer a name, somehow it would humanise him. Lancelot was no fool. He knew what being bound up in this spreadeagle position meant and it came as no surprise when he heard the sound of a whip being tested through the air behind him.
He did not know what possessed him to crane his neck round for a better view of what was to come but, after he did, Lancelot wished he had kept his face to the wall. Whatever manly name he chose to call the stranger was sorely misplaced now. Only a demon remained in that human body; his face empty of all emotion beyond a sense of careful precision. Vasil'ev's eyes held no compassion or even the glee Lancelot had seen reflected there before. As the whip cracked, the knight closed his eyes and braced himself for what would follow.
Sharp, bitter pain, like salt poured into a wound. All Lancelot's nerve endings were on fire, crying out for mercy but, as each lash crossed the previous wound, the knight found himself unable to focus the pain in one place alone. The whip cut deep into his tender flesh, flaying open his skin like a knife through warm butter. Lancelot could feel warm trickles of blood running down his back and seeping into the cloth of his breeches. He bit his lip until it, too, bled but even that could not hinder the cries that occasionally passed his lips.
Lancelot tried to detach his mind from the unrelenting reality but he could find no relief from the torture. From the dulled, thick sound of the whip, the knight knew the centre of his back was little more than a bloody pulp. Occasionally, he felt the ferocious tug and muted pain of strips of flesh coming away from his body. Lancelot did not know how long he remained conscious but he prayed for the reprieve of oblivion. His back was so torn, but he no longer felt the severity of his wounds. Instead, his mind concentrated on the sharp pain when the whip caught his ear or the backs of his arms and neck. Were he not still awake to refute it, Lancelot would have believed such torture to be unbearable, but bear it he had. Slowly, gratefully, his brain succumbed to the weakness of blood loss and exhaustion, and the darkness claimed him while the sound of the lash still echoed in his ears.
END OF PART 12
And, if you'd kindly review, there's plenty more where that came from!
