Author's note:
Disclaimer – lots of dialogue in this chapter is from the movie.
I have a confession. I couldn't wrap my head around the topology and weird weather at the lake location. There is hardly any snow when the knights are rushing North and no snow where the Saxons land. Somewhere in between they are in the Himalayas. How can this be? I don't know. How does Guinevere keep from catching pneumonia? I know – she's hot! All this gave me a writer's block the size of Texas until I decided never mind!
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The caravan reached the lake, Arthur and the knights leading. They dismounted at the edge of the lake. The sky was gray and dusk was approaching. Their only hope was to cross the ice before dark fell. If luck held, they could make a stand on the trail beyond with trees for cover and the enemy exposed on ice. There was a slim chance the enemy would not risk crossing the ice in dark, and an even slimmer chance they might crack the ice. He mentioned the possibilities to Arthur.
'Is there any other way?' Arthur asked.
'No,' Tristan replied, 'we have to cross the ice.' No point in bringing up the lost trail. Without wasting any more words Arthur commanded everyone bodily able to spread out and lead the horses.
Walking slowly, too slowly, and leading nervous horses, the caravan made its way across. Ice crackled underfoot like a hungry living thing, a sound more ominous than any Tristan had heard. He would rather die fighting men, he thought, a cleaner death it would be. Dani's horror of an ignoble end flashed through his mind. Incongruously, he was reminded of something Merlin had said to him on their single meeting.
'Britain is more than a frontier to quarrel over, knight. It is living, breathing land that succors all who belong to it.'
They had almost reached the far shore when Saxon drums rang out. The refugees first slowed down to look around in confusion and then moved faster to imagined safety of the other side of the lake. Arthur stopped and looked at his knights. The men had stopped near the far shore and waited while the refugees streamed past onto the trail beyond. The moment of confrontation was at hand.
'I am tired of running,' Bors complained. 'Those Saxons are getting so close my ass is hurtin'.'
'Never liked looking over my shoulder,' said Tristan, with quiet resignation, reaching for his bow and suppressing a sigh. What he had feared was upon them; he would rather face that squarely too.
'It'll be a pleasure to put an end to the racket,' said Gawain.
'And finally get a look at those bastards,' said Galahad.
'Bet they're only half the size of Visigoths,' cracked Eric cheerfully. Gawain snorted and Galahad rolled his eyes. Eric and Gault's tendency to outrageously embellish their adventures on Eastern front had once been a cause of friction among the younger quartet. By now no one took them seriously.
'Here. Now.' Dagonet stated emphatically. Percy nodded once, never a man to waste words. Lancelot just looked at Arthur with a slow smile.
'I'm with you too,' said Dani, patting her mare and shooting a look at Tristan. She had been near the rear of the caravan, and had just now caught up.
'If there's two hundred of them,' said Gault snidely, 'even Dani will hit a few.' The woman's sorry marksmanship was a source of much wise cracking.
'Maybe the rest will die laughing,' Eric added. The woman groaned, but it had the desired effect of relaxing them a little and drawing a few chuckles. Even grossly outnumbered, at least they would face the enemy together. When Arthur snapped out quick orders however, their forced joviality disappeared.
'Percy, you're in charge. Get these people back to the Wall. Dani - ride ahead. Jols, bows and arrows for the rest of us.'
Percy and Dagonet exchanged a speaking look and then the surgeon strode away. It was possibly goodbye for the two healers. In the year past, they had become close friends.
It took some time for Tristan to absorb the implications. Distractedly he watched Jols bustle about, laying the knights' weapons and shields in front of them. Ganis, one of the farmhands helping Jols, wanted to stay and fight.
'Nine against an army?' protested Ganis, but Arthur sent him on his way.
'Ten, you could use another bow.' Guin stepped out, picking out a bow, as Arthur spoke to Alecto next.
Still Dani lingered. She bit her lips and cast an agonized glance at Eric and Gault, the boys she had mothered. They had faced odds before but not like this. Then she looked at Tristan. There was no time for goodbyes. Tristan gave her a small smile as he tested his bow, his heart a little lighter. She moved away quickly without another glance, shoulders hunched and gait stiff. The knight was reminded of the first time he and Dani had faced danger. They had come across a Saxon scouting party the past Spring and he had thought then it was goodbye. Once more time had run out. He forced his mind back on his task.
The Saxons came streaming into view and stopped in formation, like a malevolent entity pooling at the edge of the lake. He could feel speculation thrumming through the faraway figure leading the enemy, a shaven headed young man with a cruel face and a braided blond beard – Cynric, son of Cerdic. The man saw ten against an army but did not laugh. He was cunning - not one to underestimate the adversary - and Tristan resolved that Cynric would not leave here alive. The caravan's chances of reaching the Wall, and Dani's safety, depended on it.
The standoff lasted for moments that stretched into eternity. The knights were in no hurry to force the confrontation. Every moment gained for the caravan moved them closer to safety. Then the Saxons advanced onto the ice and the knights rained them with deadly missiles. Grimly Tristan concentrated on the flanks, as did the others on Arthur's orders to force the enemy to cluster – and hopefully – break the ice. He reflected with dark humor that at this range the knights had advantage in number and weapons. They could fire into the crowd without aiming. The Saxon archers would have to aim carefully and a moving man could not reload his crossbow. Cynric flung his men forward, heedless of their loss, and Tristan took cold pleasure in watching scores of them stumble.
'The ice won't break,' a shout pierced through the cold fog enveloping Tristan. The knights around him lowered their bows and picked up swords; Eric and Gault hefted their lances. Then they watched in horror as a figure ran forward holding up an axe – Dagonet!
'Cover him,' Arthur shouted desperately. Tristan had never let go of his bow. Once again he fired, this time aiming at the ones who were aiming at Dagonet.
Dagonet was in his own world. He was in the middle of the ice sheet swinging his axe. Again and again he hacked at the frozen surface, blind to deadly missiles flying around him. A cry went up from Bors. Tristan glanced at Dagonet who was down on his knees, but still hacking away.
Arthur ran to Dagonet, followed closely by Gault, lance and shield in hand. Arthur stumbled down next to Dagonet. Gault jammed his lance into the snow and propped his elongated shield onto it, offering meager protection for the fallen knight. Tristan absorbed all this in a glance and then returned to his task of covering his brothers from the advancing Saxons.
Ice broke with a thunderous roar and the Saxon army scattered. Tristan continued to fire until his arrows were exhausted while Arthur pulled Dagonet out of water. The knights frantically dragged their friend's body away from the advancing crack in the ice. On the other side, many of the enemy drowned while a few scrambled to safety, forced to retreat.
Tristan stopped to draw ragged breaths and take stock, once more the scout responsible for getting them away from danger. A look towards the far side told him the enemy would not bother them, at least not tonight. A bright full moon danced in the choppy waters; treacherous thin ice was forming quickly. He could feel the hatred emanating from Cynric, futilely glaring the knights.
'Eric,' Tristan said to knight closest to him. 'Horses.' If Dagonet lived, he would need to be taken to Percy, quickly. Eric still looked stunned so Tristan gave him a shove.
The two of them hurried down the trail to where Jols had left their mounts and returned leading several including Dagonet's. Tristan silently thanked Jols for having the foresight of leaving linens, blankets and a first aid kit on Dagonet's horse. A look at the stricken knight, being administered to by an awkward Bors, made him wonder if their friend would have use for them. The healer lay unmoving, blue and frozen, a couple of crossbow bolts sticking hideously out of his chest.
'Tristan,' Arthur ordered, 'ride fast and take him to Percy. Bors, go with him.' Quickly they secured Dagonet to his horse and, Tristan leading, rode down the darkened trail as fast as they dared. Once again the moon was their ally and soon they caught up with the slow moving caravan. The refugees, driven by desperation, had not stopped despite the dark.
'Stop the caravan!' Tristan called out harshly. A woman screamed in fear. Dani appeared but one look at his face wiped away the gladness on hers.
'Dagonet is hurt,' he told her briefly. 'Saxons have retreated. We make camp here.'
A grateful cry went up and down the line and the caravan came to a halt, weary refugees glad to drop where they were standing. Dani led Tristan and Bors to the sick cart stopped by the trailside. Percy jumped down and helped ease Dagonet's body into the cart. Gentle hands removed wet clothes from an inert body.
'Save him,' Bors pleaded with the surgeon, all animosity towards the taciturn knight forgotten.
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Author's notes:
Gentle reader, shall I save Dagonet? I shall wait for your verdict. Please review and vote – a man's life hangs in balance.
I wrote a poem to pass time while wrestling with writer's block. Enjoy!
Illogic too numerous to list
Got my knickers in a twist.
Into hyperdrive went my brain
In a desperate bid to explain -
All that is unexplained
Until it left me quite drained!
And while in logical mode
Why this ridiculous ode?
To convince my readers, egad,
Spock is not my dad!