Now we are home

Chapter Twenty-Five

Marian struggled like a frenzied animal against the arms that held her, with one hand across her mouth, the other arm trapping her against her assailant's body. She kicked her feet, tried to throw her head around, but whoever it was that held her simply lifted her off the ground. It was several moment before the fact that the man spoke penetrated the haze of panic Marian found herself in.

"It's me, girl. Keep still already." Relief overwhelmed her as she recognized the voice and she sank back against Tristan's chest. He held her awkwardly for a moment before he hastily dropped his arms and turned her around. He put a finger to his lips.

"Be very quiet. There are people in the woods, Saxons... I don't know what is going on." He nodded towards the edge of the forest. "They have a camp there, just a little out of earshot. About sixteen men, and they have a prisoner."

She stared at him, her eyes wide, while he in turn seemed to be contemplating what to do with her.

"If you have to investigate further, I can stay here and keep very quiet..." she offered timidly, silently hoping that he would agree to just that. He shook his head.

"I have to get that man out, and that means being able to get away quickly." His gaze wandered from her to his horse and back. "How well can you ride?"

Marian followed his gaze to the temperamental warhorse and felt sick to her stomach. "Not well enough, I'm afraid." As she looked back at him, his annoyed expression told her just how much he was regretting taking her along. While she was aware that she was no great asset to him at the moment, it still bothered her. "I'll manage," she finished, lowering her eyes to avoid his doubtful look.

A moment of tense silence passed between them. Finally, Tristan shook his tangled hair out of his eyes and nodded once. "Fine."

He grasped her hand in his and led her towards the tree line. The blankets and other remnants of their camp he obviously meant to leave behind. Marian gathered her skirt with her free hand and stumbled along in his wake, noticing with a twinge of annoyance that the horse followed them without being led.

Tristan set a brisk pace and more than once it was only the grip of his hand on hers that stopped her from stumbling over some root or rock on the ground and land in a rather ungraceful heap on the floor. The sound of her trotting along concerned her, as did the rather audible stomps of the mare's hooves, but the scout showed no sign of disquiet yet, so she kept her fears to herself.

Had she taken a walk in these woods under any different circumstances, she would have been struck by their quiet beauty and the overall appearance of age. Thick, gnarly tree trunks rose from amidst beds of soft moss and delicate ferns, stretching their ancient boughs towards the heavens and clutching at each other above their heads like dancers frozen in time. The fallen leaves of last years autumn covered the ground between clumps of herbs and clusters of tiny mushrooms like a multi-coloured carpet. Theirs were not the only sounds of life among the trees. Small animals scurried along the branches and birds, hidden between the leaves, sang their eerie songs into the cool air of the early morning.

When Tristan abruptly stopped, she instinctively clutched at his arm and pressed herself closer to his side. He nodded towards one the trees, a oak that looked old enough to have seen the coming and going of ages.

"If you climb up there, up to that fork, you'll be practically invisible from down here. Wait for me, and I will come back and get you."

She peered up into the branches of the tree and scratched the back of her neck. The climb did not worry her, nor did the height. When she was little, her father had been forever plucking her out of the trees around Badon Fortress.

"Will you come back, though?" she asked softly. "You cannot promise that, not when you stand to face sixteen Saxons on their own."

"Yes, I can."

His tone of voice allowed for no argument, but he squeezed her hand briefly in a gesture of comfort. Then he grasped her around the middle and lifted her up. Marian reached up into the boughs of the old oak and pulled herself further upwards. Her skirt caught briefly on a branch, but she yanked it free irritably and climbed the short distance further to the fork Tristan had indicated. Once she had settled herself somewhat comfortably with her back to the trunk and peered downwards, Tristan was already gone.

OooOooO

Rhian's heart was heavy and there was a lump in her throat that just would not go away. They had left Carys behind in the cottage and Gwydion clung tightly to Rhian's hand, tears streaming down his face, but never uttering a sound.

Bedwyr led them down to the shore, away from the house, from the dock and towards the fog that rose like a white wall around the island. It had swallowed the entire lake and reached out with cold, clammy fingers. As they reached what Rhian assumed was the water's edge, Aeronwy held out one hand to her.

"Come here," she called her softly. With only a moment's hesitation, she put her hand in Aeronwy's and let the blind girl pull her closer. Aeronwy's other hand held Bedwyr's elbow and for a moment, they stood side by side, surrounded by the swirling dampness of thick white fog.

"Rhian, when we start forward now", Bedwyr told her, his voice rough with suppressed emotion, "you need to keep walking, whatever happens. And when in doubt, follow Aeronwy. She will not lead you astray."

Aeronwy gave Rhian's hand a reassuring squeeze, and then they moved forward. The fog surrounded them completely, like a white sheet draped over their eyes. There was nothing but the pale glow of the mist around them, yet not once did the ground beneath Rhian's feet falter. She walked on, one hand holding Gwydion, the other Aeronwy. She did not look left or right, for fear of losing herself in white nothingness. Her heart beat in her chest and her breath came in short burst, but finally, after what felt like an eternity or no time at all, she stepped from the mist, with the boy, the girl and the knight beside her, and behind her lay the glittering lake, a pale sheet of mirrored sky in the light of the spring sun, and there was no sign of Avalon anywhere.

"How can we... there was a lake," Rhian protested, "There was water, I saw it. How can we be here?"

"I didn't see it," Aeronwy answered her softly, "yet I know the ground never once gave way beneath my feet. That, too, is the truth, is it not?"

"We have no time to stand and stare, Rhian," Bedwyr cut across them. He scooped Gwydion up in his arms and started walking. "I want to reach the forest before midday."

Aeronwy followed him, one hand clutching the back of his tunic. The brisk pace he set caused her to trip a little over various bumps in the ground, until Rhian gently took hold of her elbow and was able to lead her more securely.

"What is going on?" she asked, annoyance rising within her, "Can you at least tell me that? What is it that we are running from?"

"Enemies," the knight replied shortly, "enemies, who came much too close today. They should not even have been able to see the mist, much less enter it in search of the island."

"Stop!" Gwydion's voice was no more than a harsh whisper, but there was such a sense of urgency in it that it made them all halt in their tracks. The boy stared towards the forest, green eyes narrowed and a look on his face that was much too serious for a child.

Bedwyr's gaze followed his nephew's outstretched arm and spat out a curse. Rhian's heart gave a violent stutter and she grasped Aeronwy's arm more firmly as Bedwyr started running.

She did not need him to tell her that the dozen men Gwydion had spotted running towards them were Saxons, nor did she need him to tell her that they would be dead if those men caught up with them, that there was no way one single knight would be able to defend a child, a blind girl and a pregnant woman. If they caught up to them, they would die.

Everything seemed to close in around her. She was acutely aware of the ground beneath her feet, the wind pulling at her hair and the soft worn fabric of Aeronwy's sleeve under her fingers. Her own breathing was loud in her ears, a painful, rhythmic panting, and the horizon seemed awfully far away.

Behind them, the Saxons were screaming something, their voices harsh in the air like rolling thunder. To her frightened mind, it appeared as if she could feel their hands on her already, could smell the odour of their bodies clad in filthy fur and leather. It was just a matter of time before one of them stumbled, and then they would die.

Suddenly, Bedwyr gave a sharp yell of victory. Their pace slowed down and Rhian looked around frantically. Only then did she notice the new sound among the cacophony of breath, footsteps and fear in her brain, a different sort of thunder.

Lancelot, Galahad, Lamorak and Gwalchaved were galloping towards them like heroes from the legends, their weapons drawn, cold steel catching the morning light.

OooOooO

Marian felt sleepy. The sunlight, filtered through the leaves, painted pretty patterns onto her dress and it teased her with tiny fingers of warmth, like a child that wanted to play. She did not feel like playing. The fear that had been coiling in her belly like angry snakes was subsiding and it had been an awfully long night, despite the rest she had gotten earlier.

Besides, the singing was so pretty... the song promised her that everything would be alright. Comforted, she closed her eyes. Beautiful colours were waiting for her behind her closed eyelids. Sunrise and sunset at the same time, a sky that was endless and clad in its most beautiful gown, just for her. She found herself standing on a plain, soft grass curling warmly beneath her bare feet. Camelot was but a speck in the distance, a tiny spot on the horizon, and before her lay nothing but lush green meadow, spanning all the way to the sunset on the one side and the sunrise on the other. Her world, one she could hold in the palm of her hand if she wanted... all she had to do was reach the horizon.

She started walking, smiling as tiny flowers began to bloom along her path, their buds tickling her feet as she passed. The singing continued, a choir now promising her eternal happiness in the land of sunrise and sunset.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning split the sky and a thunderclap made her stop dead in her tracks. Sunrise and sunset dimmed in the distance as a raven came flying towards her. She frowned and tried to shoo it away, but it circled her, undeterred, and swooped down again.

Marian!

Had someone spoken? Was someone calling her? The song sounded angry now. The voice... had there been a voice? ...that was calling her had interrupted the song.

Marian, wake up!

Another bolt of lighting blinded her and thunder shook the earth. There was a man now, where there had been a raven. She knew that man, knew his clear blue eyes and that hair, soft and long and coal-black. He stood before her, bare-chested, and she could see the dark lines of his tattoos stretching up from his arms and curling down his chest. He looked angry. And frightened.

Marian, you must wake up! You will die!

Her eyes flew open and she collapsed on the ground. To her utter horror, she was no longer comfortably sitting in her tree. She had climbed down the old oak and wandered a few feet into the forest like a dog on a leash. Her heart was pounding frantically in her chest and she ran back to the oak, her hands grasping the rough bark of its trunk. Then she slid down onto the ground again, her back to the tree and her hands covering her ears. She could only hope that Tristan would not be long.

OooOooO

Tristan pushed through the underbrush as quietly and swiftly as a shadow. He held his bow at the ready and paused every few steps to cast a quick look around, so as to avoid any potential sentries.

When he came upon the encampment he had discovered earlier, he got down on one knee behind a cluster of rocks and roots and peered ahead into the clearing. What he saw there made his brow crease. Where there had been sixteen men, only four remained, along with their prisoner. While less foes was not necessarily cause for concern, in this instance it could mean that they were on patrol somewhere and might be back at any time. He disliked surprises. For a brief moment, he considered looking for them before taking any further action, but what the remaining four were doing to their prisoner could not continue.

They had strung him up with his wrists lashed to two trees, had torn his shirt and where making a game out of whipping him with a knotted rope. Blood was streaming down his back in small, crimson rivulets and more blood and sweat dripped from his forehead, but so far, the man had not made a sound, although his lips were pressed together in a thin white line.

Tristan felt a rising respect for Taliesin. A lesser man would have screamed.

...to be continued...