At last, we come to the crucial battle of Badon Hill! I have tried a slightly different approach when describing the action on the battlefield, so please let me know if it works. Once you reach the end of the chapter, it will become apparent that there are still more questions to be answered and situation to be expounded upon, but I shall endeavour to post the next chapter as soon as I can. This chapter may be a little short, but I felt it arrived at a natural conclusion to maintain some slight suspense! I hope you enjoy this installment.
I would also like to heartily thank my reviewers who were very generous with their praise and encouragement! It is an absolute pleasure to read your reviews!
Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or any of its characters. This fanfic is written purely for entertainment purposes.
Chapter 26
The Road to Badon Hill
We were completely surrounded. Their overtly hostile gazes did not wander even momentarily from us and yet they did not launch an assault. The tension that emanated from the scene had an almost tangibly electric aura. At last, one wiry man stepped forward, after setting aside the whetstone he had been using to sharpen his deadly short sword. It was impossible to decipher his age from the transitory glance I shot him, but I did not feel bold enough to meet his questioning, intense stare. "Who are you and what business do you have here?" he asked is an authoritative yet strangely soft tone and his telling accent alone was sufficient to mark him out as a potential enemy to someone with a background like mine. I shivered unconsciously at the mere sight of the deep blue tattoos that coiled around his scarred limbs that were exposed in spite of the bitter cold. Perhaps his people were so accustomed to the extremes of this harsh landscape that it had ceased to affect them as it did to someone of my sensitive constitution.
"Mordred, son of Morgan," retorted my fellow traveller when the leader's question went unanswered. The brazen proclamation of his mother's name seemed to hold some power over his former compatriots for there was a sudden murmur of exchange in their guttural native tongue. Mordred openly ignored the persistent clamour and continued his speech in our common language. "And this is Isolde, who is friend to neither the Romans nor the Saxons. We are headed to the fort at Badon Hill with all the haste we can muster." The Woad who had first addressed us still regarded us with an air of suspicion and I was not certain if alluding to Mordred's maternal lineage had been a wise strategy at all. Mordred automatically tightened his grip around my waist as he sensed my palpable nerves from the stiffening of my posture. A harsh male voice from around one of the communal fires of the camp broke above the others with a venomous cry in their alien tongue; however, even without knowledge of its precise meaning, I fully appreciated the threatening hostility with which it was uttered. It appeared we were not welcome in this vicinity and would certainly forge no friendships here.
"Are you riding there to fight then, boy? For you do not look like a warrior to my eyes and nor does that mute girl of yours," mocked the dark-haired leader, much to the relish of his surrounding band of both men and women. They all were similarly wild in appearance, garbed in a disparate array of scanty animal hides that plainly showed their alabaster skin, tinted bright blue from their use of the dye from their eponymous woad plant.
Mordred's animosity intensified and I turned to lay a calming hand on his leg when he appeared ready to dismount to confront the man who goaded us. "What do you mean by 'fight'? Have the Saxons reached there yet?" I asked tentatively, hoping that the tremor in my voice would pass undetected.
This time it was a young female Pict who spoke, "We have been following the Saxons for days now on Merlin's orders. They are not more than half a day from Badon by our reckoning so that area will become a battlefield before long. Do not venture there, girl, if you value your life." I shuddered in a way that was not influenced by the cold, but instead by an icy horror for this Saxon manoeuvre had completely disrupted any hopes of return I held dear.
"What of Arthur Castus and his men? Have you heard word of their whereabouts?" enquired Mordred in a supercilious tone, eliciting raised eyebrows and mistrustful glances from all sides. "Well, come on, you have no cause to distrust me!" he yelled when no immediate response was forthcoming. These people evidently did harbour some grudge against him that stayed their words.
"The Roman-Bristish mongrel Arthur has forged an alliance with Guinevere and Merlin," the leader of the Woads eventually informed us darkly and it was evidently a union that did not meet with his approval by any means. Mention of the Sarmatians however, had contorted his expression even further into a fearsome expression of his loathing. "As for his men, let them be damned!" This provoked a cheer of endorsement from his comrades-in-arms and I had to fight hard to maintain a reasonable pretence of composure. When we realised that we had obtained all the help we could from this dissatisfied band of Woads, I nodded my head stiffly in a universal gesture of gratitude and then spurred Murtagh on between the haphazard aspects of their campsite without a backward glance at our antagonisers. If their tidings had not been fallacious, then Mordred and I would have precious few moments to spare in order to avoid being involved in the skirmishes that were sure to erupt. We had calculated that we could reach the fort in a matter of hours now provided that Murtagh could sustain a vigorous canter just a short while longer.
As we sped onwards at a greater pace than I had previously dared travel at, Mordred leant forward to shout into my ear above the howl of the wind, "Where are you taking us, Isolde? You cannot intend to ride straight into the midst of a battlefield!" I least of all wished to find myself at the heart of a bloody conflict for the control of this land, but I could not relinquish hopes of locating Tristan now that I had dared come so far. Even if the quietly faithful scout himself had indeed left Arthur to fend off the might of the Saxons alongside the Woads, perhaps I could learn of his bearings from his former commander and dear friend before the carnage commenced in earnest.
I finally drew Murtagh to an abrupt halt when we had reached the crest of a hill that overlooked Badon's fort. The terrible clamour of clashing metal, frenzied battle cries and heart-rending wails of the wounded was carried on the wind right up to our vantage point even before I caught sight of the scene of the raging battle with my own eyes. For a while, neither Mordred nor I dared speak, but I inwardly lamented our ill fortune in the unavoidable delay we had incurred on our journey to allow my beloved horse some respite. The physical exertions over the course of our journey had wearied him so greatly that I had begun to fear for him on account of his laboured breathing, but a short recuperation period had remedied this although I had felt both frustrated and powerless to progress.
A fleeting glance to my right rendered me speechless for a breathless instant for, impaled proudly in the green earth stood a line of five glinting Sarmatian battle standards – noble bronze stallion heads tailed with crimson fabric that streamed out in the breeze. Mordred muttered an oath under his breath, but since he was seated only just behind me on the saddle, I heard his curse loud and clear. I could not help but wordlessly agree with it. The figures on the battlefield itself were hard to discern at such a distance, but nevertheless my rapt attention was fixed on the unfolding events below in the blazing hope that I might catch a glimpse of traditional Sarmatian battledress in midst of all the warriors. A flash of vivid scarlet alerted me to Arthur's dominant presence and my heart soared strangely within my chest – I truly had come home, but everything seemed so drastically wrong. The horror of the death and destruction that lay before us summoned tears that utterly blurred my vision. Warfare had always struck me as a distant phenomenon; the knights might speak of it in an offhand manner and I had, in fact, witnessed its dreadful consequences, but the relentless assault on my senses and compassion overwhelmed me. Here was hell itself.
"Well, Isolde," Mordred drawled over my shoulder, "what's your back up plan? I for one, do not rate our chances of survival very highly if we approach any closer."
"I do not know what to do," I whispered brokenly, devastated. I vaguely bent over to soothe Murtagh who was adversely affected by the acrid black smoke that coiled upwards from the numerous pyres that dotted the plain. "I merely want to know that they are safe; that he still lives." At that point in time, it was virtually inconceivable that any man, no matter how skilled with a blade could emerge unscathed. My companion sighed heavily and released hold from around my waist.
"Remain here with Murtagh," Mordred ordered tersely as he made an awkward dismount with his bow in hand. He started to stalk off down the hill in the direction of the conflict when I cried out in alarm to demand what he intended to do. "I will draw a little nearer to the action and see if I can spy out your precious Sarmatians through all the carnage to put your mind at rest – especially that scout of yours with the odd braids and curved blade." Tristan, the name was left unspoken but the understanding that pulsed between us was obvious.
"Please, take care, Mordred," I begged, but I was inwardly extremely grateful for this service which could place him harm's way. Besides, his mother would have my hide if she discovered that I had not attempted to hinder this foolish deed of bravery.
"Do not fear for me. I shall take great pains to avoid any Saxon blades or missiles, or those of the Woads or Sarmatians for that matter. I am not a hero," he finished with blatant bitterness before he spun on his heel to leave me. I watched his retreating back as he skirted cautiously down the slope with the natural semblance of an artful hunter instead of the bold advance that might characterise a seasoned warrior entering the fray. How selfish I was to allow him to make such a sacrifice for my sake alone! I fervently prayed that his agility and wit would serve him sufficiently well to guard him. Yet I remained on the crest on the lonely hill for a long, agonising wait after the healer's son had merged with the dense smoke, completely frozen whilst my eyes quested back and forth for indications of my friends and particularly the distinctive movements of the lover whom I had lost once already. I could not bear to relinquish him to death for that was one impenetrable barrier from which there could be no return.
A true haze of pain engulfed him. Dark blood thickly coated the tips of his fingers and yet this time, it came from his own veins. Hands which should have been wielding his sword and bringing swift, unrepentant death to his enemies now were bereft of it as he crawled across the damp earth. The thud of the Saxon King's boots pierced his consciousness and in vain his warrior instinct was kindled, but his ravaged body would no longer respond. The barbarian's gigantic blade was driven into the ground by his flank and he lifted his leaden head to stare his enemy squarely in the eye. This may be his end, but he would not die as a beast to be slaughtered or a cowering shadow of a man. The leader weighed up the scout's blade in his hand, swinging it almost idly as if this was merely a training exercise at the armoury. He vaguely registered a sense of distant ire at the audacity and the insult, but as the man closed in for the finale of their due, the cry of a hawk in the sky above lifted the corners of his bloodied mouth momentarily.
First one arrow met its mark in the flank of the Saxon, but the second fell just short. His enemy snatched at the shaft that had penetrated a flaw in his armour and whirled around in pained anger for the archer who dared try to slay him in such a cowardly manner. Tristan knew this was his reprieve. As he heaved his leaden frame off the ground, he plunged one of his trusty daggers deep into the torso of the man with an animalistic bellow. Another sharp pain flared up all across his right side and he staggered unsteadily backwards with a grunt.
As he collapsed to his knees, he dimly acknowledged a blood red shadow sweeping in front of him before his vision was stolen from him as he slipped into black oblivion. Last of all, he pictured a face, adorned with soft coral lips and grey eyes, rendered bright and entrancing with unguarded emotion.