Tristan's Story

Chapter 25

Into the Fray

"Every action of our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity." Edwin H Chapin

The sentries came to attention as the Knights, led by Arthur and riding two by two, pounded from the fort. Jols, leading a tethered pair of pack horses, brought up the rear. They made an impressive show, these young warriors on their fine steeds, and the battle savvy Romans were glad to have them fighting with them rather than against them.

The irony was that the Knights truly understood the position of the Woads, and many sympathized with it. They too had lost their country to the Romans. To Galahad, in particular, it seemed that they were fighting on the wrong side, and the young man chaffed at any order given to him by a Roman other than Quentas or Rufus, who he had come to know and trust.

For practical Tristan, it was not a matter of motive, but of survival. Whatever their motivation, the Woads wanted to kill the Knights...it was just that simple. Tristan had no quarrel with the Woads personally, but battle was not about philosophy. His job was to survive and to get Lionel back home the same way. To do so meant following orders and becoming the best warrior he could become.

Beyond getting Lionel back home, Tristan did not think much about his future, unlike Gawain who constantly dreamed of the wife he would find and the children he would sire. He longed to return to the shores of the Black Sea where his family had a home...a real, wooden home rather than the tents of the more nomadic tribe to which Tristan and Nell belonged. Gawain, Galahad, and Bedevere had all come from a tribe that had settled and made homes by the sea, where fishing and trading made life more stable than for the wilder tribes to the east.

To Lancelot it had become personal the day he found Degore's mutilated body.

"Tristan," called Arthur as the troop drew nearer the tree line of the forest.

Tristan signaled Oxsus to pick up the pace and soon drew along side the commander. He knew, of course, what Arthur wanted, but was content to await the verbal order.

"Scout ahead," said the commander, "but be careful!" Arthur always added that caveat to his order for the scout to begin his duties.

Tristan nodded his head, hiding the smile that came threatened to come. There was something comfortable in the fact that Arthur always said those same words. Tristan liked that he could predict what the warriors beside him would do and how they would react. That gave him an edge and helped him to keep them all alive. The scout raised his arm to signal Batraz to take flight and pulled ahead of the group.

As the troop entered the thick forest, the very air seemed suddenly oppressive. A thick fog had been gathering about them, making the gloom of the woodland even more murky and making the mounts of the Knights even more skittish. For once even Bors seemed to catch the eerie mood of the place and keep quiet.

"Arthur," Lancelot called quietly, for the riders were now single file and there was not room for him to pull beside the commander. "How are we supposed to find any signs in this place?"

Arthur concurred with his friend and second in command, but did not voice his doubts. It had been drummed into him too many times that a commander never showed indecision to those he was leading. He held up his fist to signal the group to halt. His instincts were screaming at him that this place was ripe for an ambush, that they would never find what they were looking for in such a dense section of woods.

"Arthur," Lancelot repeated more forcefully. "We must get to where we can fight should the need arise."

"I am aware of that, Lance," replied Arthur, "but my orders are explicit."

"If the twelve of us cannot maneuver, then surly you do not think that a large group of Woads could? We will not find signs of them here, for they will have to pick a more open area to maneuver."

Arthur glanced back at the trailing group of men before looking back at Lancelot. "Nothing the Woads do surprises me."

"You sound as thought you think them magical?' scoffed Lance. When Arthur did not answer immediately, the warrior raised an eyebrow in question. "They are men, Arthur, nothing more."

"I know they are men," Arthur responded angrily. "I have put my sword into enough of them to be quite sure of that fact."

"But?" urged Lancelot.

"Dagonet, Bors," Arthur called back to the men. "Spread out and watch our flanks."

"But?" repeated Lancelot.

Arthur glanced back again and noticed Jols having trouble with the rear pack horse. "Alynore, help Jols." After watching the sandy haired knight dismount and start back towards the squire, he turned his attention back to Lancelot. "Their leader is most unusual..."

"So is ours," interrupted Lancelot with a grin.

"Are you going to listen to me or amuse yourself?" snapped Arthur, for the proximity of the forest seemed to be closing in around him.

Lance held up his hands in surrender at Arthur's uncharacteristic outburst.

Arthur sighed at the motion, aware of how ridiculous his words were going to sound. He stepped nearer Lancelot so that none of the others could overhear. "It is as though their leader is in my head at times."

"In your head?" questioned Lancelot, his face showing his surprise. "Think you that he knows your thoughts?"

Arthur shook his head slowly. "I only know that I feel a connection to him."

Lancelot grew serious watching Arthur's demeanor. "Very well," he said at last. "I know there are things in this world that I cannot explain and this may be one of those things." He continued to slowly. "Perhaps we can use this ...connection, as you call it, to our advantage."

O-o-O-o-O

Thick, dark lashes batted against tanned cheeks made sallow by fever. Dark curls, grown out a bit from the normal short cut, lay plastered to the sweat soaked forehead of the young legionnaire. A soft moan escaped from Lucius as he fought the demons in his fevered dreams.

Flavia sighed as the applied the cooling cloth to the boy's head. The fever was higher than he would have liked. Removing a leg was hard enough on a patient under the best of circumstances, but here in the wilds it was dangerous. But damn it all, Flavia protested to himself, he'd had no choice if he was going to save the lad's life. Aye, it was choices like this that had driven the man to drunkenness. Oh, he was not drunk now...would never do that when he had a patient. It was bad timing that the young Sarmatian had been brought in on a night when he'd given into his weakness. Well, he sighed, there was nothing he could do about that now.

The eyelashes batted again as Lucius fought his way to the surface of consciousness. It took several seconds for him to clear the haziness away and focus on the face of the man leaning over him. He half expected it to be Scaro, his best friend. "Doc...Doctor?" he questioned groggily.

"Rest now, young one, you've had a difficult time of it," replied Flavia.

"How did I get here?" asked Lucius. His mind was still fuzzy, but he last remembered being on patrol and being jumped by the Woads. "Where is the rest of my patrol?"

"You were brought in by one of your comrades," said the doctor. "That is all I know."

"Was no one else wounded," asked the man, looking around the room at the empty beds.

"No one else survived, son," answered the doctor gently, "only you and the man who brought you in."

Lucius' head dropped back onto the pillow with a soft thud. He had expended all his strength just trying to look around the room. "No," he grieved softly.

"You just rest now," advised the doctor. "There are some friends yours waiting outside if you are up to seeing them."

Lucius opened his eyes slowly. Flavia did not like the expressionless look on his face. He had seen this before when a troop was decimated. The survivor suffered guilt while grieving for his friends. He made the decision to bring in the visitors. A short visit would do the man some good.

Quentas, Rufus, Scaro and Patrobas were all still holding vigil outside the infirmary when the doctor opened the door.

Quentas and Rufus immediately rose from the bench where they had been sitting while the other two quit their pacing and faced the doctor.

"Why did you have to take his leg, you butcher" accused the normally mild mannered Patrobas. Tears sprung this his eyes and he furiously blinked them away.

"Stand down," ordered Quentas before the doctor could even react to the accusation. "What can you tell us, doctor?"

Flavia gathered his wits and ushered the men inside. "Your friend is still gravely ill, I'm afraid. He is awake however, and I feel that seeing you would do him some good."

"What can we do to help?" asked Rufus. "We can take turns sitting with him to spell you."

"I do not know..." the doctor stammered.

"Rufus has experience in healing," explained Quentas. "You would find him an able assistant for the boy."

"And we can learn what to do," insisted Scaro. "Anything is better than just waiting."

"There is more to tell," said the doctor.

"We know you had to take his leg," said Quentas. The Centurion was sympathetic to the doctor because he, too, had been placed in positions where he had to make difficult decisions throughout his career. "You saved his life and we are appreciative of that." He gave Patrobas a hard stare as he spoke those words.

Patrobas swallowed and lowered his head guiltily for a moment. "I am sorry for the way I spoke to you, doctor."

Flavia was surprised and oddly touched by the admission. He was not often treated with much more than contempt by the Roman regulars. "That's alright, son, I've been called worse."

"No," continued Patrobas, "it is not alright." He put his hand on the doctor's shoulder. "You have worked hard to save my friend and I do appreciate that fact. I allowed my grief to cloud my mind for a moment. I can see how weary you are. Sit down for a bit and allow us to take some of the load. I will fix you some tea while Rufus checks on Lucius."

Flabbergasted at the unexpected kindness, the doctor did as he was told, for it had been a long, exhausting night and day spent trying to save Lucius' life.

Quentas nodded his approval. "Scaro, you go with Rufus and I will stay here with the doctor and Patrobas. We do not want to tax Lucius' strength."

Scaro took a deep breath and let it out slowly before following Rufus into the surgery/convalescent room. He determinedly put a smile on his face. He would not allow his friend to see anything but support and positive attitude coming from him. As he reached the bedside he looked down at the pale face of his friend and tentatively placed a hand on Lucius' shoulder. "Are you awake, lad?" he asked softly.

Lucius' eyes opened a small smile touched his face as he looked into the grizzled countenance of his best friend. "What a face to have to wake up to," he quipped softly. His voice faltered slightly and he lapsed into a coughing spell.

"Here, take some of this," said Rufus, holding a cup of water to Lucius parched mouth and gently supporting his head while he sipped the cool liquid. "Not too much," he cautioned. "You do not want it coming right back up."

Lucius had to rest a moment after the drink, but then his eyes opened again. Alarm showed on his face as he grasped Scaro's shirt weakly with his hand. "The Woads...they were everywhere!"

TBC

A/N: Again, I apologize for the long delay in posting. If you are one of the few, faithful readers still following this story, I truly appreciate your patience and faithfulness. You deserve a big hug!