Author's notes:

What you have all been waiting for - the climactic battle scene. But first one more thing that's been bothering me. When I first started writing this fanfic, I assumed that the Woads get to use Roman catapults – aka onagers – in the battle. Recently saw the scene again and realized that they were using some sort of a traction catapult. Now I am no expert so I did some reading.

Onager – Roman torsion catapult, depends on the spring of tightly coiled ropes, slow to load owing to the need for mechanically tightening the spring after each reload, not very good in damp climates because rope loses spring

Traction catapult – operated by a gang of men pulling on ropes, it works faster and is an all weather machine. Probably invented by the Chinese, it appeared in Europe around 1000AD or later. So the Woads were using artillery 600 years ahead of their time? Anyone know more about catapults? The Art of the Catapult – William Gurstelle

Disclaimer: some dialogue is from the movie. Angst, blood, gore and melodrama ahead. Not for the faint of heart. You have been warned.

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'Destiny' was not a word Tristan used often. It smacked of mysticism and the scout prided himself on being a rational man. Only twice had it struck him with force, the first time on a cold spring day fifteen years ago.

It had been an early spring that year and the nearly seventeen year-old Tristan had been secretly looking forward to it even though seeming stoic on the outside. Taller than most men and deadly accurate with the bow he had outgrown, he had been a man for nearly two years. He had passed the trials that marked passage of manhood in his tribe – including skirmish with enemy raiders – and the tattoos on his cheeks declared it, even as they marked his tribe for all to see. The dread he had lived with since he turned twelve summers had diminished over the years.

It had been nearly a decade since Roman forces had visited their tribe. He still remembered the bright standards and scarlet uniforms though the faces of the boys who had been taken had become hazy. Only one boy from his own extended family had gone, a distant cousin whose parents still offered prayers yearly for his safe return. The tribes that peopled the vast, arid steppes of Sarmatia were a scattered lot, following migrating animals and finding new pastures for their herds of cattle and prized horses. Extended families followed their own path, meeting few of even their own tribesmen for most parts of the year. Only twice they came together for a few festive weeks, camping near the very few permanent settlements that existed where shelter and water was available year round. At the beginning of spring and end of summer tribesmen came together to trade, boast, drink, gamble, race horses, celebrate and sometimes fight to settle matters of honor. Not the least they looked forward to meeting potential mates outside their own kin.

Despite his relative youth and lack of possessions to offer as bride price, Tristan was aware of being scrutinized by girls and their mothers though he affected not to notice. He was young enough to be flattered but it was not them he looked for. Every two years his mother's brother, a Trader who had traveled the Silk Route, came to the gatherings bearing exotic trinkets and tales from the Far East. The year before last Uncle had hinted to Tristan that he wanted to take his nephew along next time, to learn the trade and help his aging uncle. It was a perilous trade along a treacherous terrain but to young Tristan it was the call of adventure and freedom.

Tristan's father did not like it but being a practical man, only shrugged. He could see that his eldest was not born to be a cattle herder. He had help enough with his cattle and horses from his stepson, brothers, nephews and the occasional niece. A widower with eight year-old Tristan to raise, he had married a widow with her own young son. Tribesmen cared for their own. Tristan's stepmother was not unkind, but she had little in common with her quiet stepson and little time left after keeping her family clothed and fed. Three children in quick succession made both parents too busy to take note unless the older boys shirked their duties.

An unexpected friendship grew between the two boys, perhaps due to their closeness in age and because each had lost a parent. Tristan cared for the family's horses, hunted and butchered game, and the cured hides into leather. Young Bedwyr kept a watchful eye for wolves while the cattle grazed and fashioned implements out of whatever material came to hand. Lately he had been helping Tristan make a new composite bow – an art in itself – out of bone, sinew, leather and wood. The boy, who had been lamed in an accident that killed his father, had a craftsman's eye. It was through him Tristan met old Ryzic, the snow haired old man who carved musical instruments and toys for children at the settlement they visited every spring.

Old Ryzic had seen at least sixty winters. He was one of the few who had returned from Rome's service. Sometimes when he was in a good mood, he would tell stories to the children; it was good for business. A twelve year-old Tristan had been fascinated despite himself to hear about the omni present walls that Romans surrounded their cities with. He couldn't shake the feeling that his own life would be shaped in the shadow of such a wall although the tallest wall he had seen was only a man-high turf stockade. During those years he had lived half in fear and half in anticipation of being taken away to Roman lands.

Many generations ago Romans had crushed a Sarmatian uprising and offered the survivors terms for truce: provide your sons for service in the auxiliaries and you will be left unmolested. Romans wanted Sarmatian horsemanship to strengthen their cavalry forces. As old Ryzic had told them, the Romans took healthy twelve to fifteen year-old boys to train as mounted officers. Many did not survive, and some chose not to return. Old Ryzic came back, after losing wife and children to a plague, to start a second life.

'Destiny,' he had said simply.

Over the years, Roman forces looking for recruits came less often, and then too did not visit every Sarmatian spring camp. Rumor was that Rome was facing its own troubles. Tristan was now too old to worry overmuch. Instead he waited for the arrival of Uncle and made promises of gifts to an envious stepbrother. Many of the extended families had not yet arrived so when a boy came riding into camp to announce a large party, the whole camp turned out to greet the latecomers. But the riders wore scarlet, and trailing them was a mismatched pack of boys, representing a patchwork of Sarmatian tribes. The camp grew silent, parents looking furtively at their sons.

The commander looked haggard. No doubt he wanted to fill his quota and be gone with his charges from these hostile lands. His men tightened nervous hands on lances and swords. His eyes skimmed over the camp children, rested briefly on the lame Bedwyr and came to stop on Tristan.

'You!' the commander pointed with a staff, 'and you, and you.' No more words were needed. At least he was packed, Tristan thought with grim humor, casting one look East. Destiny beckoned from the wrong direction. Goodbyes were mercifully short, Bedwyr handing him the nearly finished bow as a farewell gift.

'How long will we be gone?' It was the boy who had announced the Roman arrival, one whom Tristan knew vaguely as Lancelot. That was because all the camp girls, including Tristan's little stepsisters, spoke his name in breathless whispers accompanied by giggles.

'Fifteen years,' came the terse reply.

Over the first of those fifteen years, another Bedwyr had befriended Tristan. At first the shared name led to conversation. It blossomed into friendship. The boys complemented each other perfectly, Bedwyr being the extrovert and the spokesman for the duo, dragging a reluctant Tristan into every prank that came to his inventive mind. They had talked about returning home together so often that Tristan accepted it too as destiny, until death intervened unexpectedly. A few years later destiny took a different turn, for a wrenching second time.

Only six months ago he had stood on a cliff overlooking the North Sea struggling to come to terms with it. Dani had come into his life recently and she would soon follow Arthur to Italia. She had asked the scout to come with her. Reluctantly he had agreed, putting off the dream of returning home. And now Arthur was staying in Britain to fight the invading Saxons.

'Why does Rome need so many?' Tristan had once asked Ryzic. 'Such a vast army?'

'Romans hunger for land,' the old man had replied. 'They need men to hold it.'

It had been an alien concept to young Tristan, raised on the vast steppes where one might ride for days without encountering boundaries. He was the only boy who wondered about such things. Now, a lifetime later, he understood. Saxons hungered for the fertile lands of Britain, to exclude others from its bounties or make them subservient. They and their kind would keep coming. Being Roman born Arthur understood them on a fundamental level and that was why he was the key to keeping the invaders at bay, to protecting the peoples of Britain. It was, as Guinivere said, Arthur's destiny. The future of their island home hinged on a brutal question –would Cerdic kill Arthur or Arthur Cerdic?

As Tristan brought himself back to the present moment and stared at the oncoming Saxon rush, he wondered if his own destiny was to always be pulled into two.

It was a moment that would remain seared in his memory: the biting wind on top of the bluff, impatient ripple of proud standards, blinding smoke, gray skies, the heady feel of adrenaline, the smell of burning hay that could not quite mask the rank odor of a few thousand Saxons, the thunder of a few thousand marching feet almost – but not quite – drowning out the voice of their commander. Arthur paced on his charger in front of them, eyes fierce and face determined.

'The home we seek is not in some distant land. It is in us, in our actions of this day.'

Looking at him, Tristan knew instinctively that the commander would seek out Cerdic for a personal confrontation, and Cerdic would seek him. Just as instinctively he knew that Cerdic was not just some brutal warlord. He was a man of deliberation and cruel intelligence. It made his hackles rise to think of Arthur facing this not quite madman. Unless someone else killed Cerdic first. That was his last thought before hell broke loose.

A rain of flaming arrows whistled overhead from Woad archers hidden among trees behind and the Saxons checked their forward rush. It was the signal the knights waited for. While the enemy put up a shield wall against the deadly barrage, Arthur led the knights in a charge that would sweep across enemy lines as soon as the shield wall dropped and the enemy was awkwardly crouched on the ground, vulnerable to cavalry. Again and again they wheeled their horses back and forth through the Saxon lines while volleys of arrows showered down on the enemy. Grimly Tristan concentrated on keeping Arthur and the other knights in sight while shooting down crossbowmen, ignoring the terrible din of battle and the occasional missile that just missed him. Through the corner of his eye he saw a flaming ball land on the grass and set alight a line of grease, separating the Saxon company. The heat was intense, the smell of burning flesh and leather mingled with the smell of burning hay.

As a barrage of fireballs broke up the Saxon ranks it signaled the Woad archers to join the fray, and join they did, flinging themselves into the melee with wild screaming ferocity, heedless of the superior arms and strength of the invaders. It gave the knights a little breathing space to fall back and regroup. A glance at his brothers told him they were in one piece more or less; Arthur commanding Gault – injured recently – to withdraw to the fort. In that space Tristan paused to seek out the Saxon leader. The tall man with flowing dirty blond hair was literally cutting a path in front of him, heading relentlessly towards Arthur, conspicuous atop his charger in plate armor and tall crested helmet. Without conscious thought the scout moved to intercept.

'If we remain True to the vows we made,' Dani had told him the day before during their last brief time together, 'surely the gods would honor it. In this life or the next.' Her people revered Truth, though the meaning was slippery and fraught with chance. For her, Truth had been willingness to stay behind with Arthur and honor her contract of service, no matter the personal cost. Once long ago she had broken her vows to protect her tribe and paid a terrible price. Now she accepted the inevitable with the fatalism of her people.

A burly Saxon with an axe grabbed Grey's bridle from the left and hacked at Tristan's thigh; the knight twisted in his saddle and countered the charge with his bow. Grey pulled back her head and bit through the man's forearm. The momentum cost the Saxon his balance and the scout his bow. Before the man recovered Tristan sunk the arrow he still clutched into the enemy's neck. As he swung back to look at Cerdic, he found the Saxon leader standing in an open circle, watching him intently, weighing him. A bolt whistled past Grey's head and Tristan decided he was less of a target on foot. He freed the scimitar, jumped down and was immediately attacked by another Saxon. His injured knee buckled and saved him from being decapitated. He thrust upward with an awkward but lethal, stab. As the attacker spun away, Tristan gave himself the luxury of another pause. Cerdic still studied him, as he would an insect before stepping on it.

Uncharacteristic fear shook the scout. Sweat poured down his forehead blinding him, so he yanked away the hat and raked hair away from face. Carefully keeping his face impassive despite the protesting knee, he stepped closer to the watchful Saxon leader. Bodies swirled past them, din of battle muted to a hum.

'Let's dance,' Tristan muttered, holding the scimitar out with both hands. In reply, Cerdic dropped the short handed hacking sword he was holding and lazily freed a long bladed beautifully wrought weapon that had lain in its scabbard at his side, as if waiting for a more worthy adversary. In a heartbeat Tristan closed the distance, feinted to one side and cut to the other. With speed that stunned the scout the older man met his charge. This was no wild Barbarian. After a flurry of blows the two men stepped back to study each other again. Psychological dominance was half the battle, and Tristan knew he had failed to impress his enemy. It was an unfamiliar and bitter feeling. Again and again they charged each other until a sharp pain raked his unguarded side. Incredulously Tristan watched his fingers come away bloody, a gift from the dagger Cerdic held in his left hand while swinging the great two-handed long sword easily with his right.

Fear made him rash. The mistake cost him a deep cut in the neck and loss of sword. He lay wounded and winded on the grass, wondering why the man didn't finish him. Incredibly Cerdic tossed the knight's sword back to him and looked around, waiting. Tristan understood. Cerdic didn't want to just kill Arthur, he wanted to crush his spirit, by making him watch his friends die. Nearly sobbing with desperation, the knight threw himself at Cerdic armed with just a dagger, hoping now just to injure the man. Somehow the dagger found its way into Tristan's own arm. Again Cerdic waited. Fighting pain, fear and blood loss the knight gathered his strength for one last charge. This time he grabbed a dagger from Cerdic belt and sunk it in the man's leg. The Saxon hissed in anger. There would be no more waiting, Tristan knew. Blood bubbled up into his mouth; breathing was painful. He lay facing up, spent, blinking as more blood seeped into his eyes, waiting for the sword to fall. Dani!

Time slowed. Between one blink and the next he was looking back at himself from above watching the sword in Cerdic's hand begin its slow descent towards the pitiful broken thing lying on the ground. The carnage of battle eddied around them. A slender figure – long dark hair flying, lance in hand, screaming challenge – darted towards the man with dirty blond hair and arrested the swing. The Saxon leader reversed the blade and slashed the boy. Before even the youth fell the Saxon blade was falling back on Tristan, ignoring the second figure running towards them, a man with crested helmet and flashing steel armor. Arthur.

Tristan fell back into himself just as the blade came down across his chest. He turned his head. The last thing he saw was his own broken bow, a stepbrother's parting gift.

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A/N – yes I just killed Tristan. The good news is, the story will continue. Stay tuned!

No lecture today. I have the feeling no one will be in the mood.