LOYALTY, LOVE AND FIRE


The man was very handsome, to that Morgause could attest.

His short hair curled behind his ears, making him look young despite the lack of shaving. His chest was bare – Alice needed to see what she was doing – and Morgause could see the well-toned muscles moving with shivers as he tried to support his own weight. The scar left from the bolt was nothing but a dot of healed skin. His eyes, dark brown, were fogged in confusion, running by his surroundings with increasing alarm.

"You're a prisoner of mine, if you're wondering."

The man closed his eyes as if in pain, which was very unlikely given how through Alice's work had been. Said healer was hovering close by, mixing a poultice into a bowl, and watching undiscreetly while Morgause crossed her legs, noticing a tear on the knee of her trousers. The other watcher was far more discreet, unseen in her silence.

"Where am I?" He asked, still dazed after been woken up with a spell, a process that she knew, wasn't all that gentle. Not that she cared.

"Does it matter?"

"I would like to know." She ignored him in favor of patching up the trousers, mumbling a simple spell that tingled from the pad of her fingers into the material. "Please."

Morgause considered him for a moment, motioning to his surroudings so he felt free to take a look. Alice's pavilion was organized to treat a fighting force. The ground was lined with dozens of cots, which allowed the healers to move from patient to patient as it was necessary. There were six tables for the worse cases and another where the healer could mix her potions from her stock. At any first glance it would seem a massive logistical problem, but the whole structure had been enchanted to be disassembled and put back together in instants. Currently, there were a dozen other wounded resting along the lines, but the knight was far off from them all. He wasn't restrained, there was no need for it yet, but after gathering more information on the man in the last hours, she had to wonder.

"You intrigue me, Sir, why would a famous man like yourself end up in a fight against your own fellow knights? Did one of them wound your pride? I know a man of your talents must have some, and gods forbid anyone insult a man's so called honor."

"I'm not famous." He answered, peering at her from the ground.

"Oh, but you are Sir Lancelot of Camelot, Slayer of the Griffin, Bane of Hengist, Spiller of the Cup." She listed his titles one by one, raising her fingers mockingly lest she loses count. "Many and more tales are told about you, some songs as well, although some deeds are mighty impressive. Tell me, did you actually kill a griffin or was that an exageration? I know for a fact you can't kill one without magic, it does make me wonder if you aren't a sorcerer under all that armour."

"I'm not a sorcerer."

"Aren't you?"

"I'm not." He said, interrupted by a coughing fit that roughned his voice. "Do you allow your prisoners to have water?"

"Would you say it is right to give water to a man sent here to kill my kind?"

"I…" He hesitated. "I honestly don't know."

The remark surprised her enough for her relent, summoning a jar from the table and a small cup. As the knight drank it all she enjoyed the moment to consider her next question. So far she had detected no guile or trickery in that man's answers, but she would give Mauren a kiss before trusting a knight. "I'm starting to remember you now. You were there in the throne room, fighting my undead army. That bothersome servant was there with you."

"Yes."

"You were dead on the ground."

"You didn't cause a great first impression either, my lady."

She ignored the humour, chewing the inside of her cheek. "I do wonder how you managed to drag yourself across the room and drop the Cup from the pedestal, considering the wards I put upon it to keep it there. Just like the griffing, your sucess sems highly unlikely."

"Maybe I got lucky." And that was the first lie. "Are you going to kill me?"

From across the sea of cots, Morgause suddenly felt the old healer's eyes boring into her with a not so subtle warning. Inwardly she hissed. Healers were always bledding hearts at their core. "Why were you fighting against your fellow knights, sir?"

"I don't have a right to that title any longer."

"Why is that?"

"The king has taken my titles, but even so, I made an oath to Arthur and now I've betrayed his country."

"You still haven't answered my question."

Lancelot kept silent, testing her patience for a long moment while avoiding her eyes. "Are they alive?"

"Why do you care?"

"I need to know."

Morgause refused to give him an answer, no matter the facade of suffering he would put upon his face. Alice, however, had no qualms about invading the conversation. "Your companions are mostly dead. I treated two of them who are now prisoners, and I'm sure some might've escaped. You should, however, concentrate on your good deeds, for without your intervention many innocents might have lost their lives on that day."

She had turned to glare at the healer as soon as she spoke, but alas she was ignored like some servant. Idly, Morgause wondered what would be the cost of dealing with the old hag, whom she could almost respect by the guts alone. "I thought I had been clear that this was an interrogation."

"You were very clear, my lady, however this is also my pavillion and he is my patient."

"So I saved them?" She heard the man saying before she could retort, his eyes glimering. "That is good."

The presence of tears struck the High Priestess silent, her words dying in her mouth as she took in the man before her, closing his eyes and shedding glistening trails down his face. Somehow, that seemed wrong. That a man who fought for Camelot was even capable of such. Was it possible that there was actual guilt directing his actions? Something more than pettiness or injury or the commands of someone above him? No, it couldn't be. If her life had thought Morgause anything was that nothing came free. Even compassion and kindness were means to an end, rewards sold at high prices. Helva offered fredom in exchange for power, the north shelter in exchange of its savagery, even her Goddess promised mercy to her sister only for the price of a life. No, there was no way a Knight of Camelot would have such a change of heart that he would turn on his fellows to defend some insignificant pensants.

"Some of them were sorcerers."

"Doesn't matter."

"Why did you save them? What could you possibly win by doing that? Were you promised some reward? Jewels? Your title perhaps? Was someone working against Uther Pendragon, enlisting you to cause trouble?"

"What?"

"Answer me!"

Lancelot frowned, looking at her as if she was mad, which only fed the angry fire she felt inside her. "There was no reward, my lady, I did what I thought was right, nothing more. There are things a man cannot do or else he would betray himself and those who have faith in him."

"You're telling me you turned on your comrades out of an guilty conscience?"

"I suppose so." Lancelot confirmed, his teary brown eyes becoming soft and resigned. "Now their blood is in my hands as well, and I must live with it, at least as long as you allow me."

Morgause sneered. This was useless. "Maybe you should have learned more about the order you were joining before doing so."

"I suppose."

"Really, anyone can tell you what Knights are truly about. Big man with swords, screaming at you with nonsensical orders so they can fill big and powerful with their meager authority, and yet look at you. I can almost forgive the butchers willing to join Uther's ranks, but you, you must've been a fool with a head filled with fairy tales. Weren't you?" Yes, she could see how that struck a nerve, his tense shoulders holding back some kind of hurt that was beyond physical. "A poor little boy."

"Many who join an army, do so for hunger for too."

"And yo'ure clearly not one them, you came here because you're selfish, and that is that."

"I came for my liege."

"Yes, Uther Pendragon, such a great man."

"Not Uther." Lancelot replied, steel in his voice.

It was the sudden bite of her nails into her skin that warned Morgause to the way she was clenching her fist. No, he wasn't a creature of Uther, instead he was a creature of the spawn. Same as the mighty Emrys, this one was also enamored with the false promise of a great and noble king. Morgause felt like screaming at him, letting him know that soon Arthur would be dead anyway, but suddenly, despite her age, Alice was right by her side, hovering over Lancelot.

"I think that is enough."

"I wasn't done."

"You were, my lady, he answered your questions."

"I need to be sure he was telling the truth."

"He was, I assure you." Alice shook an empty flask in front of her. "Truth potions are difficult and time consuming, but I had some of it left. He spoke the truth. You're grasping at straws my lady."

Morgause huffed.

Once outside, she felt two members of the Bloodguard flanking her sides as she walked towards her tent and the meeting of her captains. She entered already in a foul mood, hardly understanding why that was. In the end she had nothing to show them beside her original plan. She tried to avoid a long and winded discussion by immediately giving out her instructions, but it turns out that was inevitable. Lord Madoc wanted oaths upon oaths that she would move in time to rescue him, and she had to goad him into obeying with clever taunts and promises that he would draw some Camelotian blood. Ruadan seemed satisfied to lead her vanguard, while Mauren asked for men to fill the spots of her captured horses. Lord Belmont was surprisingly silent, but other lords filled her ears till exhaustion, until she could do nothing but slam a fist on the table and end the meeting.

"What if things go wrong, my lady." Ruadan quietly questioned her, making the rest shut their mouths to listen.

Morgause balked. She had almost forgot about that. Frowning towards the map, she pointed to the forest east of Belmont Bridge. "If anything happens, our forces' meeting point shall be right here, in the middle of Green Ash."

It would take a few days, by her calculations, until the board was set and the pieces were in place. With any luck she might be able to defeat Uther before her sister even returned, then they could both join forces and turn on Bayard together. In one stroke they could destroy every major opposition on the continent, leaving their small kingdom free to thrive and grow.

If she closed her eyes, Morgause could almost see it, the winds of change breathing over Albion, with magic and power. Something new and revitalizing, bringing back dreams she heard about only in the stories of her masters. In the end, there would be no need for an Once and Future king, she would take the burden of ending him from her sister's hands. It wouldn't be easy, of course, beside his army, Arthur had Emrys itself on his side. Magic made flesh, but for the first time, she realized the cleverness of Morgana's insistence in keeping the servant boy's secret to themselves. As long as he feared his actions would be limited. He was bound by his lies, unable to release his full power, and with that in mind, Morgause was confident that she could take him down as well. Yes, maybe even Sir Lancelot might be of use, if there was any affection between them - he couldn't hide that he knew about Emrys, not as well as he needed to.

As the sun climbed towards its zenith, Morgause dressed herself in her armor, pining her cloak with a red Rowan Tree brooch, to see King Madoc and his forces out. His collum of steel rode out under his three yellow snakes, blazing like gold. Mauren and her riders left a moment later, ready to do their job screening the land and dispatching Camelot's scouts. She still carried Madoc's sigil, a ruse that would soon become unnecessary. Next, the rest of her army was slowly disassembling their camp, men and women moving along, carrying supplies and weapons, pans and armour, leaving anything else behind. Morgause oversaw the whole process from the top of her horse, waiting patiently for the process to be done.

When the fire started amidst the tents beyond the healers' pavilion, she was the first to kick her horse towards it.


Lancelot felt something cold coming down his throat, and relief flooded his senses all at once.

"What the hell?" He asked, blinking against the dim light.

"That will help you."

"You…" He stopped, not sure of what to say. "You poisoned me."

The woman was old, with a round motherly face that seemed almost mischievous all of the sudden. "Every medicine is poison, lad, a good healer just knows how to use them without killing the patient."

"What did you give me?"

"A stimulant, this army is about to move and I would rather not carry you around."

"You mentioned a truth potion." He pointed out, feeling horribly vulnerable just from having opened his mouth.

"Truth potions, they are tricky things." The woman clicked her tongue. "Horrible to make. There is a lot of magic meant to mess with peoples' minds and free will, but exact effects can be difficult, nearly impossible. For a truth potion I would need unicorn hair, mandrake root and also blood from the person to be put under the spell. Some legends go so far as to say you have to stand atop of a mountain and bottle lightning to get it to work. Unfortunately, I didn't have any unicorn hair with me, nor any lightning."

Lancelot blinked, unsure about the truthfulness of such words. The woman turned her back to him, and he watched her going around her business. She woke up a woman in a cot a few feet away, gave her water, talked to her for a bit, and then moved along. Lancelot watched. The wounded woman remained sitting for a bit, then, suddenly, she begun to pack her things, bringing a chainmail over her head and pulling on her boots. A warrior. There were women warriors in Essetir! As Lancelot marveled at that she must've felt him looking, because she caught his gaze and her eyes widened. Suddenly she was moving faster, barely putting herself together before she disappeared from the tent.

"She is scared you would attack her if she took too long." Startled by the new voice, Lancelot turned his head, finally catching sight of the shadow sitting two cots away. "Honestly, I'm insulted she thought I would let that happen."

"I didn't mean to scare her."

"It hardly matters; Knights from Camelot will scare or anger almost everyone in this camp."

He wanted to apologized, but he felt it would be useless as he took her in. She was sitting, but he could tell she was tall. Her skin was dark brown and her eyes shone in hues of chestnut. She was dressed in a warrior's garb, a chainmail covering her to the middle of her tights and a coif covering her head, leaving only her face exposed, a serious face that sparred him not an ounce of sympathy.

"I see you finally met your guard." The Old healer returned, using a clot to wash her hands from what was obviously blood. "That is Pylah, if you must know"

"Pylah?"

"Yes, it was her girlfriend that stopped the swords from cutting you down, you are lucky you made a good impression."

"Forridel is way too kind." Said Pylah. "In the end, you weren't even useful as far as I could hear."

"I'm sorry to disappoint." The old healer hovered over him for a bit. Lancelot heard her saying words, similar to that strange language he occasionally would hear from Merlin. "What are you doing?"

"Checking to see if anything else is amiss." She moved her hands over him, nodding to herself. "You seem well enough, although your arm seems strange, did something happen to it?"

"I was in a fight with Morgana, your queen?" He put it like a question, catching no reaction from the women. "She almost took it off."

"Aahh"

"Just when I thought I couldn't like our queen more." Pylah spoke absently, then she watched what Alice was doing and turned serious once more. "Alice? What are you doing?"

"I'm doing my duty as a healer, child, seeing to the care of someone in need." The old woman frowned. "This shoulder wasn't naturally mended."

"How can you tell?" Lancelot asked, fearfully.

"I can tell, boy. Someone used magic on you, and did a very poor job of it." She grimaced, muttering under her breath, and Lancelot swore he heard her saying the words 'Gaius' and 'apprentices'. "I can sense the muscles all messed up, the nerves are horribly mended and the veins, it's a wonder you didn't start bleeding from the inside. I could probably fix it."

"You can?" The question came out more hopeful than he intended, his hand flexing anxiously on his side.

"With time, not the time I have right now." She cautiously explained. "I could do something for the pain, are you feeling pain since it was healed?"

A lot. "Some."

"Very well." She moved away, coming back with yet another small flask she made him drink. "This should make you more comfortable."

"Can I take him to a cell now?"

"I'm sure we can let him rest some more, Pylah, come on." The healer left him again and Lancelot almost mourned her departure, leaving him alone with Pylah once more. Sighing, he closed his eyes. The cot wasn't worse than the one he carried in his missions for Arthur, so he was sure he could fall asleep over it if he had the chance.

As he evened out his breathing, feeling chilly without his shirt, he heard the familiar sound of a fidgeting body by his side. Idly, he wondered if Pylah would kill him now. He had already escaped Morgause, thanks to the healer, so maybe he was finally running out of chances. Maybe they would make an execution of it, take his head off as some many sorcerers lost theirs. It hardly matter of course. He had already cried in front of Morgause, but when his end came he would meet it with bravery.

"Why did you fight the other knights, really?"

Lancelot debated on the advantages of keeping quiet and decided there were none. "It is as I said, I didn't approve of what they were doing."

Pylah shrugged. "It's war."

"War is not an excuse for evil."

"Isn't war evil?"

"Not all the times." He thought about charging into Camelot, knowing that freeing Arthur's kingdom from the women that now had him prisoner was an necessary act of bravery, for the good of the realm, and the people in it. He thought about Hengist and men like him who need to be fought.

"That is some big talk coming from a knight, don't knights earn their living from war?"

Lancelot chuckled, she was right to a point. Sadly, that was the case for many in Camelot. "Let's just say that a long time ago, some men with swords came to my home and forever marked me with nightmares."

Pylah made a noncommittal sound, pursing her lips. "Long ago, some men with swords came to my home and did the same. They had red cloaks."

"I'm sorry."

"You weren't there, or were you? I honestly can't remember."

"I was never in any raids, but I feel like I have to apologize all the same. I feel like I betrayed many and many things."

Pylah made a humming sort of noise, her silence bearing into him with the weight of his crimes. "If it makes you feel any better, your party was going to be attacked anyway. The only thing you changed that day was that you gave us time to save those villagers, so you can pat yourself on the back if you like."

Lancelot thought about those men who he served with, young and old, men he saw smiling and laughing around a campfire and sharing lewd jokes when Sir Brennis wasn't looking. He thought about every other men, and those youngest whom he trained, back with the rest of Uther's army, and wondered when the world became so complicated. "I don't think I will."

"Suit yourself."

Seeking a distraction, he fixed his sight on Pylah. "The healer mentioned a girlfriend of yours."

"MY girlfriend, her name is Forridel, and you owe her your arse."

"I'll be sure to pay my debt as soon as possible." Pylah snorted, but now Lancelot was curious. "Do you love her?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"A simple one, I was just wondering."

"No, it's a nosy one, even more considering I know shit about you."

"Didn't you hear the stories?"

"Oh, yes, I heard the stories, they are stories people tell about you, but their sum means little in regards to who you are, doesn't it?" She questioned carefully. "I'm a druid."

"I noticed."

Pylah smirked, her hand coming up to trace the druid mark around her right eye. "Among my people, we say that stories can teach us all but the reality of those involved. If you want to know a person's heart you must seek them yourself and earn their trust, but even then they may chose not to share anything with you."

"It must hurt, to be refused like that."

"Sometimes, but to respect a person's choices when those choices aren't rooted on ignorance and evil is one of the foundations of my people. Good is reciprocated. So if you want to know about me, you must first show me the courtesy, Sir."

Lancelot nodded. He heard much and more about druids in his travels, never he heard a druid speaking about her people to him. In that sense he had never heard truer words about them either. Slowly, he brought himself up to a sitting position, catching the threat of Pylah's hand close to her sword. The pavilion around him felt oddly big with so many empty cots and the chill made him wish for a shirt.

"There is someone I love out there, but she loves someone else."

"Oh, gossip" Pylah smirked. "Do tell."

"It's not gossip; it's a complicated love, that was way too complicated without my interference." He looked down, feeling the burn touching his cheeks, the thought that he might never see her again was sadenning beyond what words could describe. "I thought best to relieve her of the burden that my feelings might carry."

"Does she know of your feelings?"

"I suppose she has an idea, but nothing was ever put to words. After almost dying, I fear myself a coward."

"That would be within reason."

"She is better not knowing."

"And how do you know?" She asked, but didn't give him time to answer. "Did you even heard a word I said? If you haven't revealed your wishes to this person, than you have to wonder if you even respect her at all."

Lancelot frowned, at some point Pylah had sat in front of him her body relaxed and mocking. "I have the most respect for Gwen…"

"Do you?" Pylah sounded almost pitying. "Do you know why I have a mark over my eye?"

"No."

She nodded. "Some legends among my people say that the location of a mark says a lot about a person. Some druids have Triskelions over their hearts, on their shoulders, their necks. The most fearful usually get marks on their feet, since it's easy to hide. I wasn't like that, my father taught me to be proud, and so I was. It made nearly impossible for me to leave the woods of course, if anyone saw me they would know instantly that I was a druid and then the knights would come." She paused, and Lancelot wondered is she was reminiscing some distant inccident just like that. "When I met Forridel I feared what could come from my feelings. She was handsome, clever, too serious sometimes, but I can always make her laugh. She had skills too, skills to make a life for herself. Meanwhile, the world made me into something dangerous, and involving herself with me would make her life difficult. Even our gods were different! In the end, however, it was her choice if she wished to see what we could be together. I could only choose to let her know." She paused, she shook her pulse "She also has a nice bum, and that is that."

Lancelot blushed. "My love has feelings for my liege, I fear the complications."

"Or you fear rejection, either way that is not very knightly." She said cheekly. "Unless you don't like her bum."

The joke filled him with embarrassing thoughts that must have shown clearly on his face. Before he could argue back though, there was a sharp noise coming from the front. Shouting and running could be heard muffled by the cloth around him as Lancelot dragged himself to his feet.

"What is happening?"

"I don't know." Alice exclaimed walking to the entrance. She stood there briefly but whatever she saw made her retreat, closing the flaps and hurrying inside. "You must get up, quickly!"

"Alice!"

"There is no time…"

A flare of light made Lancelot look down. A smoking log was suddenly rolling towards him, burning over the cots. From all sides he saw the same, shadows moving outside, throwing the logs in under the cloth and touching fire to the material. The flames caught, licking their way up. A scream brought his attention back to the front where he saw a man in armour driving through the entrance. For a crazy instant he feared he was there to take him to a cell, but instead he walked straight towards the closest cot and drove his sword through a wounded woman lying there. Her scream turned into a gurgled mess, just as more men appeared, blocking the exit as the whole pavillion was flooded with smoke. In a blur of movement Pylah was running against the attackers. A scream torn its way from Alice's throat and suddenly two of the men were flying away. Pylah meanwhile closed in on the nearest one and slashed his face with her sword.

As he got to his feet, Lancelot felt his heart pumping against his ribcage. Far off he could hear battle muffled by the barriers around him, a cacopohony of horses, men and steel screaming on top of each other. Whatever was going on, it couldn't be good. Ahead, Pylah had dispatched one more attacker and was now facing three others who waited patiently out of her reach. The rest of the wounded had joined her. With no armor or weapons they had grabbed swords from the fallen before diving into combat. Around them, the walls were closing in, the smoke climbing to the roof and moving down like a stalking predator ready to suffocate those inside.

"baelwylm swilteaþ! þrosm scildan!"

The Old healer screamed, and a gush of wind seemed to blow the worst of the flames away. One of Alice's patients tried to get through the men, almost getting to the exit before falling back inside, his chest pierced by arrows.

"They have bowmen outside!" Lancelot screamed, hoping they would hear him and not try again.

"We can't exactly stay here!" Pylah shouted back, parrying a blow to her middle and driving her adversary away with a hand gesture and a magic word. She couldn't even breath before the attackers came back, pining everyone between the fire and the swords. Lancelot guessed that if it wasn't for Alice - who kept chanting the whole time - they would be suffocated already. Thanks to the healer the smoke was bending around them, allowing everyone to keep breathing and living. His atonishment almost distracted him to his surroundings as his feet tripped on a dead body.

He caught a glimpse of a lonely tower over a hill before going for the man's sword. A scream made him look up. One of the attackers had broken through Pylah's line, aiming for Alice. The old woman had her eyes closed in concentration, completely distracted. Lancelot moved. He gripped the sword with his good hand, threw himself pass the man's reach and drove the blade through mail and leather with the full power of his body behind it. Quickly, he twisted the sword and ripped it off the dead body. Pylah was now fighting with only two other allies, two shirtless men alternating between spells and desperate defenses. Lancelot checked on Alice quickly and then he was joining them on the line, stabbing an enemy in the back and taking position, his sword singing.

With Pylah by his side, the fight became a blur of rehearsed movements. Parrying, stabbing, slashing, he would do all without thinking, catching the dangers and twisting his body towards it, feeling Pylah doing the same by his side as they protected one another. Prince Arthur once told him that a good enough swordsman could take three men at once, but that two could take down dozens. Back to back with Pylah and the other sorcerers, Lancelot never understood that so well. He moved, and they moved. One would defend the other would attack. Someone would be hit and three would pull him back. All the while he could feel the heat, sweat running down his body while each breath burned through his lungs untill he was tempted to give up and beg for water. Finally, when it seemed it would end and they would die, either by fire or sword, a horn called from the outside. Shouts and screams muted the fight around him and the enemies paused, turning tail and running. Lancelot made to follow, but Pylah held up a hand, stopping him. Around them, the pavillion was no more, wood was falling and Lancelot could now see not only the sky but the tents in the distance, with more and more fire erupting. Alice was now holding both the smoke and the burning canvas so it wouldn't fall on top of them, her brow furrowed, her voice rough, soot tarnishing her features. Lancelot had to wonder how long she would last.

"We need to get out" He said, coughing. Pylah hesitated, for she too could hear the fighting outside. Lancelot watched a drop of sweat running down her nose and then she was running. Lancelot looked to the two sorcerers still alive. "Bring the healer."

Leaving the burning pavillion behind him, Lancelot came, for the first time, to the sight of Essetir's army. A camp wide and deep, with tents to all sides covered in fire. In front of him, a group of warriors was fighting a force of archers which was running away, their bows discarded or left behind as they were cut down by the incoming men and women. One of them was an old man with a long beard, who chased a man at arms with his spear, cackling the whole time. Pylah was right in the middle, her blade cutting down men from behind as they tried to flee.

From his back, he felt the blow of hot air when the pavillion collapsed. The two sorcerers had taken Alice out and her magic had seized. She swayed between the two until Lancelot moved to help, slowly lying her down. Her old features puckered into a grimace as she forced herself to smile. "That was... a little... too much."

"You need water, someone fetch water!" Lancelot cried out to any who would listen.

Almost immediately a young lad was kneeling by his side, his deep blue eyes blinking as he brought a skin of water to the woman's lips. Lancelot watched as she drank, only half tempted to get some for himself. Around him, Pylah was shouting orders, the druids were moving, everyone wanted buckets. When a rider suddenly arrived, his presence made everyone quiet. Gray hair and beard, he stood tall on his horse, the fires still burning reflecting a druid mark on his neck.

"Ruadan! What the hell happened?" Pylah asked, coming forth.

"Treason! Belmont's men turned on us. They had been pouring oil into the tents all over the camp, when the fires started they attacked us!"

"They were after Alice!"

"Not just Alice."

Pylah and some of those around stopped at the grave tone of voice. "What do you mean?"

"Lady Morgause was the first to jump into the fray, she put out the fires in the southern part of the camp all by herself. We found her guards, dead, but no sign of her."

The distress spread like wildfire, startling everyone in earshot. Lancelot pursed his lips, deciding that he was better staying out of it. On his side, the lad was now wetting a piece of clot and dreaching Alice's face, hand trembling. Gently, Lancelot took the clot from him, helping Alice sit up. "What is your name?"

"Gi-gilli."

"Hello Gilli" He said reassuringly. "I'm Lancelot."


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