Chapter IV
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"Do you understand? Nobody leaves his post, unless he gets another to replace him. You don't blink, you don't twitch, you will stand there until you are relieved." Bors issued commandingly. Soldiers began to file out of the armory, leaving Bors and Gawain behind.
"These strapping young fellows can take the beatin." Bors said. "In case they have to fight."
Gawain watched the soldiers, some of which were still small for their armor. "They may be too young and even gullible to make effective guards." Gawain replied grimly.
A worried crease formed in Bors brow, but he deliberately countered it with his usual cheer.
"Don't be so glum. As long as we're here, nothin's gonna happen to Lancelot."
- - - - - -
Sentries have changed posts since early morn, and far too often for his liking. A pair of eyes watched with veiled interest, knowing with certainty that somewhere in Hilden, these soldiers were being briefed. The knights have been alerted to their presence... but he doubted that they had foreseen everything that may be done against to their comrade. If they did, he thought confidently, they wouldn't be here.
"I'd like to have that round one, right beside you."
A hunched figure reached for the bread, then extended a wrinkled hand to collect the man's payment.
"Young lad, you've been staring at those soldiers. Are you here for the trials?" A dimpled old face inquired gaily.
"Yes I am." His smile was deceptively charming. "I see that a lot of men already have."
"Fire!"
The sound of bows snapped in their release, and arrows flew. Lancelot surveyed the rows of targets that stretched across the grassland, consulting the list that he held in his hand.
Tristan stood next to the knight, choosing to observe the eliminations for the moment. He had finished his rounds, checking the length of the Wall for any breach, and for its overall security. Lancelot's personal inspections have become limited for the Knight's own safety, and to their equal bullheaded insistence that he do so. Tristan, and the rest of the knights have taken over most responsibilities that would expose him too much to people—hence to possible attack.
"They can't hit anything." Tristan observed drily, absently playing with a knife.
"All right, that will be all for now." Lancelot hollered to the men. "For those who passed, you will be informed and will be required to meet with me, or with one of the Knights." "Next!" Lancelot rolled the sheaf of paper that contained the names of applicants.
"I can stand there with an apple on me head, and they will hit you instead." Tristan continued.
"I wish I can entertain myself as easily as you do yourself." Lancelot retorted unexpectedly, his countenance dark.
Tristan only took his somewhat sharp remark in stride. "You're in a foul mood." He replied 7casually.
Lancelot sighed, raising a hand to hold his friend's shoulder. "Forgive me." Lancelot said genuinely. A few seconds later, the hand was snatched back, a smirk forming on his lips. "That's the closest you'll get to my humility."
Tristan wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I doubt you ever had it."
Lancelot shook his head with a grin.
The two drew their gazes went back to the new batch of applicants, but Tristan's mind was still on the knight.
Like his winged-companion, nothing really escaped the falconer's eyes. The tracker knew his comrades, maybe even more than they knew themselves. As for the knight, Tristan knew that Lancelot only becomes this unsettled whenever Arthur is in danger (which rarely occurred), they are about to be sent to a mission, and whenever the Queen was nearby.
"That one there." Tristan pointed his dagger to his left. "He's been hitting the bull's-eye five times."
The two knights looked at the long-haired youth, who was putting another quiver in his brow. Another shot went in.
"Looks like we've found a fledgling master archer." Lancelot scribbled once more. "Will you train him for me?"
"No, I'll take him away from you, and get him to work for me."
Lancelot shot him a grin. "But I can pay much better."
Tristan gave him a shadow of a mocking smile. "The boy is good. He will want to train with the best archer."
Lancelot knotted his brows in mock consideration. "Ah..." Lancelot's eyes gleamed. "But we have better-looking women than your South Shields."
Tristan didn't reply, but Lancelot only took his silence as an implied admission of his agreement, not defeat. Tristan would never acknowledge defeat, as long as he had a breath left.
"Give me that list and go back to your room." Tristan almost growled, snatching the papers from Lancelot's hands. "I don't want an assassin's arrow in your back." Tristan paused, then refuted his statement. "That won't be too bad, though."
Lancelot scowled. "I'm beginning to hate your presence in Hilden." Lancelot muttered, arms akimbo. "All the work has been taken and I'm left to stare at my ceiling to wait for an assassin to reveal himself."
"I can solve that problem for you." Tristan grinned darkly.
- - - - - -
"So I told her, I didn't know if I her brother would like me or not, but I was willing to find out." Galahad narrated laughingly, polishing a lance. The armory was impressive in its breadth, and could readily arm a thousand men, not mentioning the additional implements that were stashed somewhere within Hilden's spacious halls.
"And what happened next?" Dagonet followed, examining the blade he's been sharpening for nicks.
Galahad instantly sobered. "She got married the next day-- to a baker." He cast Dagonet a slightly embarrassed glance. "Don't tell Gawain about this, or he will surely..." Galahad stopped himself as a furrowed expression came over Dagonet's face. Galahad's hand instinctively reached for the sword on the table, eyes alert.
"There's someone with us..."
Both men's eyes began to dart from either door of the armory, ears trained to pick up the slightest shuffle.
"Sir Galahad, Sir Dagonet?" A golden head peered from one of the doors. The door opened wider, revealing a slightly hunched, middle-aged man beside the soldier. "This is Rendal, your new cook."
The four men exchanged their greetings, and then the soldier led Rendal to the kitchen.
"Another cook?" Galahad remarked. "Lancelot sure does feed his men."
- - - - - -
"This will be your room." The soldier cheerfully opened the door to a modestly sized room. Stonewalls extended high, as the room was directly connected to the Fort. There was a comfortable-looking bed in one corner, a heavy table at another, and a wooden chest at the end of the bed.
Rendal, the cook, paced about the room listlessly, his large bag set cumbersomely upon his shoulders.
"Let me get that for you." The young soldier dashed to the man's side.
"That's alright..." Rendal refused.
"I insist." The soldier lifted the bag, and misjudging its weight, the bag went down the floor with an audible oof.
"Erm... you do remember your way around, don't you?" the young soldier chirped. "It's a big place, and sometimes, I get even lost myself."
He heaved the bag to the table, but the bag suddenly gave at the seams and contents spilled out to a messy heap.
"I'm sorry Sir," he scrambled to pick up the mess. As he sorted through the objects, he picked a coin-pouch that was fairly heavy for its size, guessing that it was the man's life savings. There was an amusing assortment of spoons and ladles, bags of spices, until he came upon a silver medallion with gold rimming, its appearance and markings something he had never seen before.
"May I ask what this is?" he raised the necklace for the cook to see from his back. Its lettering reflected in the light, carved deep into the metal. "I've never seen anything like it..." he mumbled thoughtfully, wondering where it came from.
"It's markings are Runic, aren't they?" his face brightened up. "That's strange, because only Saxons use runes..."
Upon saying that, the warmth from the soldier's blood drained, the fingers holding the necklace stiffened in terror.
Only Saxons use runes..."They can be somebody you'd never expect. Smarten up, watch yar front, and your back." Bors words reverberated through his head.
He heard the sound of an object being unsheathed, and the lad knew that only a few moments remained of his life.
"Sir Lancelot..." he whispered helplessly, as an unseen knife plunged through his back, and another went for his throat. Scarlet liquid ran down unseeingly into his black tunic, trickling down to his heart that was slowing down in its beats.
I have failed you...
A/N: Here it is, Chapter 4. I had the genre changed, because I wanted to focus more on what happens between the characters. But it doesn't mean its going to be too angsty and depressing, and the action will not disappear altogether! Read and Review!
Sunset Sparrrow, Jemiul: Thanks for reviewing!
Gifted Empress: Thanks for reviewing!
Valiant: Any rules?
Sligon: Who dies first, loses.
Valiant: Good.
