Chapter V
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Blood gurgled from a lad's throat, a scarlet trail dripping down to Rendal's massive hands. With a sickening shudder, the body slid down the table, crumbling down the floor to a lifeless heap. Rendal wiped his hands dispassionately, looking down at the body.
It was regrettable that the boy had to die, but he didn't give him a choice. Nordin already paid him a sizeable sum, and he had promised an even more generous reward when he finishes this assignment. The Saxons paid well, and he will make sure that he also does his job in the same manner.
His eyes fell upon the golden insignia on the soldier's tunic, representing Arthur's court.
He had nothing against the Knights, or of this "King Arthur"—in fact, he found it laughable that he considered himself a king. Truly, these Knights were a bunch of fools—but skilled fools nonetheless. He had heard stories about these "Sarmatian Knights", and he fully knew what he was up against. He would have to be quick to dispose of this Lancelot before he was found out.
Tristan finished the scoring, and called out to the applicants. "You've all done well. You will be told by a dispatcher if you've been accepted, and your names will be posted all around Hilden."
"Is it true that Arthur will come to visit us?" a voice asked from the crowd. Armor jingled as the men shifted excitedly, murmuring amongst themselves.
"He will. So keep working on your bows. One of these days the king himself will be watching you."
People began to disperse, and the field was left to Tristan and the archer, whom he had been observing with keen interest.
Tristan walked up to the lad, who at the time was already packing his things.
"What's your name, boy?"
Green eyes raised up to meet Tristan's gaze. Tristan narrowed his eyes when he had seen a trace of apprehension in his eyes, but it had vanished as soon as the boy spoke.
"Camlin of Derlann."
"Of the farming lands?"
"Yes." The boy bent his head away from Tristan's fixed gaze, his dark hair falling at either side of his face. The knight thought that the boy looked soft for his age, a bit too feminine. He clicked his tongue at Camlin's obvious anxiety.
"Don't be all missy to me. You'll meet far more terrible people in the battlefield. The Saxons, for one."
His head suddenly snapped up, his eyes sharp. "That's why I am here."
Tristan concealed a grin. Challenge a man's pride, and you will find out his true mettle. His eyes fell upon the bag that was slung over Camlin's shoulder, where the hilt of a sword shone distinctly.
"Do you know how to use that sword?'
- - -
"Come on, you can do better than that!"
Sounds of clanging metal filled the air. Two figures stirred up the dry earth, feet skipping back and forth in a curious dance. Even to an untrained eye, one can plainly see that the two were engaged in an even match—but the Knight's movements were more sure and calm, while the other was fueled with the unbridled fire and speed of youth.
Camlin took a wide swing with his sword to the knight's head. Tristan naturally ducked, then realized quickly that the move was only a tactic. From the corner of his eye, he saw Camlin fake a move to his right, pivoting his heel slightly to his left. With startling speed, the lad whirled around and brought the sword bearing down against Tristan's face. A split second later, Camlin's sword was grazing his neck.
"I won." The boy whispered in disbelief.
Tristan observed him from beneath his braids, a wry smile touching his lips. This young archer proved equally good with a sword. His almost female face belied inner grit, and a temper to boot. The knight replied by tapping his blade at the side of the boy's waist. If they were in a real battle, his blade would have cut right through his stomach up to his heart. Camlin's face fell.
Tristan surveyed the slightly dejected look with some amusement. "You've done very well."
"It is not enough. Out there all that matters is that you win. I lost, therefore, I am dead." He shook his head. "I do not deserve to be in the battlefield."
The unmistakable bitterness in his words took Tristan by surprise, and he can only surmise that the lad had lost someone to war.
"Have you got a brother?"
"Yes." his eyes were downcast. "He's dead now."
Tristan stared at Camlin's face, recognition dawning on him.
Lowrin.
"Is your brother Lowrin of Catton?"
A pregnant silence. "He is." The lad answered quietly.
"I thought Lowrin had a sister..."Tristan trailed off, looking silently at the boy before him. He sheathed his sword, replaying the moves in his mind. That's why "he" had this 'grace' in his swings, but still surprisingly sword-rattling in their force. And of course, the face.
Tristan smoothed a hand over his brow, the only sign of his aggravation. He had been fighting with a woman all along.
"I could have killed you."
"As I would you." Erin parried to Tristan's obvious reference to her gender.
"You didn't have to disguise yourself. The tournament has been opened to all." Tristan said. "Even if only a handful of women had taken us seriously, most of them got in."
A wry smile touched a corner of Erin's lips. "I didn't trust the knight that gave me the invitation, as I thought he might have had too much drink."
Tristan made almost laughed. Without her saying, he already knew what knight she was referring to. "Lancelot has a weakness for charming women."
"I do not charm, sir." Erin quirked a brow. "And I don't intend to in the future."
"That was the charm I was talking about." Tristan pointed out drily. "You will not be a part of the regular infantry..." He took in the woman's heavy brown cape, pants, and knee-high boots scarred by time and travel.
"You will have to wear a skirt."
"Your majesty." A servant bowed humbly while Guinevere passed, her scarlet gown trailing elegantly behind. Her jaw was set in a determined angle, footsteps echoing across the halls.
Enticing smells wafted from the kitchen, but Guinevere paid them no heed, as her eyes were intent on inspecting the premises. As she passed the kitchen, servants snapped to attention, stopping whatever they were doing to pay their respects. Guinevere retraced her steps, and came to rest beside the kitchen door. A lone sentry was stationed nearby.
"There are supposed to be two guards at this door." The queen said sharply. "It's far too easy to sneak in and poison everyone."
The soldier refused to fidget under the woman's scrutiny. "Your majesty, he had left only to show our new cook around, your majesty."
"And he hasn't returned since?"
"No, your majesty."
She cast a chilling look to the bewildered soldier. "A man's life, your commander's life, depends on everyone doing his part. You should have informed an officer of your partner missing, and let everyone's whereabouts be accounted for. It is a dangerous time to be careless."
Guinevere spun around, still steaming from the abject carelessness of the green soldier. The present arrangements were less than satisfactory, and she was appalled about the men manning the Fort. The soldiers were miserably inexperienced—they had never really spilt blood and known a killer's mind. One could easily read their minds and traipse around them, go past their defenses and waltz in...
Chills crept down to Guinevere's spine.
Oh no...
- - -
A hand knocked on a door.
"Come in."
"Is there anything you need, Sir?" Rendal stood by his hand on the handle.
"No, I don't need anything, Rendal." Lancelot replied flatly, looking up from his table. "Hmm, maybe a rope to hang myself with."
The assassin had the grace to laugh. "And I was told a Knight's life was exciting."
"It is." Lancelot said dully. "But not when you are inside the four walls of a Fort."
-
Guinevere broke into a run, her heart pounding.
"Guards!" her voice rose in panic. "To Lancelot's study, NOW!"
-
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're an executioner and not a cook." Lancelot flashed him a grin, bending over the shelves of books.
The door closed behind Rendal, his tall, stocky frame almost reaching its height.
"Can I ask you a question, Sir?" Rendal straightened from his faked hunch, and edged stealthily towards the unsuspecting knight.
"Did you think that everyone in Britton agreed when you put Arthur as King?"
Lancelot thought the question strange, and promptly turned around to face the man...
...just in time to see the glint of the dagger swooping down.
Adrenaline shot to his whole body, his hands automatically moving to catch the knife with both hands. Rendal's eyes were dark, his lips curled into a sneer.
"You do not turn your back on anybody, Sarmatian."
"Traitor." Lancelot bit angrily, glaring at the larger man through the dagger they both held.
"To whom?" Rendal said mockingly. "To King Arthur ? " his lips curled. "What do you care, you were not even born of this land, neither is your "king"."
"Don't be so righteous," Lancelot spat. "We took no bounty from a Saxon purse."
Lancelot grunted with pain as his back slammed against the bookcase.
The Knight seethed, blood pounding angrily through his veins. Despite his fury, he could not wrench the dagger away from the assassin's hands. Rendal was surprisingly strong, his built a striking resemblance to Dagonet. The two pulled at other wildly, each trying to turn the knife to the other.
With instinct taking over, Lancelot twisted his body around and hooked his leg around the assassin. The large man lost balance, sending both of them crashing to the floor.
The door burst open. Guinevere rushed in to find Lancelot sprawled on the floor, chest heaving. Rendal's body was still, his own dagger impaled on his abdomen.
Galahad and Dagonet came charging inside the room, their swords still aloft.
"Why Dagonet, ." Lancelot said between gulps of air. "You just missed the party. I think—gasp-- you would have enjoyed a tussle with Rendal."
"They got through us." Galahad breathed in disbelief, sheathing his sword.
- - -
"Ow."
Guinevere smiled, knotting the bandage with a bit more force. The knight grimaced.
"That should do it."
The woman twisted her body around from its sitting position, reaching for the wetted cloth behind her. Her dark hair moved gracefully as she turned back to face him, reaching to wipe a nasty gash at Lancelot's side. Lancelot swallowed a wince.
Guinevere gave the bandages a final inspection, tugging them to make sure they were secure. The knight sustained some serious bruises to his back, a few deep cuts to his hands and to the sides of his body, but the knight would live.
Lancelot gazed discreetly at the bent head, so close to his face. He could smell the fragrance of her hair, the scent of wild flowers and spring water. It wasn't too far from memory that he once ran his hands freely through those dark strands, her eyes gazing at him with unmasked passion. With Guinevere, it was very easy to lose himself and throw everything away... as he once had...
"Lancelot."
Tristan's form crossed Lancelot's vision.
Both figures stood up, unconsciously moving away to stand from each other. The falconer didn't miss their action, but merely stood quietly beside Galahad and Dagonet, who hadn't left the room since the incident.
"He almost died." Dagonet muttered.
"Not really. The damned assassin was too sure of himself." Lancelot answered.
Tristan nodded. "I guessed as much." "Your greatest threat would be long-range assassins with bows, but not singular men out to kill you."
"You knew this would happen?" Galahad was incredulous. "You could have said something!"
"I did not think there was any danger. Lancelot is too sharp to be killed by an assassin at so close a range." He cast a dry look to Lancelot's overly pleased face. "But you did take a beating. Slipping, aren't we?"
"Want to find out for yourself?"
"I do not take advantage of the weak and wounded."
The other two knights rolled their eyes. How they love to trade insults. If they left them alone long enough, they would be at each other's throats and happily chew each other out.
"Since you two can't take it outside, why don't we focus on the subject at hand, shall we?" Galahad said chivalrously. "Does Lancelot need a personal guard?"
Lancelot had a bored look. "No, I don't."
"You certainly do. Not because you are..." Tristan watched Lancelot's expression. "lacking in your "knightly" skills. But you do need a second pair of eyes to watch out for you."
"If the guard is hopelessly uninitiated, then I suggest I just do the job." Guinevere suddenly interjected. All eyes turned to the woman, standing red and regal by the table where Lancelot sat.
"Your majesty..." Tristan answered her. "The assassins would enjoy getting the two of you dead at the same time."
Guinevere's eyes sharpened. "Do not underestimate my capabilities, Tristan. Before I donned these ghastly robes I have been treading these lands for as long as I can remember. I know this country better than any of you."
Tristan lowered his eyes in a conciliatory gesture. "I meant no offense. But we all know you are both juicy targets."
"Arthur would have our heads if we let you do this." Galahad voiced the unsaid sentiment.
Guinevere threw up her hands in the air in a resigned manner. "What do we do then?"
"I already found someone perfect for the job."
- - -
The door opened. Aly jerked up in a comical fashion from her bed when a cold draft of wind blew inside the room. She made a move to rise, until a painful throbbing ache waved through her temples.
"Ohh... me head." She flopped back to her blankets, looking blearily at her friend. "How did it go?"
"I had a sword match with a Sarmatian knight."
Aly turned her head from her pillow to get a better look at her friend. "You're still in one piece."
"Thank You." Erin smiled. She sat back at her own bed, the day's events still fresh in her mind. "They want me to report as soon as I am able."
"So that's it then." Aly sighed forlornly. "Our touring days are over."
"But you can come with me," Erin consoled. "Hilden is in need of a lot of people. You can go in as a handmaiden. After all, that's what I'll be doing."
Aly pushed herself up by her elbows to look curiously at Erin. "I thought you were to be a swordsman."
"I am. But I can't go around letting people know that I am." Erin lied down at the bed, staring contemplatatively at the ceiling. "I am to guard Lancelot, in the guise of a handmaiden."
A/N: It's a cliffie! (Atwood dashes off to avoid being pelted by rotting vegetables) I know it's terrible, but it couldn't be helped.
Okay, a word to my readers, signed, unsigned, and to the silent readers... I am not sure when the next update will come. Next week, I'll be moving away, and will start my first day at work! Anyway, thanks to those who have reviewed, esp. to Gifted Empress, Elvenstar5, Sunset Sparrow, and Jemiul, as they were the ones who've been consistently reading and reviewing all my chapters. I'm really sorry I wouldn't be able to write at the speed that I would like, but time is already scarce as it is. To everyone who has been reading, thanks!
Atwood
