Author's notes:
I don't know too much about Saxon history or Warlords, so the fact that they seem lazy and ill prepared in this fic is because that is how I choose for them to be to satisfy my plot needs.
I am very new at writing battle or fight scenes, so forgive this one if it sucks. Trust me, you won't ever see many huge fight scenes in a fic from me. ;)
Many thanks again to MR for the awesome beta. You are the best, and I thank thee kindly, yea, verily. hugs
Enjoy.
Light wavered in front of his closed lids. Lancelot risked cracking one open, and was immediately sorry. His gorge rose, bile filling his mouth. He choked it down, determined not to appear weak to the vile bastards who had apparently snuck up on him and his companions without any of them hearing. Brilliant. Arthur would be so pleased.
Torches flickered in the tent he was housed in, and by moving his hands he ascertained he was bound to the post that held the thing up.
Amaidis, the scout, lay in a messy heap near him, her simple clothing ripped violently away from her. She was unconscious, and Lancelot thanked all the gods that she was. Blood seeped from a nasty wound on her temple, and various cuts and slashes all up and down her limbs were dripping the vital fluid as well. He winced looking at her face. It was barely recognizable, due to the numerous bruises now rising on it.
She seemed to be lying in a pool of muck, but after shaking the hair out of his face, he realized with a dark scowl that it was blood. She had been damaged heavily, as pillaging men are wont to do, and he railed again at his accursed stupidity for letting this happen.
He opened the other eye, determined now to see the small room in full. Groaning, he saw the armor of his three knights stacked in the corner, bloodied and empty.
Gods damn it! Arthur would never forgive him for this. What a fool. How in the name of all things holy had he allowed himself to be taken like this? He was a Sarmatian knight, for pity's sake. Sarmatian knights do not get ambushed by barbaric Saxon troops.
Sarmatian knights don't allow men or women under their care to be murdered or brutalized. And he had done both. And what the hell was this particular Sarmatian knight still doing alive? They must think him some kind of leader; perhaps they wanted to ransom him.
Slamming his head against the post he was tied to, Lancelot let loose a long string of curses in his native tongue, stopping when a large, burly guard lifted the tent flap, shouted "Leave off, you!" and dropped the material quickly.
A noise reached his ears, and he turned his dark eyes, made darker still by the rage welling up inside to Amaidis, who was coming around.
"Wha…where?" she muttered, trying to push herself into a sitting position. She moaned helplessly and fell back into a heap on the dirt floor. Lancelot kicked and pulled at his bonds, determined to get free. Cursing and tugging, the only thing he succeeded in doing was to reopen the wounds on his wrists, blood flowing freely over the ropes that bound him.
The Saxons had tied the bonds tight, and had obviously cut through his skin when doing so. It was annoyingly painful, but not enough to make him stop working on them. He wished he had any kind of little dagger, or any kind of piece of metal to help him along.
He grimaced, one thought coming to mind. He'd done it only once before, and did not relish trying what he was thinking of again. But…he had to get out of there, and back to Arthur. And Guinevere. He shivered, thinking briefly of what he would do to the enemy were they to lay a hand on her.
Feeling the slippery stuff, he tried working his hands faster, making the liquid flow. It was a long shot, but if the ropes were wet enough…He moved his wrists about, trying to breathe through his mouth, the coppery tang of his own blood heavy in his nostrils.
At last one hand squipped free, and he shook it loose from the rough hewn material. The other came quickly after, and he stopped momentarily, ripping two pieces off his tunic, and tied them hastily around his wrists. He hoped it would be enough. The wounds didn't look that deep.
He leaped to his feet, and swayed like a tree in the wind. The place behind his ear throbbed mightily, and he put a hand up to it, making a face at the huge knot there.
I've gotten over worse, he thought.
Crouching next to Amaidis, he dragged a heavy wool cloak from the corner, and wrapped it around the scout. Lifting her up, he rubbed his knuckles gently across her cheek, hoping to wake her without resorting to hitting her.
She made a garbled noise, then opened her eyes.
"Sir…what?" she said through swollen lips. He tried to smile reassuringly at her, but failed. Tears of fury threatened on the ends of his lashes, and he blinked them away quickly, not wanting her to think he was angry with her.
"Amaidis," he whispered urgently, "we have been taken by Saxons. It appears that our fellows are dead…do you think you can stand?"
She laughed a bit, choking at the last, blood bubbling between her lips.
"I don't think I'm going anywhere, sir knight," she told him finally, her breath coming in hard gasps. He shook his head, running his hands over her torso and limbs, feeling for broken bones. He started slightly when he encountered a large lump over each ankle, sighing softly. The bastards had broken them both, so she couldn't run.
"Then I shall carry you," he told her, looking around the small enclosure for any kind of weapon. "I have done it before with Galahad, and you are much smaller than he." He searched, growing more frantic as the moments went on. He had to get them out of there.
"It's all right, Lancelot," she said quietly, and he turned, shocked at her casual use of his name. She had not said it before now. He hunkered down next to her again, wanting to be able to hear her speak.
"I will not live to see our outpost again, or to serve my King as I had dreamed of doing for so long," she told him, and he shook his head.
"I will get us out of this, I promise you. You will not die here," he told her, hissing his response angrily. No more death on his hands. He'd had enough.
"I am already on my way to my maker," she said, a smile gracing her lips. His eyes burned, and he swiped at them, the presence of tears an anathema to his warriors mind. He wanted to show her strength and compassion in her last minutes, not boyish sobs or sorrow.
"Will you tell the King something for me?" she added. He bobbed his head in acquiescence. "Anything."
"Tell him it was an honor to have served him, and I would give my life for him again, were I to have the chance," she said, pulling herself upward slightly back into his arms.
"You may tell him yourself, lady," Lancelot murmured, knowing it to be just comfort now that she needed.
"I must tell you something as well," the dying scout told him. He quirked one eyebrow, trying to put all his charm into that simple expression. He would not have her die a painful death alone, unloved. He tightened his arms around her, grazing her temple with his lips.
"The Queen loves you, I see it. We all see it. Do not waste it," she sputtered, her breath starting to come heavier and harder now. He gaped at her in shock, and began to protest. She laughed softly, shaking her own head.
"Do not deny it, sir. Just take the gift she would give you, and be happy."
"…I will try," he answerd at last, not wanting to go into all the reasons that he could not. Her gaze left his face, and stared upward. She refocused on him a moment later, and pulled his ear close to her lips.
"Give Arthur something for me."
His brows drew together, and his eyes widened as she planted her lips on his, the kiss lusty and burning, full of desire unfulfilled. His eyes fluttered shut, and remained so when she fell away from his grasp.
There wasn't much that Lancelot hated more than sneaking away from a fight. Leaving his companions bodies behind, that ranked close. But he had no choice.
He gently laid the body of the scout down, dashing the last of his sorrow to the winds. He would need to be steely now, in order to get away and get back to the Wall post haste. He resumed his search for any kind of weapon, and was quickly growing frustrated at the lack of success, when he happened to glance over at Amaidis' bright hair, which had fallen down from its large pin when he had moved her body.
He cocked his head to the side, then a great laugh burst from his mouth, which made his cracked lips bleed again, but he didn't care.
"Apologies my friend, and I thank you for the gift," he murmered to the young woman, and pulled the ornamental asian stick from her hair, which would make a most excellent small dagger. She had been a smart one. He pushed down another surge of white hot anger, and gathered himself together, ready to try and get the hell out of the Saxon encampment. He could only hope that the soldiers themselves were asleep or drunk, as he couldn't hear much noise from the outside.
He risked his own wrath, sending a glance back at the body of the scout. He sighed, and closed his eyes. Muttering an oath, he returned quickly to her body, having noticed a small chain hanging from around her neck. At the end of it a tiny ornamental cross rested, very much like the one Lancelot had seen in Arthur's quarters. He knew Amaidis wasn't strictly any religion, so he figured she wore it as a sign of loyalty to Arthur. He gently slid the chain from around her neck, and pocketed the small token.
"I will see he gets this, Amaidis, and knows of your loyalty and generosity," he whispered to her. "Your sacrifice will not go unanswered."
He covered her face with the end of the cloak he had drawn about her, and set about the task of getting out.
Duck walking close to the tent flap, he closed one eye, and stared out the gap between the material making up the door to the tent.
The guard that had yelled at him earlier was the only moving body he could see. Everyone else seemed to be passed out, or snoring into their wine cups.
"Methinks the important things have changed for these soldiers," he whispered to himself, grinning amusedly at the thought of great Saxon warriors asleep in their own vomit. Things had indeed changed a lot since the last invasion. Luckily for him, they had changed in his favor.
Eyeballing the area once more, absolutely certain no one else was about, he quickly lifted the tent flap, and came up behind his guard, running silently. The man had a chance to half turn and say what sounded like "What?" before his throat was cut by the shining deadly steel stick Lancelot wielded as a knife.
The man's large body slumped to the ground, and the Sarmatian knight crouched down with it, hoping no one had seen anything. Thank the gods, his quick violence had escaped notice.
A few soldiers were walking about and talking, but most of them seemed more interested in discussing the activities of their next raid than watching out for enemy escapees.
Lancelot skulked away from the dead guard, hoping to find the horseyard, where he could, with any luck, grab a mount and take off quietly.
His body felt incredibly light, and within a moment he realized why. Cursing under his breath, he turned, and headed back toward the camp.
He was not leaving his beloved twin blades in the hands of classless barbarians from the sea.
Creeping on ghostlike feet, he approached what seemed to be the main tent, which was a gaudy and large affair. The flaps were propped open, and he could just make out men inside, speaking in rough tongues. He had no knowledge of the Saxon language, but he could see that they were speaking harshly to one another, gesticulating at a large map on a table.
Sneaking as close as he dared, he saw with shocked horror that the two Saxon commanders were arguing over one point on the map- a nicely stocked garrison in the mid point of Hadrian's Wall.
Arthur's stronghold.
He heard a few words he recognized…words like 'king' and 'Romans' and 'Britons.' He also heard the name of Arthur spoken a few times, and had to surmise that the Saxon's ultimate goal was to take out Arthur's garrison, and from there, the rest of the Island.
Well, he would walk through the gates of Hell with a welcoming smile on his face if he was going to allow that to happen.
It was more imperative now than ever to get back to the Wall. Looking about, he saw a few of his things piled on another table in the tent, his saddle, cloak, armor, and his swords.
Ah, yes. The only things he truly owned of any value. Motherless barbarians were in for a surprise if they thought they could touch his weaponry and live.
Trying to think of the quickest and easiest way to distract them, he picked up a small rock from the ground at his feet, hefting in his hand silently. It would do.
Tossing it to the other side of the open tent doorway, he watched as the two leaders jerked their heads up, speaking rapidly to each other. One drew his sword, and cautiously exited the tent, intent on finding out the source of the strange noise. Lancelot waited a moment for the man to hopefully get out of earshot, then ran as fast as he dared into the enclosure. The other Saxon man, clearly dumbfounded at seeing a strange foreign man come running at him inside his own tent, hesitated.
Within a second he was gurgling and sinking to his knees, the long metal hair pin portruding from his throat, blood gushing down his front.
Lancelot, wasting no time, scooped up his swords and scabbards, and retreated for all he was worth.
As he made it to the horseyard, shouts and alarms could be heard, and he vaulted over the trees that had been felled to keep the animals in one general area.
Grabbing the first able bodied mount he saw, he leapt upon it bareback, gigging at its sides with his heels.
The animal, a large black mare, whinnied loudly, and managed a messy jump over the low trees.
Lancelot then let her run for it, smiling grimly at the loud alarums and shrieks of anger fading into the distance behind him.
He knew he dare not stop to rest, for the Saxons would have figured out who had killed their men, and would be after him as quickly as their horses could carry them.
It was a hard two days ride back to the garrison with no stopping, and knowing this, he let the mare run at her leisure, determined to put as much distance as he could between himself and the men at his back.
36 hours into it, and he was swaying in the saddle, figuratively speaking, his wounds from the ambush throbbing in time with his heartbeat. His poor mount was practically foaming at the mouth, and when he saw a spring running next to their path, he pulled her up, panting almost in time with her. He knew she would go right for the water, but forced her to walk a little first, not wanting her to get sick drinking too much too fast.
After a short while of slow walking, they had both recovered from their ride somewhat, and he allowed the mare to drink at a normal pace from the stream.
Wiping his grimy face with a bloodied hand, he checked his wrists, lifting the rough material of his shirt from around them. Hissing, he sank his hands into the cool water, washing some of the dried blood off. The one on the right looked all right, like it would heal with minimal damage. The left however, was an angry red, and he gasped with pain when he pressed on the edge of the tear, wincing at the sight of pus filling the wound.
Damn Saxons and their damn rough rope, he thought. Couldn't they have chained him up like any civilized enemy?
His horse finished drinking, and stood there, staring at him. He patted her flank, then tore more of his tunic apart, wrapping his now somewhat cleaner wounds with the new material. He tied it as tight as he dared, not wanting them to start bleeding again.
"We're almost there, girl," he told the horse, patting her soft nose. She nickered in response, butting him slightly in the shoulder. He smiled, then remounted.
"What woman doesn't hold affection for the noble Lancelot?" he joked, leaning down to speak in her ear. "When we get to the Wall, you shall have the finest stall we have to offer, and as many apples as you would care to eat, my lady." The horses ears flickered once, twice, and then like a fresh animal she was off.
He laughed loudly, and wrapped his hands in her mane, praying to see the familiar long grey brick of his current home soon.
TBC.