Night fell over the decimated battleground, and Lancelot found himself standing at the top of the hill he had ridden over earlier in the day.
He clenched his fists, an unconscious cry of pain escaping his lips. He lowered his gaze to look at his hand, and was shocked to see the amount of blood seeping through the bandages.
He sighed. Not now. Now was not the time for personal injury. Now was the time to put into action the plan he and the others had come up with.
"I knew you would follow us," Guinevere said in a soft voice, climbing the hill behind him. She had a stone jar and fresh linens in her hands. "I also knew you would not take care of your injuries, so let me see them. And no argument, or we will have a problem," she said, her voice like rock. He held out his hand, and as she treated it, she spoke.
"I tried to dissuade him, but he would not listen. I told him you would be furious, and that you may not forgive him for what he did. I have never seen him like that, Lancelot. He was absolutely adamant that you not be put into danger. I had no choice."
The Sarmatian man nodded, and thanked her briefly when she finished rewrapping his wrist.
He seated himself on a large fallen tree, and the queen joined him.
They listened to the sounds of the wounded, and slowly their fingers intertwined. Lancelot drew strength from her, and she from him.
"Do you think it will work?" she asked.
He shrugged. "It will work. I have no choice. I will retreive him, I swear it."
She squeezed his fingers gently. "I have no doubt. I cannot convince you to take more help?"
"You must stay here, in case this doesn't work. I need a second front. I trust you to be there if I should fall."
"You will not."
"Aye, lady."
They did not move for many hours, the rising moon and stars the only witness to their shared grief.
Before dawn, Bors, Lancelot, and Gawain were riding as swiftly as possible in the direction the Saxons had taken Arthur. They had no need to speak, and Bors led the way, having no trouble following the lines of broken tree branches and horse offal that the enemy had left behind in their haste to get away with their prize.
Lancelot knew that the remaining portion of their help followed silently, and did not feel the need to check their progress.
By midday they were coming upon new signs of life, and the three knights dismounted, leaving their horses tied to a copse of short bushes, reins losely looped for a quick getaway.
They crouched at the edge of the wood, and eyed the full clearing in front of them. A string of curses left Bors' mouth, and Gawain closed his eyes momentarily. Lancelot didn't move, just gripped his short dagger more tightly.
Arthur was bound in the middle of a pire, his hands twisted tightly by rough rope above his head. He was unconcious, his body weight held by his arms, his bare feet dragging off the edge of the pile of wood he was balanced on.
"Bloody sea devils, have they no respect at all?" Gawain muttered helplessly, and Bors spit on the ground.
"What do you think?" he responded, pointing at Arthur. Lancelot glared at the both of them, and they quieted.
"Look," he said suddenly, and the three men watched as what was obviously the leader of this particular group of Saxons strode into the main area of the camp, and reached up to slap Arthur's face. Lancelot had to restrain Bors as Arthur's head jerked, and his green eyes opened.
"Well, commander, how are we this day? Ready to die?" the blond man said, his lieutenants laughing around him.
Lancelot smiled grimly at the regal bearing Arthur had, even while shirtless and barefoot, bloody and bound.
"I am always ready to die for my men and my country," he spat at the man, defiance glittering in his gaze.
"Good. Where my brothers failed to take you before, I will succeed. Rest assured of that. Aerin!" he called, and a flame haired young man scurried to him.
"Sir!" the man said, and saluted briefly.
"Ready this heathen bastard for a king's death."
"Yes, sir," Aerin replied, and barked out orders to the men standing about him. They raced back to a large tent set up at the opposite edge of the clearing from where the knights kept their watch.
"Lancelot?" Gawain queired under his breath. The other man looked over at him.
"Distraction ready?" he asked. Gawain nodded, and grinned. Bors unsheathed his long sword, and Gawain his wickedly sharp axe.
"Good luck, gentleman," Lancelot told them. "I shall be along presently."
As the two crept away to rendevouz with the 'help,' Lancelot drew one of his double blades and checked the sharpness of it against his thumb. As the small dot of blood welled, he put the wound to his lips and sucked on it, watching Arthur intently for any signs of problems he had not anticipated.
He could not help a laugh as Bors and Gawain burst through the trees at a 45 degree angle from him, crying and whinging wildly.
The men guarding Arthur and the remaining Saxons reacted to the interruption as ants in a nest when stepped on.
Bors and Gawain, acting afraid to the best of their abilities, threw themselves to their knees, their hands clasped and shaking.
When the Saxon leader finally appeared, screaming at the top of his lungs for order, he stopped in front of the two knights, his arms crossed across his broad chest.
Lancelot watched Arthur, but the king showed no sign of recognition at the sight of his men. He was either very good at playing along, or too injured to realize who they were. Lancelot hoped it was the former.
"What is the meaning of this??? Who are you men?" the blond man yelled at the knights, and they quaked further. Lancelot hid a smile, and leaned forward slightly to watch the procedings.
"Please sir, me and my squire here," Bors pointed at Gawain, who growled at Bors before shifting back into character, "we were set upon by blue devils who robbed us of all our goods and horses. We saw your camp fires, and hoped you would be kind enough to aid us. We have nothing left sir, nothing!"
Bors was really playing it to the hilt. Lancelot had a moment of glee where he thought Bors had truly missed his calling in life, then shifted focus, ready to move the second the other showed their faces.
"We have no time for this, don't you see we are in the middle of something important?" the commander roared, and at this Bors and Gawain surged to their feet, looking curiously at Arthur, who was still eyeing them, but not saying anything.
"Oh, my…Sammy, is that the King??" Bors said incredulously to Gawain, who nodded. "I think it is, Benny."
"What, have you captured the king??? My goodness, what a feat! Sammy, get over here and look at him. Why, he's no god, he's just a man…a man who needs new trousers," Bors said in a high voice, waving excitedly. Lancelot crouched on the balls of his feet; the next phase of the plan was ready.
As the Saxons attempted to pull the newcomers away from the captured Arthur, a loud whoop sounded from the trees, and multiplied in volume times several dozen.
The blue painted Woads, having followed the three knights by order of Guinevere, broke from their cover and with their usual fury let the Saxons have it.
As soon as they appeared, the blond commander, trying not to give in to panic, shouted at four men to guard Arthur and threw himself into the fray.
A Woad woman tossed Gawain and Bors their weapons. They grinned at each other, and began to fight back to back, each protecting the other.
As soon as the enemy leader was away from Arthur, Lancelot launched himself from his hiding place and whirled down upon the four men guarding the king.
His vision tinged with red, he didn't even feel the pain in his injured wrist as he wielded his two swords like Zeus hurling thunderbolts.
His sight shrank to a pinprick, and in the center of it were the green eyes of Arthur, who had struggled to an upright position at the sight of Lancelot bearing down on him.
One of the guards hacked at the knight with his own sword, and Lancelot grinned. A few strokes later the Saxon's head was on the ground, and the Sarmatian's face was coated in blood. He screamed at the top of his lungs, battle fury and rage filling him, and fought as he had never done so before.
Thrust, dodge. Spin, flip, stab. Kick, duck, slice.
Arthur squinted, the sun reflecting off his knight's weaponry blinding him momentarily, but not too long for him to see the man creeping up on Lancelot and aiming a bow at his back.
"Lancelot!" he shrieked with all his might, and the knight spun, one enemy sword flying over his head in an arc, the loosed bolt from the archer hitting home- except it killed the wrong man.
Lancelot flashed white teeth at Arthur, who sagged in relief. A moment later the knight was at his side, one blade sheathed, the other cutting through his bonds while the battle raged fiercely around them.
Catching Arthur as he fell, Lancelot threw his arm around the king's shoulders, supporting his weight.
"I…I knew- knew you would come," Arthur slurred, his mouth swollen from being hit repeatedly. He tried to grin at the other man, but could only manage a half smile.
"Always, Arthur. Now, let's get the hell out of here," Lancelot responded, and hobbled down through the wood making up the pire.
Catching the eye of Bors, Lancelot pointed toward the forest, and the older knight nodded.
Hurrying through the foliage, Lancelot arrived with the king at the tethered horses, and mounted his quickly, Arthur getting up behind him, collapsing his weight against the other man's back.
"Yah!" Lancelot shouted, and dug his booted feet into his horses sides, and they were off.
The knight knew that Bors and Gawain would follow as quickly as they could, after decimating the Saxon camp as much as possible. With the battle ready Woads with them, he knew it wouldn't take long.
Tbc.