AN: Thanks to all that have reviewed! They nevah fail to bring a smile to my face. Enjoy the chap, read, love, live....review...
Chapter 3: Fletching and Fetching
Afternoon slid across the countryside like honey; slow, warm, and sticky. Shadows began to arch uncomfortably across the road, as if not content to stay to either side of the highway. The heat and unchanging scenery bred laziness, and the knights were languid when the attack finally came.
In retrospect, the men would damn their lazy eyes, blaming their surprise on the comfort that came with riding in lands leagues upon leagues from the Fort. In living each day to fight the Woads beyond the Wall, they'd nearly forgotten what men free of war paint were capable of.
Tristan had been wary all day. His sight remained free of dulled caution, and his fellow's lethargy left him strained and paranoid. Any of the slight amusement he'd had at Galahad's obvious distress vanished in an angry puff of frustration. At the end of the day, they were all warriors. They had no time for distraction.
The road ahead narrowed, bordered on both sides by monstrous boulders. The path ran through them, leaving what lay beyond a mystery.
The company had pulled into a single party as they took lunch, much to the dismay of two of the riders, and they passed the small gap without difficulty. They were only several feet beyond it when Tristan's voice went through the group like a strong wind.
"To the left" he warned, already drawing his sword.
The men's reaction was immediate. They did not even need his words; the mere sight of the scout drawing his weapon was enough. Rare were the times the blade been unsheathed without returning to its scabbard bloodied.
Arthur was shouting commands in seconds, taking only a moment to assess how many men the vague impressions of metal and shadows could account for.
Who ever they were, the men sitting in wait knew that their inefficient cover was broken, and in a messy, disordered attack, released their arrows. The knights were already in position and prepared.
It had taken only seconds.
Galahad released his bow from its saddle holster and had it loaded and aimed in the next second. Casting a quick eye about him, he saw the fierce battle mad face of Gawain beside him. The blonde knight sensed the stare and let his eyes dart to meet it.
"Let's get the sneaking bastards!" Gawain shouted, jovial despite the warring atmosphere. For a moment, a fleeting, adrenaline fueled moment, things between them were right again. Battle washed away the concerns of morning and they were brothers
once more.
Galahad returned the grin and turned to face the shadow ridden wood beyond. His first arrow found its mark in the chest of an archer. He did no more than assure the man's death before loading his bow and searching out a new target. Targets, not men. Battle offered little time for sympathy or guilt. That came after.
The skirmish, for it was little more than that, lasted no more than ten minutes. The ambushers were beginning to flee, stealing back into the darkened forest beyond. The few glimpses the knights saw revealed their attackers as little more than boys. None were older than Galahad. Boys, orphans most likely. Guilt came after.
They were highwaymen, in a broad sense of the term, and new birds to the game at that. They'd never even sent men to both sides of the trail. Boys and greenhorns, trying to fight the legendary knights of the Round Table. They knew not who they attacked that day.
Some sense of safety began drifting back to the knights. No shots had been returned in several minutes, and they all stood upon the trail, bows loaded and waiting. Arthur was the first to lower his weapon.
"Tristan, I want you, Bors, and Dagonet to ride out. See if you can find any stragglers. I want them ques-"
"Galahad!" Gawain's voice tore from his chest in a soul ripping warning. His arm shot out to the other's sleeve, tugging him to his body.
Even as the other man moved, Galahad was already fighting the action, biting out an annoyed protest. But any complaint went silent as pain bloomed in his temple, followed by a soft twang as an arrow buried itself in the dirt of the road.
Shaking slightly, Galahad's hand went to his temple where the arrow had grazed him. His fingers came away bloody.
"Oh my god" his voice quavered. He did not notice how flushly he had pressed himself against Gawain's chest, nor how tightly the other's arm was around his waist.
Gawain grabbed the boy's head roughly, inspected the gash to assure it was no more than a flesh wound, and turned away to mount his horse. There was a crash from the dark forest beyond, as if someone perched high in a tree had fallen the last few feet in an attempt to flee.
Gawain's face was dark and fearsome, his blue eyes lit aflame, and when he spoke, it was with dreadful resolve.
"I shall be back in a moment" He spurred his horse forward without another word, galloping off towards the sounds of someone making a noisy retreat along the forest floor.
Arthur was shouting at him to return immediately, and Tristan and Bors were already mounting to follow him off, but Galahad could only stand shocked upon the trail, holding the gash that was now bleeding steadily.
He'd almost died. He would have left Gawain thinking he hated him. His fingers were sticky with blood, and he could only look at the red mess on his hands distantly. He'd nearly died...
"Here" Dragonet instructed, appearing behind him quietly, "You'll need help with that" The man carried his saddlebag, already rummaging through it for balms and bandages.
"No" Galahad muttered, shaking his head to come back to himself, "I...I have to go...find him. He'll do something...bloody stupid and I...." he looked desperately at the bald man standing before him, "I need to find him"
Dagonet frowned, "What you need are stitches, Galahad. It won't take a moment"
Determined, he shook his head and stole a length of linen from the man's supply bag. Tying it around his head to stay the bleeding, he went to his horse and mounted. When he looked down at the men reaming on the trail, he found Arthur and Lancelot watching him closely.
"Tristan and Bors are already at his aide" Arthur advised him calmly, not sternly, "But if you think he needs you...go"
The phrasing made Galahad hesitate a moment, wondering exactly how much his commander knew. But hearing another crash from the woods beyond, he nodded sharply and kicked his horse to a gallop, leaving such questions for another day.
It was not hard to follow the trail the other knights had taken. After only several seconds of crashing through the underbrush, he picked up a narrow game trail, trusting his horse's footing among the roots and loose dirt. Ahead he could hear Tristan and Bors' horses, though the trail bent and twisted too much for him to lay eyes on them.
Low hanging branches bit and slapped his face, leaving red marks on his bearded cheeks. The pain barely touched him. All his thoughts turned to Gawain and the terror that had laced the man's warning. The need to find him was over powering.
By then, Bors and Tristan were several hundred feet ahead of him and Galahad was becoming frustrated at his lagging speed. He kicked his horse hard in the side, urging him to a faster pace. But just as the stead began to gallop, a soft, nearly inaudible sound caught his ear. By all rights, he shouldn't have heard it at all. The pounding of the horse's feet and his own blood should have been loud enough to block out nearly any other noise. Yet somehow, the one soft groan reached his ears.
He reined his horse so sharply that he was nearly thrown as the animal stumbled to a stop. A quick look around revealed that for several feet the trail opened to the steep side of a dried riverbed. Tall grasses masked the brim of the cliff, masking it to any going by a fast clip.
Again, the soft moan drifted up from below, and Galahad's heart climbed several feet in his chest. The voice was Gawain's.
He nearly fell from his saddle in his rush to dismount, hopping on one foot as he attempted to dislodge the other from the stirrup.
"God damn bloody useless thing" he muttered darkly, finally tearing his foot loose with enough ferocity to send him sprawling to the ground.
He was back on his feet in an instant, unaware that his movements made enough noise to reveal his position to any that cared. He heard naught over the deep, primal pulse of his own rushed blood and the tight quickened breaths that seemed so much louder inside his head.
By then, his horse had calmed itself and stood passively at the side of the narrow trail, nibbling on the soft roadside grasses. Galahad, though he'd regained his feet, did not move. It suddenly came to him what he may find in the streambed.
The soft groans, now wet and rattling, struck more fear in the warrior's heart than any enemy blade. A man could fight for his own life, but could only die for another's. He would not let Gawain die for him. He would not be the one to survive and grieve and go on living.
He would not be left alone.
He moved forward, letting a trembling hand part the brush of its own accord. His mind assailed him with proof of how moronic his worries were. There were others to stave off loneliness; the knights, the whores, the drink and dice.
But there was no other like Gawain. Unbidden memories flooded him, tearing and chipping at the great stone wall he'd built about himself. For years it had stood round him, ever thickening, ever true in its duties. It kept in the good; the crystal clear memories of home, the final taste of his mother's cooking, the last day he lived unaware of what sounds men could make as they died. And it kept out the bad; the guilt of a hundred men's deaths, the ties that the others would have him make, the piteous looks thrown his way when he spoke of one day returning home.
Gawain had never tried to force the barrier. He hadn't needed to. One day he simply happened upon a door, invited himself in, fetched a drink, and made himself at home.
A heavy breath escaped him. When had it happened? When had a day without his grin become gloomy? When had a night without his warmth become cold?
When his eyes finally fell upon the sight in the riverbed, Galahad was so sharp with fear and questions that the scene took several seconds to process in the skittish pathways of his mind.
When comprehension settled, it was on the wings of adrenaline.
"Good Gods no"
AN: Don't yell. It won't help any. Review and the next chap may follow in short measure...