A/N: Sorry this took so long! I've been so busy I can't believe it! And I'm ashamed! Yeah, sometimes I can be late on posting, but this is outrageous! I send you all my dearest apologies, and for those of you who are wonderful x 2, I will be updating The Mask and the Mirror shortly. Luv ya! Please review, and don't be bitter or angry! No time for replies, either…

Modesty

Chapter Twenty: Blood and Ash

"There! On the wall!" a Saxon soldier shouted, pointing to Arthur and his knights as they sped down the hill on horseback. They were soon hidden by a wall of flame and ash.

Alahan squeezed his eyelids almost to the point of being shut. His eyes burned with the ash and flames that clung to the almost palpable air. He didn't have to wait long before death was upon him and his men. Shouts rang like a chorus through the black and choking air. He glanced all around him but was blinded by ash. He lunged forward with a ready sword, but caught nothing as Arthur drove his horse by, swinging his own sword below him.

Alahan growled with displeasure. Shadows of men danced all around him. Some were on foot, some on horses, and many were falling, and mouths open wide in a deafening scream, arms flailing in the air with pain. It was not two minutes into the battle when nearly all his men were defeated. Alahan was traveling in circles, running about, sword held at the ready, searching for someone to kill.

He found several mere peasants and put a swift end to their lives, driving his sword into their chests without a hint of mercy. He looked up, hearing a strange sound. Suddenly, a rain of arrows descended upon him. Raising his arm to shield him as best he could from the arrows, Alahan scowled. Where is Lord Cerdic? he thought. We need reinforcements now! His men were dying, falling helplessly all around him. He could see horses with shadow riders upon their backs dancing through the wall of flames and ash, but could scarcely make out his enemy. He was Cynric's second in command, and he did not want to let his prince down. He then heard a clanging of footsteps behind him. Turning quickly, the last thing he saw was Tristan's arrow flying through the air at his forehead.

Tristan reigned up his horse when the screaming quieted. He glanced left as Bors screamed, plunging a blade into a Saxon's back and yanking it out again with a forceful tug. "Yes!" he roared, when finished, guiding his horse toward Tristan, a grim smile upon his face.

"That's not all of them," Tristan said calmly, almost sinister.

Bors' smile faded, then with thought, reappeared again. He looked at Tristan. "Least your wench and her friends are here to help!" Before Tristan could reply- which he probably wouldn't have done anyway- Bors had kicked his steed in the flank and was off again.

Tristan glanced up the hill to his right, where he could see the silhouette of a hundred figures standing proudly behind the ash. He searched for Adima, but could not see any faces in the distance. A sudden, loud noise drew his attention to the gate. He could make out a lone Saxon rushing through the freshly opened doors, staggering and breathing heavily.

The Saxon rushed, tripped, picked himself up, and rushed again towards his leader. Panting heavily, he fell to the ground when he reached Cerdic and his son. "What happened?" Cerdic already knew the answer- it was as he feared. When the soldier could not say anything, but continued to pant, grasping onto his life by a string, Cerdic offered him death without a choice. He plunged his sword into the man's heart, and without another word, looked to his son, and raised his hand high above his head.

"Move out!" Cynric ordered.

A wave of Saxons rushed angrily towards the gate and seeped like venom onto the battleground on the other side. After taking a quick look at his surroundings, Cerdic motioned for one soldier. "Redwall," he commanded. The Saxon quickly was at his side. "The left flank," he said, pointing. Then he turned to his anxious son. "Go with him," he instructed.

Redwall nodded. "Move out!" Reluctantly, Cynric followed him to the left flank of what remained of the Saxon army.

From where Adima stood on the hilltop, she could see the two flanks of the Saxon army falling quickly into place below her, and the knights all finding their places on the battleground. Behind her, catapults were being positioned. She stood side by side with her sister, the edge of the forest, her home, behind her. Talso was not far off, prepared to fight for her newly acquired freedom.

Talso's eyes were filled with a deep fury. She had waited so many years for the moment to return home, and she wasn't about to let the Saxons take back her fresh freedom. No, she would die before she would let them have her again.

"Do not be afraid," Adima heard Guinevere whisper; her sister wasn't even looking at her, but staring straight ahead of them.

"I am not," Adima answered, boldly. She took a deep breath, breathing in the toxic smells of burning flesh, blood, and a dying fire. She gripped her sword tighter. Like her sister, in this battle, she would be fighting combat, sword to sword.

She could feel the cold ring around her finger and glanced down at it momentarily with a frown. She couldn't see Tristan anymore.

Merlin shouted something, but he was so far off down the line of Woads that Adima could not hear. She suspected it was some battle cry, for after that, more cries shouted, and her sister drew her sword high above her head.

"Ahh!" Guinevere screamed, her legs beginning to fly beneath her as she ran. More commands were sounded, and burning rocks were sent flying onto the air from the catapults behind Adima.

The Woad followed her sister with any hesitation, and it seemed that every other painted body in the world ran beside them. Adima shouted a long battle cry, her heart racing in her chest. Most likely the Saxons would have it cut out, but she didn't care- she couldn't even think of that at the moment. All she thought of was the battle ahead. She kept a clear picture in her mind's eye of a Saxon soldier armed and traitorous. Her ears were flooded with the sound of battle cries and screams of torture, and the clashing ad wailing of steal against stone and the loud thunder of boulders smashing against the earth, flames licking their hides as they flattened the enemy.

Before she knew it, Adima was lost in a crowd of soldiers. Warriors, slaves, men and women; they were all there. Nothing mattered anymore, except to kill. Blood was the object, death was the enemy, and life was the gift.

Almost immediately, Adima took one. As a Saxon came at her, she lurched her sword forward into the man's leathered belly. He groaned in pain, but she was deaf to the sound as she yanked the blade out from within him. She grunted with the effort, but had to smile a little for her success. However, she didn't let one kill distract her, for there were far as many more to make.

"Raaa!" Bors bellowed as he urged his steed forward into the heart of the battle. Saxon arms tore at his feet and legs, but he thrashed his sword about and cut them all away. Frightened by a sudden burst of flames a few feet ahead, his horse reared and Bors felt himself slide swiftly off the saddle. With a crash he fell to the ground. Kicking and screaming, he fought his way to his feet, and ignoring the pain that seared dup through his spine and poured into his muscles, he reminded himself of his current situation, and in time, found more Saxon blood on his hands as he tore through the crowd with his iron knuckle bands.

Gawain roared, too, as he urged his horse into the battle. Like a flying arrow, he sped, one with his steed. His eye caught a particular Saxon who was chasing after a blonde haired Woad. He never knew if it was Talso, but he didn't care to find out in another second. He thrust his arm forward, and released a long axe into the air. It flew straight into the Saxon's hide, knocking the man over with such a force, he died almost instantly.

Gawain looked around, but the Woad woman was gone. He realized he would be of more use to his companions on foot, and quickly dismounted.

Tristan's arrows sailed through the air, piercing Saxon flesh here and there, until he finally ran out. With a grunt, he pulled Passebreul to a halt and dismounted. Glancing quickly around him, he eyed his surroundings, and unsheathed his long curved sword.

A flash of auburn caught his eye, and he turned. Adima twirled around as a Saxon drove his blade into the air just inches from her bare ribs. She jumped to the side as he lunged again, but this time was caught by the edge of his blade. Crimson stained her ash-blotted skin, but she ignored the pain. Scowling, she ran at the man, which took him completely by surprise and thrust her sword into him. Peering into her almond eyes and grunting with pain, the soldier fell to the ground and took his last breath.

Adima clutched her side, and with a grimace, lifted her bloodstained palm.

Gritting his teeth, Tristan ran towards her. A pair of soldiers, one Saxon and one Woad blocked him with their bodies as they fought. Another pair of soldiers stepped in his way. Tristan hastily dodged them and ran around. By the time he reached the other side, Adima was gone from sight.