Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.


Scribe Notes:

Sokorra Lewis: I am glad I suprised you with my choice. Finally one of the men has said something, after watching them do their dance for years. Perhaps now that it is closer to the surface, Tristan feels obligated to say something to Lancelot, perhaps a verbal slap upside the head? Thank you for your words, and I send you luck with Mia and hope her adventures do come to your page well!

Ailis-70: Thank you! I am feeling much better, and back to my muse. Guinevere always had spunk, but I saved it. I eluded to it earlier with her jesting to Cerys, but perhaps it came off as silly girl instead of comfortable friend. Thank you for your kinds words in your own story. When I read your final notes, it made me smile widely and laugh! I am so glad to have been able to help you reach higher! You help me too!

LovelyHeidi: Thank you for taking the time to review! I am very happy you like the story thus far, and appreciate your kind words very much!

Babaksmiles: Oh, that quote is perfect. And yes, moodiness and Lancelot are a match. I hope I can lighten him soon, I love it when he smiles, and the wrinkles around his eyes crease, his eyes dance, and that mouth of his grins wide. If you have ever seen Ioan in Horatio Hornblower, that smile is right there again, and its just as lovely.

Drew'sgirl: I hope to! I never saw myself as one to write fan fiction, but I must say that I enjoy it immensely. Relaxing and fun to play with established characters! I am very glad you see Ioan in my Lancelot. He's really the reason I wanted to write this, I think he's an outstanding actor, and I couldn't wait to see him and describe him from my mind. If you ever get the chance, rent or watch Solomon & Gaenor. That, despite the fact that this is a King Arthur fan fiction story, is what prompted me to start writing. Thank you again for your kind words!

Winged Seraph: Glad you are continuing to enjoy and here are two more chapters for you!


Chapter 19: Senses for Killing

The horses snorted quietly in the evening air, tendrils of their breath snaking up to hang over noses and heads. The knights were in full battle armour, jingling softly as the horses shifted with the tension apparent around them. No one spoke, no barbs were thrown, no jesting started.

The knights were riding out to kill, each of them sober with the thought. Gawain, mouth silently moving, praying to his Gods, Galahad staring into nothingness, his face blank. Perceval tapping his fingers on his saddle and twitching his feet in the stirrups, eyes closed. Tristan quietly wait­ing, Bors humming. Each distinct pattern to prepare before battle. One common element, heart­beats pounding, thoughts hard with the task ahead of them.

Lancelot's bones were singing, his blood coursing through his veins in waves of hot. His mus­cles jumped to move, to swing sword, to do what it was trained so well to do. It was all he could do to hold Klyndd back, the horse dancing sideways, bobbing his head, shaking at the hold Lancelot had on his mouth. He felt as if he was a bowstring strung too tightly, and he would snap at any moment! He looked to Arthur, who had his sword out, held ready, eyes darting this way and that, hand re-gripping reins in time to Meritus' pawing. Arthur nodded towards the doormen.

They would ride out through the mess, followed close behind by their own men. Everything was ready, and the muffled sounds of shifting feet of the footsoldiers behind the knights felt a mile away to Lancelot, his mind tuned to his horse, his sight focused on the doors, his hearing sharp to his companion's breathing and his own racing heart. Sweet bliss and terror mixed together to form anticipation for battle, and it was a feeling he hated and loved equally.

The doors they stood behind creaked open slowly. Bodies of dead Saxons, arrows, and the re­mains of the battering ram looked back at them on the narrow causeway. The horses snorted at the stench of death, their muscles tensing under their riders, necks arched to snatch at bits and tight reins. Lancelot put a hand to Klyndd's crest to soothe him quietly, and the big bay horse shook his mane, humped his back slightly and pawed.

"Get on with you, you've seen this before." Lancelot hissed through his teeth, reaching his hand to the horse's ear and tweaking it. The horse huffed out his sides with a large breath, and relaxed. Lancelot then checked his girths and tightened them.

"They don't even pick up their dead." Muttered Bors under his breath. Heads shook around him as last minute adjustments were made to tack and weapon.

Arthur, at the head of the group, turned slowly. "Alright knights, quietly now."

And they filed out onto the causeway. Lancelot felt a breeze hit his face as he left the confines of the fort, and the waft of decaying flesh and burnt wood hit him. He forced his teeth together and clamped his right hand firmly on the blade he had now drawn. He was never so glad to be gone from a place, even if it meant wading through this mess. He felt quickly to his cuirass, and peeking out the top was Cerys' linen roll, now slightly greyed from the wear he had given it. He stuffed it down further, and the mint smell came back from the now well worn and crushed leaves. The whole roll now held the aroma of the herb, and Lancelot was, at that moment, very glad for it.

Once across, they could see the Saxon encampment not far off. They regrouped and spread out.

In the twilight, Arthur's sword glinted as he cut it forward and down, and they spurred forward. They had been warned not to make any battle cries until spotted, the element of surprise would be their best weapon. It was all any of them could do to keep their tongues clamped in their mouths as horses jumped out underneath rider, and blood boiled with the start of their attack.

As they galloped, he could hear music and laughter, and the silhouettes of men dancing around a fire came into view. The thundering of the hooves made them turn in unison, and as Lancelot swung his sword, he heard first Bors, then Perceval let out a cry.

He could see the whites of their eyes, could hear each foreign word of startlement as he barrelled towards the first Saxon in his path. His heart, in time with his horses galloping hooves, sped at the anticipation of blade to flesh. Instinct, long honed, took over.

"RUAHHHH" He yelled as blade connected with bone, and a spray of blood upwards signified that he had indeed hit his mark. He swung again as the next man came into range, this time shearing an ear. The blade caught the man's long blonde locks as well, and ear and hair flipped it up behind him as he rode on. He listened for the body to thump as it hit the ground.

He could hear the other knights now, yelling and shouting cries of their own, screams from Sax­ons punctuating them. He could see Arthur's work littering the ground just to his right, the large sword he carried cutting deeply into more than a few skulls. Arthur was swinging back and forth, hacking and slashing like a haymaker, just ahead. Beside him Gawain was beating in more heads with his cudgel.

He saw more men headed towards him. They would have had time to gather weapons by now.

It was almost time to unhorse. He looked to Bors who had dismounted and was now punching his way through a group of men with his blades, swearing with each stride and swing forward. A huge smile across his face, he turned to Lancelot and stuck his tongue out as he clefted a large dark haired man without even looking. Lancelot grunted and shook his head, turning back to his own defence, his own battle.

He jumped lightly off Klyndd, and landed behind Tristan, who had done the same. They looked to each other briefly, and Tristan stood and sheared an approaching man in two, his sword slid­ing silently through the man's bare torso in one fluid motion. Lancelot turned to the left, and drew his second sword. Ahh... his shoulders knew the movements themselves, he did not even need to guide them with thought. This dance, it was his now.

They fought back to back for a few moments, grunts and battle sounds echoing around them. Lancelot stopped counting the kills, he just jabbed forward and swung, parried and ducked. He was beginning to tire, his arms aching, he could feel blood and brains caked on his face and ar­mour. They must be through the lot of them by now? The dance was now steps for survival.

He could hear the footsoldiers had joined the fray and their sound make it seem as though the knights had been fighting in silence. The roar of man versus man came alive and rang through the night air like thunder. Metal on metal, shield on armour drowned out the rhythm he had. Now it was butchery. The dance was gone.

Then, almost as suddenly, the sounds of metal on metal started dieing, the grunts of killing slow­ing, replaced with the moans of injured and dieing men. He looked up and most of their men were standing now, weapons ready. There were none left to bring down. His heart slowed, his muscles stilled. It was done. He sagged.

Moments passed as he watched the scene around him. Had he done this? It was another person in his armour that had killed these men. He felt worlds away from that man right then, and wished it could stay that way. His mind turned to his own hands and he looked down to them, still holding swords, coated with blood, the knuckles bent hard around hilt. He had fought well.

He turned his head to search for friends. He counted... all stood. Normal breathing returned, nor­mal man revived.

Galahad was standing away from the group, a young girl under his sword, the tip pointed to her face. She held a small throwing axe, her chest heaving up and down with each laboured breath. Her eyes threw hatred to him, and his confused gaze back gave Lancelot his movement. He walked over to the young knight.

"She, she was going to attack me... but... I can't kill a woman... Lancelot... I can't!" He said through rasping breath, turning to Lancelot, eyes showing torment at his dilemma.

Arthur joined them, and placed a hand to Galahad's arm.

"Leave her. Let her run."

She spat something to them in her own language and Arthur turned, his face suddenly going hard. He threw words back to her, which surprised the other two knights. Arthur had learnt to speak their language?

"What did she say?" Galahad asked, his sword tip wavering now, his face turned towards Arthur.

"She asked which one of us was going to rape her first." He said slowly. "I told her that no one would rape her, that she was free to go, as long as she did not threaten our lives on this night."

"But...I..." He halted.

Galahad dropped his sword from her face and she scooted backwards with her hands. The men backed off, Lancelot retreating to the rest of the knights who had joined them, horses in tow.

She slowly got up, her eyes never leaving his face. Her breathing still ragged from the struggle, she stood a moment with her axe held rigid, obvious painful thoughts in her mind. She licked her lips and flung hair out of her eyes.

Galahad turned his back to take his horse from Perceval, a defeated look in his eyes, the tired­ness showing. His shoulders slumped, his short sword held low. Of all the knights, Galahad hat­ed killing, hated fighting. But, like all the knights, he knew he was good at it, and he lent himself to this cause with Arthur the only way he knew how. With sword and skill to take life in battle. Lancelot watched him closely, and flicked a glance to Gawain. Gawain's face was yet unread­able, his eyes watching the girl, one hand on his horse, the other on the hilt of his own throwing axe, ready.

Before any of the men could react, the woman threw her axe at Galahad, and it dug itself into his shoulder. With a look of surprise, he fell to the ground , his arms splayed out, the axe caught in the armour, fresh blood oozing out between rings in the mail shortcoat he wore.

An arrow protruded out of her forehead not two moments later. Tristan's bowstring still vibrat­ing back from the force. She crumpled like an empty sack, dead before she fully made contact with the ground.

Gawain made it to Galahad first, dropping to his knees, his helmet flying off as he placed his hands around the axe blade to stop the bleeding.

"Get cloth, get Jols, Dammit! Galahad..." He screamed.

Lancelot looked to Tristan, who was still holding his bow aloft, his blue eyes hard, glittering, his face set in stone.

"Friend, it couldn't be helped. It was either her or another of us." He said as he came to Tristan's side.

Tristan lowered the bow and blinked. He looked quickly to Lancelot, nodded and turned on his heel for his horse. Lancelot looked to the girl one more time and turned away. Her mistake had been to fight back, to be afraid of them. He shook his head sadly. Thank the Gods it had not been Gawain to kill her. He needed no more fuel for nightmares.

He sheathed both his swords and slowly walked to where Galahad was now awake and scream­ing. Bors was ready to pull the axeblade out, and Perceval and Gawain were sitting on him. He yanked up with one quick motion, and Galahad roared to life, shaking off the other two men and attempting to deck Bors. Bors threw the axe away and forced him down to sitting.

"You can belt me later boy, once we are drunk." He growled as Galahad slumped again, the shock of the ripping blade gone.

They gathered around, Gawain putting pressure on the wound. Bors and Perceval stripped Gala­had's metal armour off of him to get at the wound.

Perceval slowly peeled back the arming doublet, neatly cut in two from the axe blade, and let out a huge sigh of relief and a smile mirroring it.

'I see no bone. It's a muscle wound only." He said as Gawain lifted the pressure for him to peer at it.

Galahad, face white and gripping Gawain's free arm hard, hissed as Perceval ripped the last lay­er, his battle tunic, opening it more to properly expose the wound.

"Sorry Brother, we will get you a new doublet for the winter solstice."

Galahad gave his older brother a look that made Lancelot laugh despite the situation. He knelt down beside Gawain and peered into Galahad's face. Galahad looked to him and grimaced as Perceval further probed the wound.

"Is she dead?"

Lancelot nodded. Galahad would know that she would have been brought down moments after she loosed her axe from her hand. He closed his eyes, squeezed them and then shook his head hard.

"Damn stupid cow! We gave her freedom!" He cried. "I tried... I..."

Gawain shushed him and Lancelot stood and went to Arthur, who was now organizing the troops to camp for the night just outside the battlefield. He was pacing to and fro, pointing to various captains, gesturing this way and that, his helmet dangling in his other hand. He pointed towards Galahad and the knights as Jols ran past with a wineskin, cloth and what looked to be needle and thread. Lancelot patted his breastbone, where he could feel his roll. For some reason, it brought him comfort just to know it was there. Of all the things to be thinking about after a battle, and he was thinking of her. This new feeling had changed him, and he wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

He ran a hand down his arm, and held it to his body a moment, gripping the elbow guard. He looked to a dead Saxon at his feet, the man's throat slashed cleanly. He tried to identify who would have killed the man, but found he could not immediately do so. Tristan's blade would have severed the head; Galahad would only thrust into a man... Perceval? Ahh... Bors, with a side cut. That must be it. He scoffed at himself for thinking such trivial thoughts of death and joined Arthur to clear his thoughts of the battle and focus on tasks.

"Is he going to be alright?" Arthur asked as he walked up. Lancelot nodded and removed his own helmet, relief from the sweat dripping into his eyes immediate. He mopped his brow with exposed sleeve and sighed.

"A flesh wound. Deep, but no bone or tendons involved." He replied.

Arthur put a hand to his shoulder and Lancelot to his. They stood for a moment, arms out to each other, each covered in blood, each too tired to be still standing without the support of the other. They watched the activity around them a moment more, Arthur shifting weight from one leg to the other, both equally tired.

"Good battle. Damn shame about the girl."

"Yes."

"I need a drink." Lancelot said tiredly. "When did you learn to speak Saxon?"

"Wasn't Saxon. She was a Celt, she was a slave."

"Oh."

More silence followed as they watched more. They had lost very few footmen, maybe twenty. The rest of the men were out now, picking them out of the littered ground, carrying them away for burial. Praetus had ventured out and was organizing the scavenging party. Lancelot hated it, but waste not want not! There would be many good weapons littering the ground, good ar­mour, maybe even food and supplies. Food, the Caer definitely needed.

"I need a bath."

Arthur and Lancelot both laughed at that, and turned away from the scene to retrieve their hors­es. It would be a longer night still if they didn't get Galahad to camp and get out of their armour. Tomorrow they marched for Dewyr, and Octus.


Dear Reader:

Battle is intimate, just as is dance and making love. Each knight feels it differently, sees it differently. Lancelot turns into another being when he fights. I hope I portrayed the "sense" of battle well, it was an interesting chapter to write without making too much of it "action A,action B" sounding. I wanted to show that there are senses involved in killing in heat of battle.

Onward and upward to the next chapter, which is more of the knights. I promise soon to peek in onCerys!

Cardeia