Chapter One
The light of day shifted, flickering before finally disappearing behind the endless trees. No smoke rose from the smouldering fire, a trick she had learned sometime ago, in a far off life she preferred to not remember. But the twinge of smoke scent flared her mount's nostrils, his tail swishing in the carrying breeze. Had anyone stumbled upon them, they would meet their quick end for she had her bow fully drawn. Her eyes twitching in the darkness, watching the Blue Ghosts no more then five horse lengths away. From beneath her dark hood, her eyes were all knowing. She saw their exact movements that they thought to be stealth, they thought they were invisible.
There were more, she knew this. She was grossly outnumbered and she should have been spotted. The ghosts had been tracking her, they had been for days and she knew why. It was a secret and she would never share it, to no one, to no avail. She would not cast a light upon a past not easily forgotten. She tried not to be shocked that she had not been discovered. The blue roan beneath her whickered. She would never underestimate her enemy, another lesson learned in a lifetime ago.
Something moved behind her. She knew the sound. A horse, unmistakably a horse with a rider taller then she and they had a bow drawn. They smelled of the forest, a scout. Yes, a scout and a good one to. Countless times scouts had "snuck" up on her only to meet an end. This one had caught her, they had rightfully won. Not that there was anything to be won. She could still win. It was a pity that such a good scout should have to die. But dare she turn away from her trackers? Before such a decision could be made, an arrow flew past her head, striking a Blue Ghost.
She saw her opening and she took the advantage of the moment. She was quick, this to she knew. Her arrow returned to her quiver as she stood upon the saddle of the blue roan, only to disappear. A ghost, she knew the scout would think. Now was her time to strike, to watch her only threat whither and die. But one before two, as four follows three. Her mount in the open would not do. Her horse's blood smeared her hand, that nightmare she had dreamt twice before. She would not allow it to be true to its image. "Ride!"
The scout looked up and saw nothing. Well hidden among the trees, leaves she watched her horse galloped out of sight. 'Time for a glimpse of my scout.' She leaned forward, just enough to see but not enough to be seen. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes danced over the scout, seeing something far different then she had expected. A Sarmatian, a knight of the round table. She leaned forward more, forgetting they were not alone. She did not hear the hum of the arrow until the silence stung the air and the pain clipped her shoulder.
Five times she was struck. Once in the shoulder, the first shot. Thrice in the back, then once in her right thigh, the last shots. She fell from the tree landing face down in the moss and the five arrows protruding from all angles. There was pain. Lot's of pain and it dripped out through those five holes deep within her skin. She had never worn armour. Only the vambraces and greaves. She was hardly ever in combat, she chose to stay away. She rather shoot her bow, but she could fight. She had a sword, she could fight in combat. But only with one combatant because she had nothing but a quiver full of arrows and a roan she had named Arvakur to watch her back.
There she lay, motionless in the moss. The five arrows puncturing her dark cloak. Pity almost flowed through his veins. If she had not been some rogue Roman, he may have felt sorry. But he felt compelled to visit the woman even though his experience said otherwise. For once in his life, he listened to not smarts but to the odd feeling of importance.
It took mere seconds before the Woad presence vanished. Only then did he drop his bow and dismount to check the fallen Roman. He set his bow beside the black body before looking to the wounds. They appeared somewhat minor; he had suffered many like them. Though, he wished he had not. Only a bit of curiosity plagued his mind. Why did she not move?
She stirred only to breathe in rasping breaths. Her cloak shifted and he found himself staring at no Roman. Her long exotic black curls were pulled back in a coral pin. She would have been exotic to any Roman. But Roman he was not. Sarmatian blood flooded his veins as did it pump the injured woman's life. He ran his finger over the marking on the skin just below her ear, two claw markings. "Roxolani."
The girl's eyes swung open at the sound of her tribe's name. But she did not move her lips to form words. Instead, she drew a breath in, closing her eyes again. He realized then what she was doing. She was trying to conserve energy. He remembered being taught that back home. Save it for staying alive.
A whinny prickled his ears. He knew it was not his own horse, for the girl's blue roan stepped closer to its rider. He stood, going to his mount. The Sarmatian was going to bleed out if he did not take her back to the camp his brother knights had made. If she had been any one else, if she had been Roman he would not have felt guilt in leaving her to die. But there was something about her, not just the Sarmatian blood. Something almost familiar about her. He pulled his horse forward then turned around intending to pick the rider up and place her upon his mount. But the roan had kneeled beside its master, allowing her to use her one good arm to pull herself onto its back, gripping its mane.
"Ah," he went to pat the now standing horse but it bared its teeth wide, causing him to pull them back. "Follow me then, Roan." The horse bowed its head like it understood and followed the mounted scout. His eyes watched the trees, only glancing back to the Roxolani when he heard movement. No sound came from her body, lying over the pommel of her saddle.
The bushes rustled behind the knights but none stirred from their sleep. 'And if I was a Woad or worse, a Saxon, I would kill them all,' he thought with a smirk. No matter, they would wake soon enough, though, both riders remained silent and their mounts only breathed.
The first knight to stir was Lancelot, with no surprise. He could smell female flesh from miles away. Now one was in their camp. "'Eh, Tristan, what followed you back?" Arthur rose, followed by Galahad, Gawain, Bors, and Dagonet. The scout looked to the female, expecting some sort of glare. But none came. "I do not know. She's injured. Five arrows. Woads."
Dagonet rushed forward to look at the wounds. He pulled back the hood and Tristan awaited the question. But it did not come from the tall knight. The knight's eyes only rested upon on the girl's face for a moment before looking away to the arrows. He mumbled something about minor wounds and lifted her away.
That's when it happened. The girl's eyes opened and met Lancelot's. Both were silent, both staring at each other. She looked away, alarm filling her dark eyes. Dagonet didn't notice and Lancelot turned away, disappearing into the trees. "Tristan, a word." His commander seemed to order more then ask. So, of course, he followed. Arthur searched out a secluded spot just outside of the other knights' earshot before opening his mouth again. "Tristan, who is she and why was she harmed and not you?" The scout gazed at the trees to their right before attempting an answer. "I haven't the slightest idea of who she is. She's Sarmatian though. She's a Roxolani. I was tracking maybe ten Woads when I found her. She was watching them. I think they were tracking her. One was approaching her that she didn't notice so I killed it. Then she disappeared into the tree above. I guess she was still visible and they let loose the five arrows."
The commander just gazed at the scout. He could sense that his commander thought he withheld information. He hadn't. Not really. Arthur had apparently not seen the connection between the woman and Lancelot. Though, Tristan had not pieced it out yet, he saw the tension that had passed between the two. There was a connection, a big connection. It wasn't clear yet to him. But he knew it was surface as soon as the girl spoke. He had the sneaking suspicion she would not speak. He thought to soon.