Chapter 4: Who Are You
It was almost dawn when the whole Saxon army was gathered at the wide road that led southwards towards Hadrian Wall. The reason of the delay was that Cynric's infantry took a wrong turn which led them further north instead of south, costing Abigail a few hours before she tracked them down. Cerdic was not happy about the delay, Abigail only knew too well. She gingerly ran a finger over a fresh bruise on her jawbone, wincing as a sharp pain seared through her skin.
"How far behind are we?" asked Cerdic gruffly as Abigail produced a worn map the Saxons had found in the estate before burning it down together with the peasants who foolishly chose to stay.
She pointed to a snaking line on the map, and said, "We are here." Then she traced backwards on the trail and up another lined with symbols of mountains on both sides. She stopped halfway up the trail.
"The caravan is slow. They should be here, at the quickest pace," she explained. Then she moved her finger to a dark band of dots. "They might take shelter in these woods."
"How long?" he asked, staring at the map thoughtfully.
"About a day if we camp tonight- today," she glanced at the commander.
She was exhausted, cold and hungry. She knew that Cerdic could go on for miles without stopping, and so could his men. But she was a woman, and their scout, who covered more ground than anyone of them daily. She dearly hoped that she would be allowed a few hours' rest, or she would collapse from fatigue.
"We stop for two hours," announced Cerdic after a moment. "This road takes us to Hadrian's Wall?"
Abigail nodded. "It will take five days, if you do not camp. The trail runs inland, cutting through forests."
"Is it difficult to track?"
She shook her head. "It is a frequently used track for merchants coming from the sea."
Cerdic nodded. After a while, he stood up and said, "You will lead Cynric's infantry into the mountains and overtake the caravan. Hold the Romans hostage and kill all others. I go south to the Wall."
Abigail bowed low. "Yes, sir."
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Tristan rode at the head of the line, his keen scouting instincts razor sharp. It was the second day of their journey, and they were moving too slow. The snowstorm that had been haunting them since morning had killed a few of the sick and elderly, and he grimly thought that a handful more would fall victim to the merciless cold before they stopped for the night.
He looked over his shoulder at the villagers, struggling against the gusting winds, huddled in their pitiful rags. Arthur was riding beside the cart which held the two survivors of the torture chamber, talking with the girl. She was a Woad, Tristan knew it. He saw the tattoos on her arm, before she hastily covered them up. He decided not to expose her identity. If Arthur was determined to save her, so be it. It would simple make the matter more complicated if the other men intervene, which they would, if they knew that she was one of their enemy's people.
He looked up at the sky, which was a piece of grey. It suggested no clue to what time it was, but Tristan knew that darkness would fall in a few hours, and they must find somewhere to shield themselves from an even harsher night, if they intended to save the villagers.
The scout nudged his horse and wheeled him around, headed for Arthur, who was still by the cart, his face set in a scowl. The girl was conversing with him heatedly, and Dagonet, driving the cart, kept his eyes on the road ahead.
Arthur looked away from the Woad as Tristan came near, and kicked his horse forward to meet him.
"What is it?" he asked, a hint of anger in his voice.
"We must move faster if we are to find shelter tonight," said Tristan quietly.
Arthur lifted his head and swept his gaze across the bundle of villagers trudging laboriously in the knee-deep snow. He sighed heavily.
"Where is the nearest shelter?" he asked.
"We need to go up another hill, steeper than what we encountered yesterday, about an hour from where we are now. There is a small cluster of trees at the top, we can take shelter there," answered Tristan.
"Where we camped on our journey here?" asked Arthur.
Tristan nodded, and waited for an answer. Taking another glance at the villagers, Arthur said, "Tell the villagers to go faster."
Tristan gave a curt nod and spurred his mount to a canter, passing the message to Gawain, who was riding on his own near the cart.
"These people need to rest, not going faster," argued Gawain.
Tristan replied in a flat voice, "Those are my orders. And they will freeze to death if they don't move."
Gawain frowned, then urged his horse into a canter, shouting at the villagers as he went. Tristan followed and spotted Ganis, the boy who had volunteered to gather the peasants together at the fort.
"When do we rest?" he asked, his voice cracked and trembling with cold.
"When we reach the woods," replied Tristan.
"How far away are we?"
"Five hours."
Ganis stared at him, then said in despair, "Then we'll never make it."
Tristan looked at the hunched backs of the peasants and shook his head, talking mostly to himself, "I never said they would."
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Abigail stopped when she felt something under her feet, and knelt down, digging into the snow. She stopped abruptly when a stone, white face stared up at her lifelessly.
It was the sixth body they had came across that night, and she knew that they were many more buried in the suffocating snow.
"They can't be too far away," commented Cynric, comfortably astride his "battle" horse.
"No, only six hours at most, not to mention that fact that they might have made camp," agreed Abigail, remounting her horse.
"Then let's close the distance," said Cynric authoritatively, kicking his horse hard and the creature jerked forward, causing the Saxon to bump rather unceremoniously for a few moments before he regained his balance.
Abigail inwardly laughed at him. He knew nothing about horses, swords or battles. He stood by his father's side like a dog at its master's feet, trying to look and sound commanding, when everyone knew he was weak and did not bear one bit of respect for him. She wondered if he even had the wits to know that.
"Forward! Forward!" shouted Cynric's bodyguards, who rode in a protective formation about him.
The two hundred Saxons of Cynric's light infantry marched forward in tight rows, their heads bowed down to avoid the whipping winds. Abigail gave her horse a gentle nudge, and he obediently trotted forward. She had grown fond of the bay, and she patted him on the neck. She knew that he was tired, but they had no choice. They had to keep moving if they wanted to catch up with the Romans.
They, she thought bitterly. Not her.
She did not give a damn whether they caught the Roman family or not, but she still had to do her job, if she wanted to live.
She sighed loudly, but was silenced by the fierce winds. She pulled her cloak closer to her, and hid her hands in the relative warmth of the fabric's shelter. Her hands were freezing numb, and she had to look at her hands now and then to confirm that they were still there.
After a vain attempt to rub heat into her icy hands, she closed her eyes and tried to get some rest- if it were even possible- while they battled their way through the raging snowstorm.
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The blizzard had eventually died down, and the first glow of light found its way through a thick layer of clouds, which promised another bleak day.
Abigail walked in the protection of trees, leading her horse behind her. Silently. Or as silently as a person who had not had proper rest for five days could.
She was ordered to scout ahead, while the infantry took a brief rest. She knew that they were just on their tail now, and the Romans would be overrun by the end of the day.
Tired as she was, her ears picked up a distant thudding. She hid her horse behind a large tree, then, with some difficulty, climbed up the tree. She stopped at a broad branch which could easily hold her light weight, and laid on her stomach, her eyes on the road.
As she expected, the dark Sarmatian scout appeared on his horse. She smiled grimly as he approached, and carefully unlatched her bow from her back, and felt for the feathery end of an arrow. Notching it, she pulled the bowstring back, aiming for the scout, who was obviously unaware of her presence.
Just as she was about to unleash her arrow, there was an earsplitting battle cry, and four Saxons rushed into the scene. The scout dodged an arrow sent flying by a crossbow, and leapt off his horse, notching his bow in a matter of seconds and killed one of his enemies.
Finishing off another in a blink, he unsheathed his sword and flung his bow on the snow, calmly waiting for the remaining Saxons to run toward him.
"Fools," thought Abigail darkly yet triumphantly as she watched the Sarmatian evenly slashed a Saxon dead and behead the other in minutes.
The man turned around in a circle, holding his sword warily in front of him, looking for any hidden enemies. Taking advantage of the situation, Abigail raised her bow again, aimed it at the scout, and without hesitation, let loose the arrow.
Sensing the attack, the Sarmatian dropped to the ground just in time as the arrow whizzed past his ear and landed harmlessly in the snow. He whipped around and immediately spotted Abigail, who abandoned her bow and jumped off the tree, her legs nearly collapsing when she hit the deep snow.
Unsheathing her sword, she stood face to face with the Sarmatian. Wordlessly, they circled each other, keeping a safe distance between them. Then, suddenly, he lashed out at her. She managed to block his stroke, but it was so powerful that it nearly threw her off balance. She quickly recovered her stand, but she could only hold on to her sword as he repeatedly sliced his saber at her.
He was too fast for her. She was pushed back further and further, her hands becoming numb from gripping the hilt of her sword so tightly, and her arms ached from the force he exerted on her blade. Her head became heavy with the steely clangs echoing in the cold air and her eyes blurry from fatigue.
A piercing pain seared her upper right arm, and she cried out loud in anguish, dropping to her knees. The Sarmatian immediately knocked the sword from her hand and held the tip of his at her neck, forcing her to look into his eyes.
"Who are you?" he asked in a dangerously low voice.
She glared at him, breathing heavily, and felt blood seep out of her wound. He stared back steadily, his gaze unwavering.
"Who are you?" he asked again with an edge of impatience.
Gathering the last of her strength, Abigail kicked him in the shin as hard as she could, causing him to fall backwards. Quickly, she scrambled up on her feet and launched herself at him, ready to strangle him.
But he was much, much stronger than her, and in no time, he had her pinned under him, her hands held down at her sides. Her hair was sprawled across her face, and her wound throbbed painfully. She gasped for breath, and he was also panting, his face close to hers.
She could see his dark eyes clearly now, fierce but collected, boring into her own blue eyes. Strangely, she found it hard to turn her stare away from him, and she continued to look into his eyes, until she saw the reflection of her face in them- messy, out of breath, and scared.
"Who. Are. You," he said in nearly a whisper, his breathing now returned to normal.
Once again, defiance welled in her heart. With a growl, she hurled her face into his, breaking his nose- and patience.
She yelped in pain as he roughly twisted her injured arm behind her back after flipping her over, and laid on top of her, her limbs helplessly trapped under his. She struggled, but stopped short as he tugged her arm brutally.
"Who are you!" he growled into her ear ferociously, his heated breath on her face, and a drop of blood from his broken nose trickling onto the back of her neck.
She twisted her neck as far as she could, so that she was glaring at him. Through gritted teeth, she spat out her answer with equal ferociousness as well as indignity, "A traitor."
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Hi! I've finally updated! Sorry for my delay, for those who don't know, I've been nominated as a candidate to run for my school's council, and I've been incredibly busy. I just delivered my campaign speech today, it went okay. I'll know if I've made it or not on Monday, after everyone's cast their votes. Wish me luck!
Well, I'm sure it's very obvious it's going to be a TristanOC now (see teaser thing), I hope you all Tristan lovers out there will be happy about this lol.
Thank you so much for another seven reviews! It's so sweet of you all, it really spurs me on :)
Mysticpig: Actually, south is the easier way since they don't have to go through the mountains if they went that way. But the Saxons are cutting off their retreat there, so they have to go into the east. I hope you're not confused anymore ;) Thanks for reviewing!
Kasora: Haha! Miss Shakespeare! Aww, thank you for the sweet compliments! Yes! An anti-Saxons Club is a brilliant idea. I hates the tricksy Saxonses! Lol. I was on summer vacation in July and August, because it's summer in Hong Kong. We have different holidays from schools in Australia. Did I tell you that I once lived in Sydney for two years? It was like -gasps- ten years ago, but still, I lived there xD
KnigthMaiden: Yes, yes, I know you are very much in love with him! xD And yes, a TristanOC. I hope you're happy :D
BillieJoe is effin sexy0: Aww, thank you so much! Hehe, it's really lucky that I made the blunder, or else they'll be back at the Wall too soon and they'll have to leave soon which means less time for Tristan… ahem. No, no sneak peeks. Sorry xD Aww, poor thing! I hope you'll be un-grounded soon xDD
Lozcollie: Thank you! This chapter is the longest of the four, I think, I hope you liked it :D
Nilmelwen: Yeah, I want to write something that is more "serious" instead of tons of fun like my other stories. I'm glad you think it's a good thing! I know, I scared the heck out of myself writing the first chapter -shudders- -bounces around the room as well- I hope you liked this chapter :D
Andysprettylady: Lol, I have granted your wish, though she's not really escaping xD Thanks for reviewing!
And thanks to those who put this story on your favourites! I adore you! I'll update soon, I promise :D
