"The Legend of the Black Armor"
Chap. 04: The Lords of Iron and the Iron Maiden.
Thirty-eight years before…
Dodging the blade that was meant for his throat, the adolescent rolled over the mattress until one of the bed's sides ended abruptly, making him drop painfully to the ground.
After that, a succession of blows in the dark that always aimed for him forced the young man to roll over the cold stony floor until he managed to get on his two feet and manhandle his attacker with his sole strength.
They struggled a bit until the blade on the other's hand dropped to the floor, and he took advantage of it by submitting his attacker by brute force again until the two were on the floor where, with a knee over the other's chest to keep him pinned, the adolescent reached for the fallen sword and used it as a knife, stabbing sloppily the struggling enemy below him again, again and again until he felt that no more resistance came from the limp form.
After a few ragged breaths, silence came and the young man felt increasingly aware of the sticky sensation that stained his fingers and his bed clothes. An invasive smell of liquid oxide filled his nostrils as well as liquid warmth spreaded downwards his face. He wasn't that kind of emotional teenager who resorted to cry easily… but never before death had been a so close call 'till now. Even a grown man would spill some tears after his first encounter with death itself.
Trembling, he got up slowly before clutching the weapon close to him while he went to his bedside candle and ignited it.
He didn't want to look at it, he really didn't… but there was so much blood… and he also wanted to confirm a dread suspicion he had as of late.
The frozen, dead visage of his attacker wasn't the one he had feared to find, but rather one of the castle soldiers. Not an ordinary cutthroat sent by one of their many enemies from the other Clans.
One of his own men had come in his sleep to assassinate him.
And he knew what that meant before even vocalizing it.
"Radcliff…" - he hissed, conscious of his brother's presence much earlier than the other had come out from the shadows.
"What is it, brother?" – Radcliff said with a light, conversational tone, as if nothing had just happened at all; his huge, monstrous silhouette sliding strangely gracefully as he slowly circled him like a vulture circles the prey – "Something of the matter? Stranger encounters in the middle of the night had happened within this castle's walls before; surely a lad as trained as yourself can manage a few unexpected visits as I see you have done a few moments ago." - then his tone went darker, sinister – "Father taught you well, to never trust even… YOUR OWN SHADOW!" – he yelled before charging against him, sword in hand, until the adolescent managed to parry his oversized brother's attack with the dull sword his hands were still clutching.
They struggled a bit until he heard Radcliff's insane laughter and his powerful frame took a step back, releasing their locked blades.
"Strong, resilient lil' shit, aren't we?" – he mocked, his cold green eyes gleaming with a crazed, murderous glint his younger brother had grown to recognize quite well, for their father had the same glint each time he came to him reeking of alcohol, cracking his knuckles in preparation of the due beating he had in storage for him since he was a child – "I do wonder… how many tries will take to actually erase you from the map. How much time you can take going without any sleep."
"You're mad!" – the teenager hissed, his sword still raised – "That's why father never wanted to entrust you with the lordship of our lands!"
Radcliff laughed maniacally, not bothered by the insult in the slightest.
"I would kill you with my bare hands, brother..." – and the last word had a hint of venom – "… But mother would never forgive me for such a thing, so this is the deal: either you stay here and endure this until exhaustion takes the worst of you, or… either you make the smart move and just disappear out of my sight… indefinitely." – and he came out of his brother's chambers the way he had come – "Consult it with the pillow… providing you can get some sleep, that's it."
His deranged cackles were something he hadn't being able to erase from his memory from that day on.
That had been the first time he had killed a human being… and it hadn't been the last.
Ten years later…
Awaking with one of the biggest splitting headaches he had experienced in the last year, the red-headed man got up from the tangled mess he had become with the sheets in his sleep and sat awhile on the side of his assigned bed during his stay on Camelot, eyeing the stony floor groggily.
He hadn't got much sleep, as usual, and the few hours he had managed to doze a bit had been plaguing by nightmares.
They say that some people don't sleep much because their dreams haunt them… but his own demons were far enough for making the Devil himself cry.
He prided himself that his older brother's first mistake had been to underestimate his worth, and his second had been overestimating his own. When the time to confront him had come, the once scared teenager had become a full-grown man hardened and desensitized by war with very little qualms about beheading his mad brother and displaying his head in a pike as a warning.
But thing is that, as much as he prided himself to be strong… the reality was very different.
Death wasn't something to take pride in. Death was something he, in his ignorance, thought he had known how it was, but he didn't. Not until he saw it, 'till he really saw it. It was something that got under one's skin and lived inside one's soul.
And the sad part was, in the end, that there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing.
Nothing would change that his innocence had been lost for longer than he actually cared to admit, nothing would change that his brother had enjoyed torturing him with his threats and mind games and nothing would change that he, instead of looking for a diplomatic outcome, had resorted to kill Radcliff just as he had wanted to kill him.
That made him no better or even different from his abusive father or his brother. That made him just the same rotten fruit coming from the same blackened branch.
And that was no consolation at all for his troubled soul. Not at all.
Snarling quietly, stubbornly not allowing a mere headache to deter him, he got up, dressed himself and, after splashing some cold water to his frowning face, he ventured out of his assigned chambers and went, sword in hand, to the courtyard where the castle's soldiers did their daily drill.
He spent his good two hours going through his routine of sword exercises until the sun started to show up in the far horizon.
After the first cry of the rooster, barely sweating, he abandoned the area before it started to get filled with people he didn't feel like talking or dealing with, so he went to the stables to check his mount. He knew he had been pushing the animal far too much even these days as an honored guest in Camelot, so he checked the creature regularly.
But as he set a foot on the stables, a soft voice accompanied by the recognizable sound of a cane testing the ground importuned him.
"Hello? Who's there?" – then the kid, the thrice-damned kid made his appearance – "May I help you?"
He felt a surge of nausea as if someone had punched him in the gut as soon as his eyes saw the poor little bastard still dealing clumsily with his surroundings, still unfamiliar with the new state of blindness that cursing accident had rendered him months ago.
It was a pitiful sight: an orphaned blind peasant boy sticking stubbornly to his apprenticeship in the stables while it was clear to everybody that the stable master only kept him because one of Arthur's knights had ordered him so.
The boy was doomed to fail, and every time the man saw him struggling with the daily chores a normal person could do three times faster than he did, he found disgusting how his comrade in arms, Sir Lionel, was just humoring the boy, planting in him dreams of glory and knighthood he would never reach.
Wasn't enough to let the kid keep his job, as useful as a blind stable boy could be, to even encourage him to pursue knighthood, a title Arthur only bestowed to capable, noble men under his service?
That was the cruelest and sickening joke a grown man could conjure, toying with a boy's dreams like that.
He passed by, not saying a word to the kid, and he was surprised when he noticed how the boy was actually following him at good pace, leaving the respectful distance all servants must observe.
When he reached his horse's square, the boy went on a halt.
"Sir Ruber, isn't it?" - the boy's voice went a little terse – "Your horse was a bit overtired yesterday, so I cleaned him and doubled his ration. I hope you find him satisfactory to your needs."
Ruber turned to the now stiff boy and gave him the look-over.
"Good enough, I suppose." – he said after a while noticing how the boy's shoulders relaxed a bit.
After that, a strange silence ensued.
"Listen, boy." – Ruber spoke first – "You've got this job, even if you are at apprenticeship stage, and you know your way around here." – he inhaled – "Not many kids in your situation are as fortunate as you are." – what was he doing, giving advice to this child that meant nothing to him, anyway? – "Keep that in mind so you can grow a full man with some dignity and bread to eat everyday instead of a beggar whose life will consist on relying on the charity of others and mourning over your crushed dreams. Be a man instead of a shadow."
The lad swallowed, changing his weight from one foot to the other.
"Sir Lionel says…" - he licked his lips, insecurity tinting his voice – "… That I can be whatever I wish to be. I just need to work harder."
Ruber's left eye twitched.
"Sir Lionel was born noble, married a noblewoman and has already noble progeny." – he hissed, accentuating words, annoyed to see how truly blind the poor little idiot was – "His background and situation has nothing to do with yours, and certainly, to this day, Arthur has never bestowed the knighthood to a peasant, less a blind one." – and looking at the mortified, sad expression woven in the boy's visage, he pressed further – "Someone had to tell you how this society is established so you won't blame yourself in the future for not achieving what was out of your reach in the first place." – feeling disgusted by seeing tears flowing silently from the child's milky eyes, he directed his steps towards the exit – "Be glad it was me and not another rich milk drinker who will not hesitate to laugh at you while he shoves your face by the mud."
Then, suddenly, the lad steeled himself.
"'United we stand…'" - he stammered – "'… now and forever in truth, divided we fall. Hand upon hand, brother to brother, no one shall be greater than all.'"
The red-headed man's blood boiled.
"The Oath is a lie, boy!" – he exclaimed, his powerful voice boomed thorough the entire facility, startling many of its equine residents – "A bunch of pretty words said to build a legend! That's how legends get so great! From an adorned lie!" – and turning to the lad again, pointing his index finger towards him, even if he cannot see it, Ruber added – "Don't you dare resort to the Oath to me, because I am well aware of how it works!" – and exiting the stables, he kept walking, not looking back even once – "Gods know that I know how it fucking works…"
But his already worsened headache didn't get any better when, after a copious breakfast, the King summoned all the now present knights of his Round Table.
Ruber utterly ignored how the dutiful knights abandoned the breakfast table to join their King at the Round Table Chamber and procured himself a bit more of crusty pumpkin bread and warm bacon until he felt satisfied. After that he simply took other route to meet his fellow knights.
In all these years, he had been present on each new repairing the old castle that had pertained years ago to the deceased Uther Pendragon had undergone, so he knew his way within its walls pretty well. He knew many shortcuts through the kitchens and the physician's laboratory to the exterior arcades that leaded directly to the main corridor in the Round Table's path.
Once he got there in time, he wasn't in the least surprised to see Lionel tagging behind Arthur like the loyal, servile dog he was. That didn't help to improve his mood.
Once inside the chamber, the due sing-along that went together with the action of sit down neither helped to improve his mood.
But the drop that filled the glass happened when they proclaimed the equality of shares between their territories and he felt all the words he had prepared to help his and his people's cause deflated under a sudden wave of indignation and anger.
They wanted to take from him what was legitimately his! How dared they?!
So, as they listed, both shields and voices raised up, the attributes a knight of the Round Table should exhibit, he couldn't stand this hypocrisy any longer.
So he spat on "compassion", one of the most important qualities in a knight, and substituted it with what he truly cared for.
"ME!" – was his proclamation, a challenge against Arthur, a clarification to his comrades, an offering to his gods… an unconscious plea for his sanity, which seemed more and more compromised as the seasons went on and his inner demons were dragging him, slow but surely, to the deep bottom end he feared more than anything in his life – "Charming sing-along." - he hissed, mildly pleased as he saw the outraged looks from the other knights throwing darts at him – "Now… I would prefer to leave unnecessary pleasantries aside and get straight to business." - he stated, feeling powerful as he feigned ignorance towards the hard feelings lingering in the spacious room – "Did I hear something about redefine the borders of our territory? How is that I was not informed of this?"
The mighty King Arthur, sat in front of him several meters ahead in the far opposite side of the Round Table, sighed and drummed his fingers over the table.
"Sir Ruber…" - he said, shaking his head from side to side – "Always thinking of thyself."
Followed by the King's words, a chorus of recriminations followed as well as Ruber's nostrils flared briefly, though he said nothing. His thoughts alone would have prompt all the present men to point their blades to his throat if he dared said them out aloud.
"When we declared our unity…" - continued Arthur with his impassive, regal voice – "… we accorded to divide the land according to each person's needs. As knights of the Round Table our obligations art to our people, not to ourselves."
Said the man whose crown was gained through violence and war.
A war Ruber had won for him.
"Haven't we served you loyally?" – the redhead spat, leaning himself over the table, accusing Arthur with his tone alone of the treason he was being object of – "Haven't I served and supported you unquestionably?"
During the war against the Saxons he had been a respectable figure, a beacon of hope to turn to. He had been the General of Arthur's armies, the only one capable enough to command men and deal with the enemy.
The only one with enough stomach to make the hard and displeasing decisions nobody wanted to dirty their hands and their consciences with.
"The King has decided!" – exclaimed then Sir Lionel, hitting over the table with his bare fist, exuding indignation and rage from each pore.
Ruber's teeth gritted angrily, but he soon noticed the number of eyes over him at that very moment, some judging him, others agreeing with his point of view but too coward to spoke it aloud.
Then the dreaded paranoia hit him. Hard.
"Perhaps a King who fails to reward his best knights shouldn't hold such a title…" - he found himself saying without really thinking about the implications of his words as they filled the room with sudden silence.
Unexpectedly, he knew by instinct that his sentiment was shared at least by half of the men present there. That gave him reassurance enough to stand his ground against Lionel, who defended Arthur loyally 'till the last consequences.
"Would you make yourself a traitor?" – asked the knight calmly, though the anger that bled from his eyes was quite eloquent.
"A traitor?" – repeated Ruber as if the notion sounded utterly ridiculous – "There would not be treason were Arthur no King." – and then, he rose from his seat, this time directing his words towards everyone, making sure each one of them listened to him, appealing for reason and not stubborn, blind obedience – "Maybe now is time for a new King to govern us and who'll gladly reward the deserving." – many interested eyes now were over him – "And I vote for me."
He had finally said it, and it felt good. It felt good to defy Arthur's authority, to question his decisions as a King, to put some sense in these meek men who acquiesced to everything he said.
Maybe this way he could make a difference. He had no delusions of being voted King by all these men, but perhaps a bit of discussion would make the difference. Perhaps this way Arthur would understand how a council made of cultivated men of honor really worked, minding each opinion by equal means, reaching some kind of agreement...
But his hopes were violently crushed as Lionel meddled once again.
"I will not serve a false King." - the knight snarled.
After those words, something inside Ruber detonated.
Something cold and dark, like the many evenings spent in the wilderness eating bad and sleeping worse with the inhuman pressure of planning the next strategic move towards the enemy and dreading the following morning as he calculated how many good men would be sacrificed in the next twenty-four hours to ensure a new victory.
"Then…" - the Red Knight started to say dangerously slow, reaching for his trusted mace under the table.
But then, before he could end his sentence, a sudden blast of bluish-green light exploded outside the Round Table Chamber and penetrated violently through the colored stained glass windows, blinding briefly all the present men.
Recovering quicker than the rest, Ruber blinked a couple of times and eyed warily the spiked mace that he still held on his right hand.
Then it hit him. The horrendous feeling that had briefly possessed his mind and his heart, tempting him to do something he knew he would lament later dearly. It hit him what he had almost done.
And he felt ill, disgusted and… afraid.
Afraid of what he was capable of.
And he cursed inwardly his tainted blood.
"Your Majesty!" - Gawain's voice exclaimed, bringing all the stunned men back to reality.
Then, a tense silence ensued.
"What was that?" - Lancelot was the first voicing the lingering question, his gentle deep timbre echoing softly thorough the chamber.
After that, many voices rose with the same question on their tongues.
"An unnatural light!" - exclaimed one.
"What could have been the cause?"
"Hold on, I don't like this…"
"Neither do I."
Then, before anybody could collect their thoughts, Ruber's booming voice filled the whole structure.
"Those were arcane energies." - he said, circling slowly the Round Table, his mace still in his hand, to stop before the very Arthur – "No doubt."
Recovering his regal composure and dignified aloofness, Arthur eyed warily first the spiky weapon, then the man who hold it.
"Art thou really sure about what art thou saying, Ruber?" - he spoke after calibrate the huge man's body language and finding, relived, not a trace of his previous hostility – "Truly, it is magic what we art speaking about?"
Ruber eyed him with a calculating, reptilian gaze.
"I am sure." - he said – "I give shelter to enough magic practitioners to know."
A general gasp escaped from many lips, as well as a low murmur rumbled almost instantaneously between the knights.
But Ruber seemed unfazed as he addressed them with an indifferent tone deep inside charged with enough venom to kill a snake.
"What?" - he said – "Now you're going to deny that you are the very ones who chase those people away from their homes and send them to me?" - he gave them a whizzed, mirthless chuckle – "What do you take me for? Stupid?" - his pale green eyes hardened – "How convenient is to pretend that those people aren't entirely human, right? To feign that they are like wild, dangerous beasts without conscience so you can say that they don't have the same rights as the meek, ignorant peasants that work your lands, eh?"
"Enough, Sir Ruber." - Arthur sent him a warning glance as he took Excalibur from the back of his chair, the legendary sword still inside its sheath to sign his peaceful approach to the evident wronged knight. After all, highlander or not, Ruber was still part of the Round Table – "As knights of the Round Table, as I previously stated, our obligations art to our people. And our people need us now that the supernatural have crossed the walls of Camelot."
The very expected chorus of agreement ensued as Ruber's eyes rolled dramatically. Bootlickers 'till the end, the bastards.
"Lancelot." - Arthur called his trusted second-in-command, being Lionel himself the immediate step next after him – "Take half of our Brothers with thou, search for any clues that would lead thee to the origin of these energies and bring the culprit to me." - blue eyes darkened before adding – "No man, nor sorcerer would take lightly the justice in Camelot."
"I beg to dissent!"
As those words were spoken, Ruber's long muscled legs stepped in again, regarding Arthur with a stony look.
"The magic practitioners are mine, and only mine to judge and to deal with." - he said, defiance plastered all over his face – "My subjects, my laws."
"Who named you defender of the witches' cause?!" - exclaimed Uryens, an unspoken declared detractor of Ruber's manners, methods and everything in general regarding the redhead since their first meeting eight years ago, one as a humbled King at the service of other greater than him, the other as a rogue runaway noble covered from head to toe in Saxon blood – "Who are you to question our laws? Laws approved by majority and for very good reasons!" - to emphasize his words, he pointed an armored index finger towards the bulky man – "You surely remember, better than anyone present in this chamber, what happened four years ago when that crazy hag, the so-called Madame Ming or Ganieda, went out of the cursed Forbidden Forest and almost chopped half of our men with her damnable Vile Arts!"
Ruber pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. He remembered well the crazy old woman and her shapeshift tricks which ended with him trying to contain different kinds of very pissed, oversized, and lethal creatures said witch, for hours, had been morphing herself into at the very gates of Camelot while his men, cowardly crouched behind not-so-safe stone walls, had crossed themselves praying for Merlin's apparition.
The blasted old druid had taken his sweet time before materializing himself in front of the hag, challenging her to a magic duel and, subsequently, wiping the floor with her ass and exiling her to Avalon for good.
The old man, despite being so damn bony and (apparently) physically fragile, could be truly frightening when he wanted to.
But not all the magic practitioners were like those two. The majority of them were only gifted people who were well-versed in herbs and medicine in general. They were a threat to nobody, but a truly blessing when it came to plagues, seasonal diseases and births.
They were useful, wise people who deserved more respect than what they got these days.
But Ruber didn't get any chance to expose this reasoning as Arthur had made a terminating gesture with his hand.
"We will discuss this later." - he had sentenced – "We will split in two, the first group, as I was saying…" - he pinned Ruber with his eyes, clearly addressing his current non-proceeding behavior – "… will be lead by Lancelot to address the situation inside the castle." - turning to the knight in question, he added – "The Queen is the priority. Do not let any harm come to her. Understand, Lancelot?"
The alluded bowed his head tersely before taking his leave silently followed by those who preferred to search the castle instead of doing the hard, dirty work the remnants would surely have to do instead.
"The second, with Lionel and me…" - the King continued speaking stoically – "… will be addressing the exterior courtyard while he soldiers from the castle would cover the rest…"
But even before he had finished his orders, he knew that Ruber was gone.
Arthur sighed. That man… that man and his sudden mood swings, his insulting honesty and his raw defiance one day would become more than his patience was willing to take.
And that day, he lamented, would be the shattering of an allegiance he felt proud of.
For the Scottish had been, by means of Ruber's pledged loyalty, the only ones among Jutes, Angles and the ferocious Saxons who had forged an alliance with Arthur on the country's behalf.
Losing Ruber would mean that Britons would be alone. Again.
And he would become something he utterly dreaded: his own father, Uther Pendragon, the so-called Betrayer King.
After a while jumping inside and out of a precarious balance between consciousness and the intangible world of dreams, Medraut awoke after being shaken for a while by two little hands while a soft, infantile voice found her heart amidst the deep sea of her own mind.
"Wake up!" - it exclaimed - "Wake up before they come!"
Wrinkling her freckled nose a bit and frowning deeply, the girl opened her eyes and, after a few seconds letting her sigh get clearer, she almost tackled the little boy whose worried, scared face was above her own.
"Kid!" – she gasped hoarsely, touching his bony wrists and shoulders, his rounded face and his wild blonde hair as if making sure that he was real – "You okay?! Are you hurt?!"
The boy's big blue eyes were watery, scared… but also relieved to see her alive. He had feared for a second that she would be nothing but a corpse lying by his side the very moment he had woken up on that new strange, unknown place.
So he bit his lower lip and shook his head from side to side vehemently.
Medraut's tense shoulders relaxed a bit and, after taking notice of their surroundings, she hurried herself to get up, putting immediately her black cloak's hood over her face since she couldn't find her helmet.
The griffin and the others were nowhere to be seen and the slight muffled ache she felt on the back of her cranium and column informed the redhead that they had landed instead of being teleported as she had hoped. This place still was not Avalon, nor the limbic gray Land of Nowhere, but unknown and a bit frightening still even with the sun over their heads.
"Stick with me." – she instructed in a voice so low that Loholt had to pay extra attention to fully understand what she was saying – "I don't know where we are, but the moment people start recognizing this armor, we are royally screwed." – she added while closing tightly her dark cape around her fibered frame – "Come." – she instructed, pointing with her green eyes the cape – "Keep close to me and hide your witchy charms and amulets." – and when she felt the little guy getting under her torn cape and taking her armored hand, she smiled briefly – "Good boy. Now let's walk. This place has to have an exit."
They had been lucky their landing place had been a solitary, shadowy corner just beneath the battlements of, if Medraut's recalling in architecture lessons was any good, a very huge fortress. Fortunately, they weren't in a classic bailey zone, otherwise many of the resident soldiers, servants and even peasants would have spotted them quite easily. They seemed to be in a rather narrow space between the said bailey and the exterior. A double rampart.
"Crappity crap." – the red-haired girl hissed – "We've got somehow inside of one of those monstrous fortresses with outer ward zone." – and sticking to the outer wall, she took note of the many watch towers and the quick metallic steps followed by nervous talk that filled the battlements from side to side at that very moment – "They know we're here, kiddo. You know how these 'Briton nobility' guys feel about sorcery and stuff, so you make yourself as inconspicuous as you can and I…" - she trailed off, licking her lips – "… Should any harm comes to us, I will act as a shield while you run and hide, 'kay?" – but as soon as she felt Loholt's thin arms circling her armored waist tightly as if saying he was not willing to let her go, she sighed – "No hero shit, you're the important one here. Understood?" – but sensing his hesitance, she pressed with a firmer tone – "Understood, boy?"
Under her cloak, Loholt shut his eyes tightly and nodded in silence.
Medraut allowed herself a brief moment of weakness and pressed the child's tiny form to her. This kid felt just as alone as she had felt a good part of her life, without parents to love and protect you, living in the middle of a hostile environment and learning real quick how to make your best with the scarce resources at your disposition.
She had learned how to swing a sword at eight, and this boy probably had learned how to use his powers since he could remember.
She knew him even less than she had known Lucius, and he was her enemy's son, but… somehow, she felt that protecting him was right, that to reciprocate his sweet kindness, the kindness of one so innocent and pure as a child could be, was not just a mere inner voice guiding her towards the right thing to do but… more like a duty, her duty.
And her duty said that she would protect this child 'till the last consequences.
No matter the cost.
So, valiant and proud on her heels, Medraut of the High Lands advanced silently with the many gifts the Black Armor provided to her, making herself one with shadow, soon becoming mantled with one of the basic protection spells her little companion summoned to avoid being taken by surprise.
But by surprise they were taken nonetheless when the cold hiss of a sword abandoning the cave of its sheath reverberated a few inches from the girl's back.
Soon, a monstrous serrated sword found hers in midair and both steels met amidst a rain of sparks like a thunder roaring before the real storm.
Under her big black hood, Medraut gasped as soon as she caught sight of her attacker.
If young Bors had looked like a mastodon to her, this one was the closest thing she had ever seen to a human mountain: widely surpassing seven foot tall; with trained, hiper-developed muscle mass even in the very brows that crowned the coldest eyes she had ever seen in a man, Medraut started to feel the inhuman pressure of his sword against hers, gaining ground each second he forced her blade downwards freehand with his sole strength.
On the very moment she felt her fingers and wrist ache, making her pulse slightly trembling, she knew she couldn't win this battle using her enhanced strength.
So, she maneuvered backwards, interposing her body between her opponent and little Loholt, and made an attempt to disarm him.
But he was stronger and certainly quicker in thought than she had initially predicted, for he evaded the maneuver quite easily while he gave her a short, raspy laugh.
"Nice trick." – he commented, his voice harsh but not unpleasant, thickly accented as he rolled some consonants in a way that felt oddly familiar – "But not one you should put on a foe twice as big and stronger than you."
After that, Medraut deflected the first and second blows… but the third she found herself gasping for a second time when her foe's blade attempted to pierce her shoulder's juncture as soon as she missed a strike.
It wasn't like his blade could harm her armor or the flesh beneath it in any way… but she now realized how vulnerable and exposed she was without her helmet. One well-directed blow with just the right amount of strength and her pretty head would roll over the ground like a soccer ball.
So, she started to sweat under her armor. Hard.
Her opponent was relentless, delivering blow after blow with an impossible speed given his monstrous physical breadth, parrying and deflecting again and again her attacks with a terrifying ease. No matter how strong, smart or quick she was, he always predicted her moves, making her sweat profusely under her armor as the minutes passed and more blows were exchanged.
Medraut's eyes were so preoccupied with her foe's sword than she wasn't really looking at his expressions to count with some vantage over his moves, for his height was so great that the angle her head would have to turn upwards to see him would have given away her precarious cover.
The small boy Loholt, since the duel's start, had run towards a shadowy corner and was observing petrified and utterly terrified how that titan was openly playing with his friend, tiring her like a cat tires the mouse before delivering the killing move.
And he, even frightened as he was, wasn't going to allow that man to harm his only friend in this world.
So, as he saw Medraut falter the briefest of the moments, he also saw the murdering gleam reflected on the other's eyes as the man rose his menacing weapon, ready to strike for good… and, against his best judgment, Loholt clapped both of his hands and, intertwining this gesture with ancient arcane words that spoke of a more ancient, magical world that each year was more and more obscured by Christianity, send an ethereal wave of bluish light that blinded the giant momentarily, giving Medraut the opportunity she needed to disarm him.
And she took that opportunity avidly.
However, as the serrated blade hit the ground, the girl saw, horrified, how her opponent had taken her sword by the blade, bare-handed, and had stopped her blow in midair.
As Medraut's incredulous eyes went from the tip of her sword, now pearled with blood that leak drop by drop soundly to the ground, to the arrogant smile the man wore at that moment… she finally took in his face completely as a whole and not separated, short-lived details in her brain; truly looking at the man in front of her.
With a strong, wide gullet supporting a stronger, proud and slightly inverted jaw, pale as snow, with thin, cruel lips full of sharp white teeth twisted in an unsettling smile, his face made something inside her stomach twist as her eyes went upwards, taking in all an unknown visage that made her very soul jump up her throat.
He had a thin nose with a pronounced bridge and flaring nostrils that ended upwards in a permanently frowned brow that crowned bloodshot, fiery… yet strongly familiar eyes.
Eyes as she, now in the aftermath of the battle, noticed that they were brightly green and reptilian as her own.
But it cannot be… he was dead. Dead long before she was even born.
But then she remembered what she had seen before losing consciousness. The man and the stone. The trap and the unyielding soul. The sword and the searing pain weaving arcane paths up the circulatory system.
This man… even as much as her rational inner self said otherwise, this man truly was…
He was… him. The one she had wished she had known, the one whose's hand she had never touched, the one whose voice she had never heard… the one she had wish she could have loved.
Wasn't he?
It had to be; her green eyes, her own bright red hair, her paleness and her northern features were boldly present all over him; no matter from which angle she wanted to look at it, his entire being screamed of familiarity, of kin, of flesh and blood.
She was in front of what her heart had wanted most since she could remember. Alive, tangible, breathing… talking…
Could she be dreaming after all?
"Game's over, pal." – he said after what seemed like an Eternity to the still dazed girl – "Now, gimme the butter knife you're using as a weapon and come with me, nice and easy. No need for a broken wrist or a bruised jaw, eh?" – he added perversely, clearly enjoying himself – "Let's all keep our heads, shall we?"
Medraut's eyes squinted. That was… a joke? Really?
She recalled her mother saying something about a very… peculiar sense of humor of his, but never young Medraut had thought it could have played this way under this kind of circumstances. When she had thought about how he could have been, she always tended to visualize him as a strong, reliable, opinionated and bold man… but not this human mountain with unsettling eyes and weird sense of humor.
This wasn't what she had expected.
But he hadn't done with talking just yet.
"You better tell your druid friend to stay still and no funny tricks." – he said with a tone she didn't like in the slightest – "For these gentlemen are less understanding than me when it comes to the Old Ways."
Feeling a chilling sweat rolling down her spine under her armor, Medraut turned her head around to see little Loholt surrounded by at least a dozen armed men restraining him like they would do to a full-grown adult and not the thin child he was. And many of their blades were pointing at his neck.
Her eyes found his, whose had turned from bright blue to dull gray as if misted while an ashamed look of deep self-blaming pleaded silently for her forgiveness.
For he had failed her, and because of that, both were trapped.
He had failed her trying to protect her.
Then, as if trying to persuade her to drop her weapon, one of the blades that were against Loholt's throat went a bit closer and drew a thin line on the tender flesh that started to bleed.
At the sight of his blood, her eyes flashed in anger and the arcane energies woven in the Black Armor penetrated her circulatory system giving her enough reflexes and speed to take one of her many hidden knifes and, with a deafening cry upon her lips, violently throwing it to the offending hand that wielded the offending blade.
The man dropped instantaneously his weapon while clutching his wounded hand and screamed in pain.
But no-one dared to avenge their comrade as they looked, petrified, to what was in front of their very eyes.
For the black knight's dark hood had dropped with the movement and a wild long mane of red fiery curly hair rippled freely in the wind.
And under such a lustrous, leonine mane was the face of a girl, not even a woman yet, whose strong northern features faced them with the scariest, righteous ire they had ever seen in a human being.
But what was most frightening of all were her eyes, venomous and cold as a drake's and filled with the green glow of the arcane.
Everybody held their respective breaths as her thin, bloodless lips opened as she spoke.
And her voice was terribly inhuman.
"Touch one single hair of his head again, and I will slit one by one all of your throats and present your heads to my Gods as an offering."
Many gasps of incredulous, frightened hearts filled the short space between them and this unholy female creature clad in black iron.
For there was nothing more terrifying to the Iron Lords of the Round Table than an ungodly, dark Iron Maiden mantled in the ancient powers they feared most.
But one of those scared men, the bravest, dashing of all, dark curly hair and beautiful blue eyes set in a face full of determination and holy devotion raised his voice in the name of his King.
For Lancelot of the Lake had never been a man of casting his eyes down in the face of the unholy.
"Who are you?" – he simply asked, holding her glowing gaze.
And then, her pale lips formed a sardonic smile that reminded Lancelot of someone else he knew.
Someone else who had said nothing since the girl had spoken. Someone else who was looking at her with a strange mixture of shock and recognizement painted all along his features.
Someone else whose hand was still bleeding from the blade she wielded.
Someone else Lancelot dreaded with all his might.
"You may call me… Mordred." – she answered, whispers from the inner darkness of the Armor seizing her tongue, her voice… her mind – "The one who seeks the One Truth." – but a rebellious wild beast she was, for she managed to reign once more over her mind, taking the venomous green glow from her eyes and leaving her sole steely gaze, planting face to these men and their unjust society, her voice powerfully infused with strength and beauty – "Protector of the blood of the Dragons and their righteous Head." – she added, giving to the small child an intense look of courage, of unwavering friendship… of devoting loyalty – "Cut the Dragon's Head, and its fire will engulf you all."
A/N: here I am again! Sorry it took so long to update, but I've got a new job and I'm still learning and adapting to my new timetables.
So... do you like it? This is meant as a "What if...?" kind of story, as you can see. Because, given different circumstances, the story could have played very differently, right? I know it's a bit confusing mixing two different generations from two very different Timelines, but everything will unravel at its due time. Meanwhile, I am sure I will need more chapters than I initially planned (as usual), so we will see more of the beloved QfC characters.
Now, I bid you farewell. I hope to finish the next chapter sooner than this one took. Cheers!
PD: yep, I took shamelessly Madame Ming from Disney's "Merlin" and made her Ganieda, another witch lady from Arthurian Myths who was also Merlin's sister.