A/N: whew, this is a wicked long chapter! I hope you enjoy it! This chapter is the first reason why this fic is going to be rated T; it's going to be more violent and gory than Meeting and Reunion. Anyways, I'd love to hear what you think! Thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: see ch. 1
.*.*.*.*.*.
Cymbeline groaned and dropped down on a bench beside Kei.
"Training is going that well?" the redhead teased, toying with his cup of wine.
"It's absolutely fantastic," Cymbeline grumbled. She sighed and leaned back against the wall. "They're good kids, and they're picking things up well and quickly, it's just exhausting trying to keep all six of them in hand."
"You're telling me," Kei teased.
Cymbeline glared at him, and Kei chuckled into his wine. "How are Bran, Daniel, and Dag doing in the field with you?"
"Well enough," Kei shrugged. "It's good to have more hands out there. And Bran's a great scout."
"That must come in handy, dealing with Woads hiding in the forest," Cymbeline nodded.
Kei grunted the affirmative. "Even though they're good fighters and quick learners, we could use our best scrapper out there."
Cymbeline sighed. "I'm sorry," she replied. "But I can't risk that. I can't risk leaving my children without parents."
Kei rolled his eyes. "You doubt your own skill?"
"One should never put too much stock in oneself," Cymbleine replied.
.*.*.*.*.*.
A month after Ysbadaddon's messenger brought Merlin's head to the fort, word reached the knights that the Woads had taken Camellaird, realizing their worst fears.
"We cannot ignore this," Guinevere looked around the table at the knights.
Cymbeline shifted in her seat. "What do you want to do? Camellaird is far to the north; too far for us to lead an attack. That would leave the fort exposed, which is almost definitely what Ysbadaddon and Morgana want."
"But we cannot let them think that they can get away with this," Culhwch added. "They've conquered the entire northern half of the island, and we haven't done anything. Not only was Leodegrance the final oppose to Ysbadaddon and Morgana's rule, he is the father of our queen."
"I agree," Bedivere said. "Leodegrance is a symbol. If Ysbadaddon and Morgana kill him, there will be no chance of us rallying support against them. If Leodegrance is killed, it would show the queen—and the rest of us—to be weak, and the citizens of Albion will lose faith, and they will not side with us against Ysbadaddon and Morgana if they have no faith in us."
"Then what do you recommend?" Guinevere was clearly frustrated. "You say that it is impossible to attack Camellaird, but also that we must do something."
"We could send a small group," Cymbeline suggested. "Maybe three or four. Half of them go to hold negotiations with Ysbadaddon and Morgana, the others sneak in and work to free Leodegrance and his family."
Guinevere hesitated. "Three or four knights? There are only eight of you. Twelve, if you count the young ones Cymbeline is training. Four is a significant part of that number."
"I could increase the patrols and watch shifts of my men," Ganis suggested. "The knights would only be gone for a few days; we could manage to cover for them."
Guinevere looked around the table. "Who would we even send? I could not ask this of any of you; it is too dangerous."
Bedivere shook his head. "Ysbadaddon has honor. He would not kill or harm anyone who came to negotiate a truce." He paused. "Although he would probably kill us if he caught us trying to free Leodegrance."
"Beds has a point," Cymbeline nodded. "The negotiators would be safe. The others not so much, but only if they got caught."
"But would it be worth it?" Guinevere asked. "I love my father, and my sister, and I want to save them, but would it really be worth risking the lives of three of you?"
"I think it would," Bedivere replied. "Like I said, Leodegrance is a symbol. A symbol of hope for his people, that Ysbadaddon can actually be opposed. And he would be the first person to survive Ysbadaddon's imprisonment without turning to his side. I think he would bring hope and faith to the people of Britain."
Cymbeline nodded in agreement, as did many of the other knights.
"And who would go?" Guinevere challenged. "I cannot ask this of any of you."
Bedivere caught Cymbeline's eye from across the table. She groaned inwardly and rubbed her forehead. "We'll go," Bedivere said. "Me and Cymbeline."
"I'll go as well," Branwyr piped up. "I'm the best scout here; I can sneak into the prison while Cymbeline and Bedivere negotiate with Ysbadaddon and Morgana."
.*.*.*.*.*.
"Are we sure this was a good idea?" Cymbeline asked, glancing over her shoulder at the receding line of the great wall.
"Not entirely," Bedivere replied. He rode beside Cymbeline, while Branwyr road behind, her younger brother Tristan seated behind her on the horse. Tristan was barely eleven years old, only a few months older than Bedivere's brother Lucan, but they had decided to bring him along to aide Branwyr in her subterfuge. Cymbeline knew if either of the young pair didn't return with her that Vanora would definitely kill her.
"They'll be alright," Bedivere said suddenly.
"Tris and Bran?" Cymbeline asked. "Sure. They're good kids."
"No," Bedivere shook his head. "Well, yes, but I meant your children. They'll be fine. Vanora will take good care of them."
"I know," Cymbeline nodded. "They'll be fine."
"And so will we," Bedivere added.
"And so will we," Cymbeline echoed.
They rode in silence for a while, Bedivere and Cymbeline side by side with Branwyr and Tristan behind them. Camellaird was nearly a week's travel from the great wall, a journey which none of them was looking forward to. The constant threat of Woad ambush was also very present in their minds, setting them all on edge. Tristan had only been training under Cymbeline for about a year, and this was his first trip outside the walls. He clung tightly to Branwyr, watching the forest around them nervously. His vigilance would serve him well, if the past few months dealing with Woad ambushes were any indication of what their journey might entail.
Every morning, the four would rise with the sun and clean up their camp. Tristan rode behind each of them in turns; a day each with Branwyr, Cymbeline, and Bedivere. It was on the third day that they encountered trouble for the first time. The only indication that they were no longer alone was the slightest of rustling in the bushes. Branwyr's hand was halfway to her bow when the first Woad leapt screaming from the trees to her left.
Bedivere's horse reared, neighing wildly as it was swarmed by Woads; he grabbed the pommel of his saddle with one hand and Tristan's arm with the other, narrowly managing to stay seated. As soon as the horse landed back on its front legs, Bedivere's hand was on his sword. It slid smoothly from its sheath, flashing in the meager winter sunlight that peeped through the bare branches of overhead trees. Bedivere slid off the horse's back, swinging his sword towards a Woad charging him from the brush. "Tristan, ride ahead!" he called over his shoulder, catching a wild swing of an axe on his sword.
The boy slid forward into the saddle, kicking the horse's sides so that it shot forward. He didn't go far; as soon as he was out of immediate reach of the Woads on the road, he halted the horse, pulled out his bow, and sent an arrow flying at a warrior bursting out of the brush. It hit its mark in the man's neck, and he fell, gurgling and clutching at the arrow; he was dead before he hit the ground.
Cymbeline was pulled from her horse by blue hands, and went down kicking and screaming. A tiny knife appeared in her hand and it found its home in the eye of one of her attacker's. Another stumbled backwards as her boot slammed into his neck, and a third received a knee to the solar plexus. Cymbeline landed hard on her back on the ground and rolled away from the prancing hooves of her horse. As soon as she was on her feet, a long knife—shining silver with a hilt made of bone and bound with a thin strip of gold—appeared in her right hand. She made eye contact with a brawny, blue-painted warrior and growled at him, spinning the knife expertly in her hand, her eyes never leaving his. This clearly unnerved him and he blinked in surprise. In that split second, Cymbeline launched herself at him, her knife finding home hilt-deep in his chest. He died instantly, eyes open wide with shock.
Branwyr fired off several arrows, each finding its mark in a Woad, before she too was dragged from herself. She dealt her attacker a stinging blow in the face with her bow, then ducked a swing from a crude sword. She kicked the woman wielding the weapon in the face, breaking her nose, and followed up with a blow from the end of her bow. The strikes sent the woman staggering backwards, straight into Bedivere's sword. Branwyr turned her attention back to her first opponent, drawing a long knife with her left hand. The man sneered, assuming that her left hand would be weaker. The expression froze on his face as Branwyr's knife sliced through his neck and she spun to face her next opponent.
The fight was over in minutes, and the knights stood unscathed. Cymbeline and Bedivere calmed the horses while Branwyr hurried to Tristan.
"Are you alright?" she helped her brother down from the horse. He didn't reply, but doubled over and retched on the road. Branwyr rubbed his back soothingly. She too had thrown up after her first battle.
"Uh-huh," Tristan straightened up and wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand. Branwyr retrieved a waterskin from Bedivere's horse and handed it to Tristan, who took a grateful drink.
Cymbeline and Bedivere joined the siblings, leading the other two horses. "Are you alright, Tristan?" Cymbeline asked, brushing the back of her fingers over the boy's forehead before resting her hand on his shoulder.
"I'm okay," Tristan croaked.
"We should get moving," Bedivere glanced around them as wind ruffled leaves and branches in the forest.
Cymbeline hesitated. "I think we should make camp."
"We can stop at the next place we see," Bedivere suggested. "This wouldn't be a very good campsite. It's too exposed. And there are dead bodies all over the road."
Cymbeline relented and they mounted their horses, continuing down the road at a brisk trot. The sun was setting quickly behind distant hills, and the subsequent darkness was accompanied by a dank chill that sunk deep into their bones. By the time they stopped, an hour after sunset in the first clear area they found, they were all shivering.
Tristan was set on the task of building a fire while the others unsaddled the horses and gathered extra firewood. After a meager dinner of jerky, stale bread, and dried fruit, they turned in for the night, Bedivere taking the first watch.
Halfway through the night, Bedivere was beginning to nod off and was ready to wake Cymbeline for her watch when a twig cracked in the underbrush. He was wide awake, on his feet, and brandishing a wickedly-spiked flail by the time the first attacker was out of the brush. He shouted a warning to wake his companions as he swung the flail towards the Woad's head, smashing it into the trunk of the tree Bedivere had just been leaning against.
Cymbline woke to find a blue-streaked face grinning sickly above her. Cymbeline gasped and rolled aside, narrowly avoiding a heavy dagger bearing down towards her chest. Cymbeline snatched her long, bone-handled knife from its thigh sheath and parried the next blow from her attacker, stumbling backwards as the strength of the blow reverberated through her body. She ducked under the next blow, darting towards her horse, where her heavier weapons were strapped to the saddle. When she reached the horse, she turned and flung her knife towards the Woad who had woken her; it buried nearly hilt-deep in the woman's chest. Cymbeline drew a pair of short-handled sickles, the inside curve sharpened wickedly and the blades engraved with Celtic knotwork. With the sickles in hand, she moved fluidly and gracefully, easily deflecting blows and slicing at her attackers.
Branwyr dove for Tristan, simultaneously dodging a blow from her own attacker and knocking the boy away from a Woad bearing down on him. She rose quickly, reaching for a dagger on her belt with her right hand and her long knife with her left, wielding them both in a reverse grip as she began to spar with one of the Woads. Tristan stumbled to his feet, ducking under a swing from another Woad. He drew a short sword—just over a foot in length—and brandished it with both hands, staring intently at the Woad facing him, illuminated by bright moonlight.
"Scared, little boy?" she growled.
"I'm not little!" Tristan protested, deflecting a half-hearted blow from his opponent. He swung his sword at her midsection, which she barely blocked, clearly surprised. Determined, Tristan stood his ground, raising his sword again.
"Your first fight, I'm guessing?" the woman grunted, swinging hard towards Tristan, probably hoping to knock him off balance with a hard blow, only to send herself stumbling forwards as he dodged the swing so that her sword met thin air. Tristan's sword stabbed again towards her midsection, half of it sinking into her stomach. A look of shock came over her face as he pulled his sword out and she crumpled to her hand, dark blood—almost black in the dark but glinting in the moonlight—pooling around her on the ground.