Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
.*.*.*.*.*.
Cymbeline crouched on the Wall below the battlements. There were more warriors on the Wall around her now; most of Ganis's archers had come up to join her and the other knights, spaced out every few feet along the Wall. The rest of the archers, guards, and knights were on the lower wall around the fort. Cymbeline would join them soon, but for now she knelt beside Gareth on the Wall, eyes glued to the distant forest.
"Look!" Gareth gasped, pointing.
Cymbeline followed the line of his arm towards a tiny glimmer of light hundreds of feet across the field. As they watched, breath bated, the glimmer grew into a blaze. In minutes, a line of fire ringed the field along the treeline. "That's what they were doing all day," Cymbeline breathed. "They were setting kindling there to burn."
"Why?" Gareth asked.
Without answering, Cymbeline turned to look behind her. From her position on the Wall, high above the fort, she could see the forests all around them. A murmur from the soldiers on the wall over the gate grew as a thousand points of flame moved out of the trees, the torches illuminating the Woad warriors who bore them.
"You were right," there was a hint of a tremor in Gareth's voice. "They did come tonight."
.*.*.*.*.*.
Down on the lower wall, Gawain stood between Grav and Galahad. They watched silently as the torches emerged from the forest, although many of the others around them began whispering together.
"We're surrounded," Galahad said softly.
Gawain nodded. "There are a lot of them out there."
They fell silent again, watching the torchbearers move towards the fort. Just outside of the treeline, a blaze was lit, which quickly raced around the edge of the forest along a line of kindling and firewood that had been built after nightfall.
"They've cut off their own escape," Grav's brow furrowed.
"Ours too," Galahad observed.
"They're overconfident," Gawain said. "They don't think they'll need to escape."
"I'm not entirely sure that's overconfident of them," Grav murmured. "There are a lot of them out there, and not a lot of us in here."
"If we meet them on the field, we might have a chance," Gawain said. "Woads are better at ambushes, when they have the element of surprise and the numbers over their targets. In a field like this, even though we'd be outnumbered, we wouldn't be outmatched. It takes more than one Woad to bring down a trained fighter like us in a combat like this; I saw it all my life fighting them, and I saw it fighting alongside them five years ago at Badon Hill."
"They can't handle multiple opponents at once, either—they can hardly handle one-on-one combat," Galahad added. "If you have someone at your side, you can mow through them like nothing more than grass."
"Even Cymbeline and Bedivere can usually only manage a single opponent at a time," Gawain said. "They may be able to cut through that opponent faster than any other Woad could, but they'd be hard-pressed against multiple opponents."
Grav nodded and looked back out over the fields. The Woads were still bearing their torches, but had ceased their advance on the fort. "Look," he nodded out towards the line. "Their paint."
"White hands," Gawain observed.
"The Lacs," Galahad frowned.
"They weren't chasing Jorah because he took Cunobelin from Caradoc," Gawain said. "They were closing in on us and he saw them. They tried to kill him before he could warn us."
As they watched, a small group of figures detached from the rest of the army, heading for the fort. When the figures grew nearer, it became easier to make out the figures. At the head of the party strode two women, one slight and fair-haired, clad in a snow-white gown, and the other tall and slender with dark hair, dressed in blood-red robes.
"Who do you think they are?" Galahad murmured.
"I'd hazard a guess at Nimue and Morgana," Gawain replied.
"Gawain! Galahad!" Arthur called from down the wall. The knights traded glances, then left Grav on his own to join their king. "I'm going down to parlay with them," Arthur informed them. "I'd like the two of you to come with me."
"Just the two of us?" Galahad arched an eyebrow, glancing back out at the small party approaching the wall.
"No," Arthur replied. "I plan to match their numbers."
Gawain nodded. "Good." He saw Bors, Kei, and Culhwch behind Arthur. A hand brushed against the back of his elbow, and he turned to find Cymbeline, Branwyr, and Dagonet standing behind him.
"Let's go," Arthur turned and headed for the stairs down to the ground, his knights trailing along behind him. On the ground, they formed into a small, loose phalanx; Gawain, Galahad, and Bors stood at Arthur's sides, Kei, Cylhwch, and Dag behind them, with Cymbeline and Branwyr ranging slightly to the sides and rear.
When the gate had creaked open, Arthur led the way out of the fort. They followed the road until it bent towards the Wall, then strode across open fields covered in brown, dead grass and the remnants of late snows to meet Morgana and Nimue. As they got closer, they got a better look at the women. The woman in white was similar in build and height to Guinevere, but was much skinnier, hardly more than a skin-covered skeleton. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken, and once-golden hair was now dull in the light of the torches. She looked furious, her brow furrowed deeply. The final touch to her appearance was a white paint handprint across her narrow face. The red woman was tall and slender, but muscular under her robes. Her hair was waist-length and nearly black, but glimmered with red highlights in the flames of the torches. A small smile played at her lips, but her eyes were as fiery as the torches themselves.
"I am Arthur, king of Albion," Arthur said, drawing to a halt a few paces in front of them. The knights hung back, as did the party of warriors behind the women, but Bors stood only a few steps behind Arthur, hands on his curved daggers.
"I am Morgana," the red woman's voice was deep and melodious, almost musical. "This is Nimue, widow of the warlord Ysbadaddon, and queen of the northern provinces in his death."
Arthur bowed stiffly. "What brings you to Camelot tonight?"
"We have come to ask you one final time to abdicate your throne," Morgana's voice dripped with venom, and she nearly spat the final word. "You have no right to rule over Bretons and Woads and Picts when you yourself are none of the above."
"I am of this island," Arthur drew himself up. "I was born here and raised here, by a Woad mother"—
"And a Roman father," Morgana snapped, "and that is all that matters! You have no right to your throne, and if you refuse to abdicate it now, you and all who stand beside you will die at the hands of those who truly own this island!"
"No-one can own this island," Arthur said, his voice soft. "It belongs to itself. I have never claimed to own it. I lead my people, I do not rule them, and I lead them only with their support. I was asked to lead the people of Albion by Merlin himself, and I will do so for as long as I am wanted by them. What you want has no impact on the situation."
Morgana drew herself up so that she seemed even taller. "This is your last chance, Artorius Castus. Step down from your throne now, or you and your people will pay for your arrogance."
"I will not," Arthur replied, drawing himself up as well. "And it is you and your people who will pay for this. You will not win this battle."
"In that case, return to your walls," Morgana spat. "You will not live to see the morning." She spun on her heel and headed back towards her warriors, the torchbearers parting to let her pass.
Nimue did not move. "Which one of you?" she mumbled.
Cymbeline shifted uncomfortably, her hands going to the sickles strapped to her back. The other knights stirred as well. On their other side, Branwyr slipped an arrow from the sheath on her hip and nocked it on her bowstring, fingering the fletching.
"My lady?" Arthur seemed genuinely confused by the question.
"Which one of you was it?" Nimue's sunken eyes met the king's with a sudden fury. Morgana stopped and turned, her own eyes furious. "Which one of you shot the arrow that murdered my husband?" she screamed, and the flames of the torches seemed to flare.
Before Arthur could reply, Branwyr was next to him, her bow drawn. "It was me," she replied, aiming carefully at Nimue. "And I would be glad to do the same to you."
Arthur reached out and pushed her arms down so that the arrow was pointed at the ground. "There is no need for that," he said quickly, attempting to placate the woman in front of them.
"Give her to me," Nimue's eyes were full of tears that began to trickle down her cheeks.
"No," Arthur replied.
"Give her to me!" Nimue screamed again. "It is my right! Give me the woman who murdered my husband so that I may have justice!"
"Your husband fell in battle," Arthur said gently. "It was not murder. It was a fair shot. You have no right to her life, or the life of anyone else."
"Come, Nimue!" Morgana snapped. "You will have your revenge by the night's end."
Nimue's eyes narrowed and she glared at Branwyr. "Go mbristear do chosa 's do chnámha," she spoke the words with absolute hatred, and chills travelled down the spines of the spectators. Bran took a step back as Nimue turned to follow Morgana, their soldiers closing in behind them.
"Are you alright?" Cymbeline fell in beside Branwyr at the rear of the party as they headed back to the fort.
"I'm fine," Bran forced a laugh. "She was just… odd."
"And creepy," Cymbeline chuckled, glancing back over her shoulder at the receding figures. "At least now we know why the Lacs were here. Nimue's one of them."
Bran nodded. "But why weren't they here before?"
"Let's hypothesize about that later," Cymbeline suggested, jogging ahead to catch up to Arthur and the other knights. "For now, we have a battle to win."