SWORD IN THE STONE

CHAPTER

—II—

'Arthur No-Name'

—o—

In the centre of Londinium, there was an old amphitheatre built by the ancient Romans, back when their empire stretched as far as the misty isles. Back when the city served as the capital of the realm under their reign. Here was where gladiators fought to gain renown and earn their freedoms. Old stones witnessed to crowd of admiring citizens roaring with electrifying excitement for the fighters. When the Romans left Britain, so too did this tradition.

It receded into ruins, matching the state of the city surrounding it.

That was when a foreigner appeared from the far east. A warrior from China named Qiaozhi. Around these parts however, he went by George and he brought with him that long standing warrior's tradition. George took the displaced orphans wandering the streets into his care and within the abandoned amphitheatre, opened up an academy of sorts, training them in the warrior's ways. His fighters were masters in an overwhelming number of disciplines for combat: The sword, the staff, the bow, the lance, even unarmed combat.

Arthur had once ventured into his academy when he was ten, being chased by a couple of childhood bullies, children from local nobility that thought he was easy target—though back in those days…he was.

George watched as they beat up the little Arthur. Yet for all their efforts, the boy kept coming back, and they kept beating him. This more or less left an impression on the old fighter and whether Arthur knew it or not, he began the boy's training, as he did right now.

Now, Arthur was a man, shaped and conditioned into one of the best fighters in the pits. He stood in the middle of the arena with the warriors gathered around the outskirts and Master George seated within the stands. His analytic eyes scrutinising every mistake that his protégé had made in the duel with their newest recruit, a stringy boy named Gareth; a lord's stinking bastard that he was more than happy to get rid of.

"You keep skipping around, mate. This ain't a dance." Arthur pointed to the boy's hopping feet with his practice sword, prompting the rest to guffaw at Gareth's expense. "You're too off balance. I could literally knock you onto your arse, and take your eyes out," he made some false strikes to his left, then right and in a blink of an eye, had the young Gareth trip over his own feet and onto his bottom as Arthur predicted.

The boy grunted with frustration, some self-loathing as he punched the stone floor. Arthur stood over the whelp but then offered him a hand up to his feet.

"You lost today, mate— but you've got spirit. Now you've just got to work on some technique." Humbled, the boy simply bobbed his head and joined the rest of the fresh meat.

It was then that Arthur noticed Ector standing on the deck besides George. The red-haired man seemed to wear a disconcerted look upon his pale face like he was caught between extreme rage and sadness. Arthur gestured to Dagonet and Percival and the three went up to meet with their associates. Though Kung-Fu George was akin to a father to the orphans of the Roman amphitheatre, warmth didn't always come freely there, naturally. The boys had to earn that privilege, and none fought for it harder than Arthur. As for Ector—the youngest member of their gang, was also, ironically, the most experienced. Being in his late twenties, Ector was already married and with a little rascal of a son running about. He had a well-to-do home in Londinium, a prosperous family that fell into the protection of Arthur.

"How've you been, Ector." Arthur came and embraced his friend, as dear to him as a brother. But that afternoon his brother was filled with worry and outrage.

"Not bad, Arthur." He paused and watched his brother intently, as if trying to deduce how he'd react. "We need to talk."

…

A band of Northern Vikings had docked their Longboats off the banks of the Thames. They came to trade in furs and steel and slaves. In exchange, Arthur assumes that King Uryen gives them free reign within Britain. More often than naught they would visit the Silver Rosary Brothel and enjoy themselves with their company. Even taking some girls back to camp for the night.

Mother Branwyn, the matriarch of the Silver Rosary was happy to oblige so long as certain conditions were met and maintained. Conditions that those Viking brutes shat upon last night.

Flavia was one of the youngest in their establishment. Left on the streets outside a tavern, she was picked up by Branwyn at sixteen. She had gone with the Vikings and five other girls last night but the next morning before noontime, the brown haired, sweet young woman limped back to the house, shouldered by two of her co-workers while the remaining three ran off home to notify the others.

When the matriarch saw them, she nearly dropped her glass of wine, and Flavia too beaten, too traumatised, could not speak to tell them of what had happened. What they could gather just from looking at her was enough for Olwen, Ector's wife— who was employed as a cook in the house, to go straight to her husband. Ector in turn would go to Arthur.

So now, with Ector, Percival and Dagonet, Arthur marched to the harbour and directly into the encampment. "I thought you warned them?!" he said, sternly to Dags.

"I did," he replied. "They don't speak English good."

The younger man chuckled, giving him a sly grin. "They speak it better than you."

The Vikings at the entrance search the men for weapons and when they were satisfied the locals weren't planning on extending their own 'hospitality' to rival what was done to Flavia, they permitted them onwards.

Their leader was a burly old man. Old, but strong and fierce-looking. His name was Greybeard—well it wasn't 'Greybeard' but Arthur could barely give himself to care. No matter the name, all he could see when he looked at the big Northman was Flavia's swollen and battered face, left bleeding and bruised by animals.

This 'Greybeard', with his long grey hair tied behind his head, and his long and glorious silver beard braided all pretty-like, was trying on some of the fur coats they had just purchased from the markets. He did not seem to care much for their visitors even as they started talking, commanding them to apologise and provide compensation for Flavia. Others that surrounded him were no better; going about their business, loading their longboats, drinking their mead or as one was doing— sharpening their blades.

Arthur walked up to the man who still didn't seem to notice him. "You see, she's a close friend of mine. So, you're going to have to sort her out."

"I don't need to say or do anything for that prudish bitch," the Greybeard finally said. "A slut should know to open her legs by herself or be forced upon."

The three Brits almost had enough, and Arthur came even closer. "Listen, mate. You're paying, and then you're leaving."

The Vikings then started laughing at them. "I have fifty seasoned warriors. Each man can shave a pig with the edge of our blades."

The one sharpening his dagger even made some snide comment in their tongue to their chief. "Nobody's talking to you, sweetheart." He said to the man, his sly confidence taking hold of him. "So, you just sit there and be quiet because you were better at it, or I'd have to put an arrow through your lard-loving thigh."

Again, they all laughed, pointing their fingers at this smaller man. At least, that was what they were doing until an actual arrow which shot from the sky, fulfilled Arthur's prophecy and struck the knife-grinding-man in the leg.

In a flash, Arthur lunged at the man with the grindstone, snatching the dagger from his grasp and made for old Greybeard.

—TWO—