Chapter 10: Gwaine
One good, strong, sudden fist to the jaw.
Odin wouldn't expect that – how long had it been since anyone had punched the king in the face? – and Gwaine was nearly certain he could snag the royal sword from its royal sheathe in seconds.
Elena would duck out of the way. Then a backswing to take out the curly-haired boy-knight, and stab Odin through the throat. From there it would be, up on the table and moving fast. Effective attacks, and never slowing down to trade and parry. Make Odin's knights get in each other's way trying to kill-capture-subdue…
But it was not Gwaine's choice to make.
So he gave up sword and armor and bowed his head and discretion was the better part of valor. For the moment.
As he was marched with the other knights of Gawant, through the halls and down down down, he watched. Learning this part of the palace – low ceilings and thick dark stone, maybe not scrubbed but rinsed, adequate torchlight and small cells separated by iron bars and stone columns.
Learning Odin's men – brusque, grouchy fellows. Not proper and proud like Bayard's men or hearty and loyal like a good majority of Arthur's men or relaxed and friendly like the knights of Gawant – at least when they weren't being invaded. There was an important distinction – Odin's men fought for duty and fear of him and such sentiments weren't nearly as strong reasons to fight and win, as other more noble concerns.
He was also looking for one particular defender of the kingdom. A young man with a round face and wide sky-colored eyes.
Gwaine almost missed Gilli. He was lying on the floor inside one of the cells, face-down, with two of his fellows seated protectively near, watching the newcomers. There were twice as many men already imprisoned than had marched down from the banquet hall with Gwaine; two cells stood open, with maroon-clad knights attendant.
"You lot, this way! The rest of you – over here…"
He sidestepped out of the line he was shuffling in – evaded the clutching fist of one of their escort, to slip toward Gilli's cell.
"Hey! You there!" the loudest of Odin's knights hollered at him.
Gwaine shrugged and grinned and ducked behind one of his fellow prisoners to enter the cell anyway – and Odin's senior knight dropped the protest as inconsequential, focused instead on getting every native of Gawant locked inside the bars.
"Evening, boys," Gwaine greeted in a low, unobtrusive voice, reaching the corner where his young friend lay, squeezing between other frustrated fighters.
Gilli stirred, turning his head to peer up at Gwaine – and one of his companions reached to keep a makeshift and blood-stained bandage on the back of the younger man's head.
"Dammit," Gwaine said, hunkering down, "what happened to you?"
"Talking to a girl," Gilli slurred. The other knight met Gwaine's eyes and rolled his own. "I wasn' on duty, Gysten," he added. "Just… in the side courtyard. Heard something – an' turned…"
"And got knocked out," Gwaine concluded. "Lucky you weren't run through." Gilli, and all of them.
Gilli whimpered a laugh at the suggestion, and the second companion near his feet spoke up.
"Who're you then, mate? Not one of us…"
"One of Arthur's," Gwaine said, with a swift glance to see that none of the invaders overheard. Most of them were already headed out of the chamber again, leaving a handful to eye their imprisoned captives disdainfully. "He's coming back. He'll round up any of yours that made it out, and –"
"What about Merlin?" Gilli managed to lift himself to his elbow.
Gwaine grimaced. "Knocked upside the head, too." He leaned closer to murmur teasingly, "Bit useless, your lot."
Gilli made a whining-protesting noise. "Is he all right?"
"Hope so. He got Arthur out of here, anyway." Where they were meant to go, and all in one piece, Gwaine hoped as well, despite his confident words to the princess. He couldn't contemplate anything else.
He settled back onto his heels against the wall next to Gysten, watching Gawant's knights shift restlessly, muttering to each other and glancing continually out of the corners of their eyes, much as Gwaine himself had done. Finding particular comrades and speculating on absences – dead or escaped – watching for weaknesses or opportunities. Not just for personal freedom, though that would once have been Gwaine's only concern. No, now it was about ultimate victory – freedom and safety for Lord Godwyn and his daughter the princess, the kingdom reclaimed and the invaders thrown out, dead or in retreat. Weighing risk against reward.
Gysten lifted the blood-spattered cloth to check Gilli's head as the younger man rested his cheek on the stone floor again. Evidently the bleeding had stopped; Gysten laid the bloody rag aside.
Gwaine leaned down to Gilli, trying to think of a good way to word his query when their circumstances were the opposite of private. And the younger man's head probably throbbing too insistently to translate a couple of significant winks.
"Gilli," he began. Can you help us? How soon can you help us? Can you do something – do you dare use open magic – can I count on you in any plan I might –
The young sorcerer's eyes opened, and fastened on Gwaine's face – and understood. And it was exactly the same vaguely hunted expression he'd seen on Merlin's face as they'd crouched beside a stream and Gwaine had said, They're going to have soldiers combing the forest for a sorcerer on the loose…
He never got the chance to ask.
A trio of Odin's knights strode down the aisle between cells – older men, and harder, wearing sneers and carrying crossbows and studying each one of their captives searchingly. The one in the center, a step ahead of the other two, carried also a scar that interrupted wrinkles on his forehead and flattened his nose and probably made shaving interesting on the opposite cheek.
"What is it, m'lords?" one of the maroon-clad soldiers left behind to guard the prisoners called out.
"The king wants ten of these fellows separated and given special treatment," the foremost knight with the scar answered.
The burly bearded man at his right added, "Make it an even dozen, in case a couple of them don't make it."
Gwaine pushed instinctively to his feet. Odin could be after information; with Gawant's capital taken and its lord thoroughly subdued, however, what could the enemy king be after but specifics about Arthur. And in a collected dozen of these men, could Gwaine hope that none knew of the siege-tunnel escape route – or that they'd die before revealing it?
The scarred leader and his bearded companion had begun choosing their victims, pointing men out for the acting jailers to remove from the cells – in some cases, arguing suitability for the unknown but suspected purpose.
The third knight, a man with gray streaks in rather bushy sandy-brown hair, turned right to Gwaine with a wolfish grin. "I think that one ought to come with us."
"Whoa, lads, now, let's talk about this," Gwaine responded immediately. He didn't know whether to acquiesce and save someone else the special treatment, or try to talk his way out of it and save himself for a future opportunity to act. At his feet, Gilli was stirring with growing alarm.
"I don't know about him," the bearded man objected. "You saw how he defied the king - in look if not in word or action."
"He needs to be taught a lesson," the other responded with disturbing glee. "It'll be too easy anyway, tomorrow, don't you want at least one with some spirit? A challenge."
"The king doesn't want a challenge," the bearded man objected, mocking his companion with the tone of the word.
What would be too easy? And did Gwaine – in these circumstances – want to be a challenge?
"Fine, take him," the scarred leader decided, barely glancing at Gwaine.
"All right, you, let's go!" Gwaine was told.
For a moment, he contemplated options of resistance – refusing to obey, starting a fight, talking back… And couldn't see where it was going to gain him – them – any substantial advantage.
So he made his way – stepping over a couple prone injured, like Gilli – around others shuffling out of his way, and the door of the cell was unlocked for him and three others. He was pushed forward to make room for the full dozen, chosen from other cells, in the aisle between, but not crowding the trio of Odin's knights responsible for them, thumbing the crossbow triggers entirely too casually.
If it had been Camelot, Gwaine could have looked around for companions who were thinking the same thing as he, ready to risk and die in that moment, ready to rise up and retake... But it wasn't Camelot.
"March, boys," the leader commanded. "Just down the corridor to the royal family vault."
Gwaine delayed a moment so he wouldn't be at the front of the group, and sidestepped to be closest to the bearded fellow, as the company of captors and captives bumped and scuffed their way from cells to vault.
"So what's tomorrow?" he questioned, using a mild friendly tone. "This challenge?"
"Shut up!" the bearded man ordered, swinging the crossbow around in a deliberate way. The young man just ahead of Gwaine flinched away, ducking his head and hurrying.
Across the group, the knight with gray-streaked sandy hair commented loudly, "Don't suppose they need their tongues tomorrow, do they?"
The men beside and behind Gwaine shifted nervously – sweating and darting glances around them. Gawant was not used to this sort of threat; Gwaine almost pitied them.
"None of that sort of thing," the leader called up from the back of the group. "No mutilations. It's unnecessary. And we don't want anyone choking to death on their own blood, if we can help it."
But shot in the gut with a crossbow bolt was okay? Gwaine kept his tongue and did not find out.
The royal family vault was a stone-walled room a quarter the size of the banquet hall. Fifteen-foot ceiling at the highest point of various intersecting slopes; half a dozen large stone crypts at one end in a neat row, leaving most of the rest of the floor-space clear. Two torches on the wall didn't quite reach the shadows in the corners, but what caught the attention was the fourth knight – a man who rivaled Percival for size, and carrying it all in his shoulders and arms.
Carrying also, a coiled horsewhip. Foot and a half of stiff handle, an extra six or eight of braided leather, with a split fly-tip.
"Ah, hells," Gwaine said, his heart sinking.
He was not the only one to swear, or murmur. Someone made a muffled retching noise.
"Now then, lads," said the scarred leader of the wolfs-head knights, closing the door behind them with a resounding clang! that made more than one of the captives jump. "No one needs to die. And no one needs to worry about betraying his kingdom or his lord, right? Tomorrow you'll even get the chance of saving it –" the bearded man snorted derisively – "So. No heroics tonight, yeah? Take your beating, and live to fight another day."
Gwaine considered if he was telling the truth. If he could make the six-foot leap to the nearest armed enemy fast enough to deflect the crossbow bolt, spin him about to act as shield against the other crossbows, draw the man's sword from his hip –
Hm. Not without getting some of the other captives killed. And could the remainder overpower those left in charge of the cells to free their companions – and could the lot of them take back the palace before Odin threatened Godwyn or Elena to force their surrender…
And then execute Gwaine as the instigator. If he was still alive.
Damn. Nope, he needed a better plan.
"First man," the bearded knight said, grabbing the clean-jawed youth and shoving him toward the whip-wielding fourth.
"No, start with him," the sandy-gray-haired man objected, pointing at Gwaine. "While Smillan is fresh."
"Fine," the bearded man shrugged.
Three crossbows leveled at the dozen of them. Four sheathed but ready swords, and the whip. Maybe even daggers, against they who were without armor and bootless. Carnage and casualties and – unacceptable.
Gwaine set his jaw and let his particular nemesis drag him forward. The stone was biting cold under his socks, unyielding and uneven. It was a hard thing for his pride, but as the silent Smillan uncoiled the whip, Gwaine knelt. Pulled the back collar of his gambeson up over his neck and tucked his arms – hands and fingers – protectively into the curl of his body, bending his forehead to the floor.
Crack!
A line of fire opened across his back, though he could tell it hadn't ripped through the padded jacket he'd worn beneath his appropriated chainmail. It was more surprise than pain. Crack! crack!
How many lashes would be dealt, he wondered. Crack!... Crack!... The fire was slower to fade with each stroke, the padding felt less adequate for protection since it was probably splitting open – six, seven, eight – agony anticipated, breath held then gasped. He was cringing and flinching and he hated it –
Crack! Crack!
Drool dripped from his lower lip as he focused on dragging air into his lungs and forcing it back out – fast, but steady and controlled – and he didn't care to spit or swallow it away. Red flashed in the black of squeezed-shut eyes. He bit his tongue and tasted blood.
Crack!... Crack… how many had it been. How many more.
Merlin had been tortured. He'd seen the swelling, and slow-fading bruises on his friend's arms and chest from being beaten – that wasn't even mentioning what the bastard had done to Merlin's hands. And Merlin was skinny – less muscle covering his bones than any knight – and Merlin had not been trained to accept pain through its daily infliction on the training field. Familiar with it, not afraid of it, pushing through it to get the job done –
Gwaine could find the pride in his soul, to suffer as Merlin had suffered, in the service of his king.
Then balance tipped, and he instinctively caught himself on his shoulder - but the whip lashed across his leg and side, catching the edge of his wrist as he put his hand out to push himself back up –
At that he cried out. Bright, blinding – dammit – pain.
Can't have that. He rolled, curling away again. Protect his hands so he could use them later. He'd fought in Camelot's melee two days after being stabbed in the thigh and weakened from loss of blood, but that had been a close thing, and he was lucky he hadn't been trampled after being unhorsed, before he'd managed to stagger back up to protect Arthur. If he could keep from crippling injury now –
Crack! His elbow. Crack! The side of his bent leg, curling around his shin.
The darkness pulsed and shivered and bled.
He heard the whip sound again and again. Methodical… brutal. Heard screams – moaning, begging – and bit his lips shut so hard the agony stiffening the rest of him muted, briefly.
Crack – crack – crack… He couldn't feel it, smothered as he was by the overwhelming throbbing ache that pressed him down toward darkness. But he was fairly sure he wasn't the one screaming like that, because it was all he could do to drag panting breaths in through his nose.
He opened his eyes again.
Blurry dark stone – faint flickering torchlight – obscene violent shadows dancing and jerking. He was on his side – he knew better than to roll to his back – or to move in any way that would draw attention.
He got an elbow down. Pushed and turned and drew in his knees, and blinked to see around dripping sweat and his own disheveled hair.
Time had passed; more prisoners were down. Some motionless, some rocking or trying ineffectually to crawl over the stone floor. The whip-hand knight seemed tireless – drawing back, snapping forward. The sound no longer made Gwaine flinch, it was too far away. Muffled by the moaning – the ringing in Gwaine's ears – the raw throbbing burn that spread over his shoulders and down his legs and around his ribs like molten iron into a mold.
He blinked sluggishly and there were only four men left standing – one very near him who kicked at one of the bodies.
Crossbow swinging point-down. Careless. But loaded and drawn. He allowed himself to be shoved back down to his side, and lay still.
He forced his eyes open again and it was darker. Quiet. The air smelled of blood and urine. Should probably move, work some stiffness out of the muscles so it wasn't so bad later. In the morning, in the…
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Gwaine was not the first man awake, in the royal family burial vault, but he was the first to his feet.
Blinking his eyes clear in the dim single torchlight, he made it to his knees to discover three others in similar positions. The two closest to him, at least, were crawling to check on their prone comrades. Gwaine reached out to the clean-shaven youth – so shaky he had to put a hand on the floor before he felt at the young man's neck. The pulse was there, but no response to a gentle nudge and a soft word.
Gwaine briefly inspected the scabbed weal around his wrist where the whip had caught him, and another such mark through the rip in his lower left trouser leg, before groaning himself to his feet. His gambeson was probably scrapped, bits of loose cloth felt stuck to his skin in more than one place. "Oh, for the love of…"
Splitting pain overlaying bone-deep and pervasive ache. Nothing broken, he told himself, and after a moment he attempted to make his way to the vault door – one careful foot after the other, without stepping on anyone.
"Did they keep their promise?" he asked of the other three – four now, as another was persuaded to rise as far as sitting. "No one died?"
"Not yet," was the grim answer.
Gwaine grunted, stumbling, as he reached the door. Locked – no surprise there. "I don't suppose there are any secret tunnels leading out of this chamber, are there?"
No one answered him. His stomach rolled and growled with hunger or nausea or both like Elena's brindle pup, and he leaned on the side of his arm against the wall. After a moment a fifth knight was prompted to struggle up from the floor – and then Gwaine was moving forward, collapsing to his knees, reaching to check and maybe revive the next man.
He wasn't Merlin, who might one day be better than Gaius. But it took his mind off the searing ache ripping through his body at every move, coaxing and cajoling and encouraging mostly, sometimes tearing a shirt-tail to bandage the more exposed of the raw whip-marks on his companions.
More and more the question bothered him – Why.
"Did they ask you any questions? Did they make threats?"
Blank looks met his disturbed curiosity. But most of them were upright, and only one left unconscious, when the metallic clang of the door-bolt being drawn echoed through the chamber.
The first man through was one of Odin's, though not one Gwaine recognized. He was armed with a crossbow and a sneer – both of which he aimed at the beaten captives. And then, three young men in the plain drab clothing of servants entered, moving slowly under the heavy weight of arms-ful of chainmail. Another armed guard followed, closing the vault door again.
"Everybody up!" he shouted. "Put on the armor!"
The servants began to make their way through the room, sometimes handing the armor to one of Gawant's knights, sometimes merely letting one or two slide from the awkward stacks. In addition to the one who hadn't regained consciousness, two more made no move to get to their feet, though one dragged his mail shirt closer and started to sort it sluggishly.
"What's going on?" said the fresh-faced youth near Gwaine, to the servant who handed him the last shirt, turning and lifting it to help the knight with the armor.
"I dunno," the servant whispered, darting a frightened sideways glance at the guards at the door.
"A spectacle," Gwaine guessed, getting his arms into his own chainmail, then hesitating – it was going to be murder, as Elena had said of her fancy shoes, trying to wear the heavy metallic links after that whipping. "What time of day is it?"
"Two hours past noon," the servant said, helping to ease the younger knight's head through the collar of his mail-shirt, already starting to slide his feet away in leaving them.
No wonder he was hungry. Gwaine groaned at the stretching-tearing-burning in his muscles as he lifted extra pounds of armor over his head. And swallowed the nausea that rose in his throat as the cold links flowed down his shoulders and back, pressing hard and catching cruelly at raised welts he couldn't see.
"Get 'em on, get 'em on!" one of Odin's knights hollered, his voice booming through the stone-walled chamber.
The young knight next to Gwaine was swaying on his feet, arms up and shoulders back in a stiff posture of agony to keep the armor away from his own injuries. "I can't do this," he said to Gwaine desperately. Even though neither of them knew what would be required. "I can't do this."
Gwaine shrugged deliberately, causing the mail to rub over shoulders that were sore beyond belief. "Yes, you can," he said, taking the younger man by both shoulders, though his own arms felt unbearably heavy. "Come on. Yes, you can."
"Let's go!" they were commanded.
Another was helping the knight on the floor into his armor – one grunting and swearing, the other releasing sickening whimpers through clenched teeth. Gwaine reached down to help lift the knight to his feet.
"Lean on my shoulder if you have to," Gwaine told him, as they shuffled toward the door, in the middle of the pitiful crowd of beaten knights. "Come on. A hard day's training – in the rain, and mud – and a hard night's drinking… And you've missed breakfast and lunch – because of the hangover… And now you're – late for training and – you'll be made to do the worst of exercises for punishment…"
At least two who heard him snorted in grim amusement. The weakest one, though his hand trembled on Gwaine's shoulder, lifted his chin.
The clean-shaven youth said plaintively, "I'm not old enough to get drunk," and several more snickered.
Damn you, Odin, Gwaine thought, gritting his teeth as every move rubbed weighted metal across whip-marks in his skin and bruised muscles. Whatever your game is, you're not going to win.
They were herded back up to the polite levels of Gawant's palace. Gwaine's few glimpses of cross-corridors or rising stairs revealed deserted space; he wondered about the others in the cells, and whether Gilli was recovering enough to be able to do anything – and then they were outside.
Two hours past noon was right. The sun was still high overhead, and they blinked in its sudden brightness. Gwaine's eyes watered; he didn't feel like raising a hand to shield his eyes – and then couldn't quite believe them when he followed his fellows into an arms-room. Not the main armory. But there were several sets of plate-mail armor arranged on the tables in the middle of the room, and along one wall, pairs of boots set on the floor underneath. And swords.
Ten in all, he thought; Odin's knight at the door shoved him unceremoniously toward one set, and he kept his balance with effort. The knight called out to the rest of them, "Wear it or don't, it's up to you."
Most of Gawant's knights exchanged wary looks with each other. Gwaine reached for the sword at his place, tilting it to see that it bore no edge. A dull practice blade for training or friendly tournaments. Daily sparring. A melee for the sake of prestige with no monetary prize.
"The hell is this?" said one of his companions under his breath.
Gwaine stepped into the boots, then reached for the greaves and stiffly began to add the weight and acute discomfort of the plate-mail, piece by piece. The young man beside him did the same, and silently they helped each other with the most difficult buckles, each grunting at the effort of tightening the armor into place on their battered bodies. All over the arms-room, most of the others did the same.
The helmet Gwaine tucked under his arm, and the sword he tucked into his belt. The point was perhaps sharp enough to drive through their guard's gut – and maybe someone else would do for the second guard at the other side of the room – but something more than curiosity warned Gwaine to wait for a better opportunity.
"All right, time's up. March."
Maybe it was the forced movement. Or maybe it was having a weapon at his hip again, blunted though it was. But Gwaine could almost convince himself he felt no worse than fighting a couple bands of thieves along Camelot's more remote roads. Staying up on watch – sleeping on stone-hard ground – getting up too early and too cold and too late for breakfast…
They marched into a great open space that was clearly the lists of the tournament grounds. Two-thirds the size of Camelot's lists, and the walls separating spectators from participants were only waist-high, not head-high.
Royal box in the middle, though.
Gwaine lagged a bit to end up closer to the guards chivvying them along.
"What's all this, then?" he asked. Folk were beginning to fill up the tiered seats – acting far more subdued than was usual for these crowd-pleasing events.
"I guess if you use your ears, you'll find out," was the rude reply. The guard shoved his shoulder, and Gwaine hissed at the flare of pain that sent jagged ripples through the rest of his body. The man bellowed to the rest, "Stop here and wait for the king's address, noble Sir Knights!"
They obeyed. They were thankful to obey. And if the lists had been empty, Gwaine rather thought they'd sink to the ground to pass out, to a man. Himself included, probably.
But the lists weren't empty. At the opposite end, the sun glinted from the armor of another group of knights – ten? Gwaine thought with inward sarcasm – that moved with purposeful menace, helmets on. He caught the flutter of maroon-colored cloth threaded through links on several chain-mail sleeves – a spectacle, then, as he'd guessed. Yours against ours and no one the wiser that yours have been whipped and deprived of food and water for nearly twenty hours.
Gwaine squinted up at the sun and wondered where Arthur was, now.