Two hours later, Tristan once again stood at the edge of the frozen pond, staring across to safety on the other side. The other knights grew silent as they realized what they had to do and what it could mean, and Arthur turned to Tristan, the desperation in his voice only apparent to those who had known him for fifteen years.
"Is there any other way?" Tristan's gaze hardened, though not at Arthur.
"No." With a pointed glance at his leader, he took Filia's reins in his hand and began to walk. Almost immediately, though still one-by-one, the other knights followed after him. Then, more hesitantly, came the Romans and the peasants, on foot and spread out as far as possible.
Deathly silence for a moment or two as they crept across the ice, then a deep cracking sound that sent Tristan's heart plummeting to his feet. And in the air, just as deadly but somehow less ominous now, came the sound of the Saxon drums.
The company paused, a feeling of panic filling the air from the peasants. Arthur wheeled his horse around to face his men. His voice was low, resigned.
"Knights?" Half a heartbeat, then heads lifted and shoulders squared.
"My ass is sore from riding all day," Bors said with a grin.
Tristan's eyes flashed. "Never liked looking over my shoulder anyways."
"Time to put an end to this racket." This, from Gawain, and then, more surprisingly, from Galahad -- "And finally get a look at the bastards." Dagonet's face was almost serene as he walked past Arthur.
"Here. Now." Arthur turned and nodded to Jols, who immediately turned into a whirlwind of activity, commanding some boys to lead the knight's horses across the lake, commissioning others to gather bows and arrows. As Tristan pulled his own bow from his saddle, he overheard Arthur quietly giving orders to Ganis, the young Roman man who had pledged to serve him back at Marius Honorius'. Ganis was indignant that Arthur wasn't letting him stay and fight.
"But you're seven against two hundred!"
"Eight." Guinevere's calm voice came from behind Arthur as she walked to where the other knights were preparing, the bow she had used against Marius Honorius in her hands. "You could use another bow."
Nine, Tristan thought suddenly. Toril said she would be here as well. He turned to scan the cliff edge, searching for a glimpse of her, but turned back even before he had completed the action. If she was to fight with them in secret against her own people, she wouldn't be anywhere that the Saxons could see her. The corner of his mouth quirked up into a slight smile. However... Toril did strike him as a person who would think things through and then do the exact polar opposite of what was expected.
A slight movement caught his eye, and he looked towards the cliff without turning his head. Not Toril, but just as good; Karina gazed back at him from where she was perched on a rock, then took flight, soaring high above them and disappearing over the top of the cliff. Tristan nodded and turned back to his weapons, plucking the bow-string to check its tautness and positioning the full quiver so he could easily reach the arrows. Soon the rest of the knights were lined up beside him, facing the edge of the lake they had just come from, each concentrating on the drumbeat pulsing through the air as Ganis led the peasants and the Roman soldiers towards safety.
They didn't have long to wait. Almost as soon as the last of the caravan disappeared out of sight, the first of the Saxon infantry marched around the bend and onto the ice. They were a crude-looking lot, hardened men wearing leather and fur with their long beards and hair braided to keep it away from their faces. Their leader was tall and broad, with a shaven head and a plaited beard, dressed more elaborately in a rich black and white fur that cascaded from his shoulders to his waist, so as not to inhibit his movements. Tristan immediately recognized the same proud features that he saw in Toril, but without the kindness and gentleness that was so apparent in the Saxon priestess. Cynric, he remembered Toril saying. Her betrothed.
"There are a large number of lonely men out there." He heard Lancelot say quietly from somewhere behind him, and Guinevere replied, her voice just as low.
"Don't worry. I won't let them rape you." A low chuckle rippled down the line, and Tristan's lips curled slightly at the corners. Sounds like something Toril would say. He shook his head to clear it. She must really be in his heart if he was thinking of her right before battle.
When the infantry was lined up in ranks across the lake from them, the Saxon prince motioned to one of his men. "Archer!" His voice was imperious and as cruel-sounding as his face was cruel-looking. A man with a long bow stepped forward and notched an arrow, pulling back and releasing it with a hollow shunt. The arrow flew through the air and landed, skidding to a stop only halfway between the two parties. Arthur immediately turned to his knights.
"I believe they're waiting for an answer. Bors, Tristan." Guinevere turned to him, her brows lowered.
"They're far out of range!" Arthur merely inclined his head to where Bors and Tristan were notching multiple arrows on their Sarmatian bows. They pulled back and released, watching as the arrows flew through the air and imbedded themselves into Saxon soldiers, giving each other a single, satisfied look. Guinevere pursed her lips, but notched an arrow to her bow as well. The small company took aim and held fast as the Saxons began to march towards them, carefully choosing their footing on the ice. Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Aim for the wings and the ranks; make them cluster." Almost as one they fired, once again watching as the arrows sailed through the air and found their targets. Not one of them missed. Tristan noticed, however, that an extra Saxon had fallen and smiled slightly even as he took careful aim again, his heart thrilling at the thought of fighting with Toril.
For several tense minutes they fired their bows repeatedly, casting the Saxon infantry into a panic as they sought to protect themselves from the arrows, even as the ice beneath them groaned and crackled dangerously. Finally, Arthur dropped his bow in despair and grabbed Excalibur.
"It's not going to break. Prepare for combat." The knights gathered their primary weapons to them, falling unconsciously into a familiar ready stance as they watched the Saxon men grow closer and closer. Their leader, Cynric, was focused solely on the eight warriors, and was not noticing that his men were still falling to arrows even though none of Arthur's soldiers were holding a bow. Tristan smiled grimly and tightened his grip on his curved sword, feeling his blood pulse in his hands, every beat echoing her name as he stared her cruel fiancé in the face. Toril. Toril. Toril.
There was a sudden movement to his left as Dagonet dropped his sword and grabbed his axe; then the giant was running, charging towards the enemy, a wordless battle cry on his lips and his weapon raised over his head. Their eyes went wide and a cry was torn from Bors' lips.
"No! Dag!" Arthur's bow was immediately in his hands again.
"Cover him!" Wave after wave of arrows poured into the Saxon ranks as Dagonet reached a place on the lake far enough away from his comrades and began to hack at it with his axe, each chop burrowing deeper and deeper into ice. The Saxon prince motioned to his archers, who ran forward and took aim at the big man, frantically trying to keep him from breaking through.
Do not hinder Dagonet, he is your salvation; but pay special attention to Cynric's archers...Toril's words from earlier that morning ran through Tristan's mind and he immediately took aim at the Saxon archers, desperate to keep their arrows from hitting his brother-in-arms. Despite their best efforts, three Saxon bolts found their marks and Dagonet fell, only to rise again unsteadily and continue his work. Then Arthur was running as well, racing towards his knight as Dag raised his axe one last time and buried it into the ice, deep fissures shooting in every direction. Someone, Tristan knew not whether from their company or the Saxons, shouted – "The ice is breaking!" and the air was filled with the sound of the frozen floor being rent into pieces.
It was pandemonium now, as cracks appeared under the feet of the Saxons and the ice split, sending dozens of them into the freezing waters. Huge tables of ice rose up and crushed others, and the whiteness of the snow was stained crimson with blood. The air was filled with the sound of the ice breaking and the more awful sound of men screaming as they were either crushed to death or plunged into a watery tomb to be ignored by their comrades as every man sought to preserve his own life. All Tristan could do was fire arrow after arrow into the already confused and dying ranks of the Saxons, and watch in horror as Dagonet also fell into the lake, only to have Arthur latch onto the back of his armor and strain to heave him out. Other knights joined them, Bors and Galahad and Gawain racing across the ice to help Arthur drag Dagonet out of the water.
With the Saxon threat immobilized as the infantry struggled to move free of the treacherous ice, the knights could concentrate on rescuing Dagonet and pulling him to safety. But they were too late. Even as Tristan stood back with Lancelot and Guinevere, he could see that Dagonet was deathly pale, both from blood loss and his exposure to the bone-chilling water. Bors slapped his face to wake him, but there was no response.
"Dagonet! Stay with me! Stay...with me!" The low cry of agony that came from deep in Bors' chest seemed to echo around the small canyon, echoing even above the sound of the ice that was still settling. At the edge of the ice, Lancelot's face twisted and Tristan clenched his jaw, turning his face away from the scene of death and grief that was playing out before him. Only Guinevere remained active, her face twisted in anger as she fitted a last arrow to her bow and sent it flying to land in a Saxon soldier's chest. Cynric glared at her from across the ravaged water, a bloody slash running from the corner of his right eye to beside his nose. In his strong features Tristan once again saw Toril and glanced towards the cliffs, searching desperately for her, for something that would get his mind off the fact that Dagonet - the gentle giant who had been a brother to him for fifteen years - was now a corpse.
All that caught his attention was the sight of Theron, wheeling high above them. Tristan watched for several seconds and eventually saw Karina join the hawk, the two birds soaring together above the lake and their respective masters. Then he turned his attention back to Arthur and the knights who were struggling to lift Dagonet onto their shoulders. Tristan's voice was rough when he spoke to Guinevere.
"Go get his horse. The black." The girl wordlessly turned and ran to where Jols had tied their horses, and Tristan and Lancelot stepped forward to join their fellow knights in lifting Dagonet above the earth.
The five knights and their commander carried the big man to the horse who had faithfully bore him through countless battles. Guinevere stood at its head, calming the large beast as it scented death and shied away, holding it steady and murmuring to it as they laid Dagonet's body as gently as they could across the saddle, covering him with his rich black cape. The Woad woman then wisely surrendered the reigns to Galahad, and moved away to gather the abandoned bows and arrows so that the six remaining warriors could look at each other with stricken expressions on their faces.
No one spoke for a long time; only looked at each other and at the man who had been such a big part of their lives. Tears streamed openly down Bors' cheeks, Galahad buried his face in the horse's neck, and Arthur, Lancelot, and Gawain each roughly brushed tears out of their eyes. The only one who showed no emotion was Tristan, save for the clenching and unclenching of his jaw as he stared woodenly at Dagonet's body, his heart beating furiously and the blood roaring in his ears. Finally Arthur sighed and spoke.
"Let's go...back to the fort." He was about to say home, but five pairs of eyes had swung his way before he could complete his sentence, and he wisely mended his words. There was no home for his men in Briton; and the one who had followed him most willingly was now the one who would never see home again. He turned and walked towards his horse, mounting swiftly and pulling Guinevere up in front of him, waiting only until his men followed suit before turning to follow the caravan.