Okay, a bit more drama to go before the adventure starts…
Disclaimer: I don't own King Arthur, and I make no profit from this story.
And PLEASE review! I'd really like to hear some feedback about how this is going, good or bad :) Also, I'm thinking of putting in one of the other Knights as a fairly main character later on – who do you think it should be? Anyway, hope you enjoy!
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Chapter Three: Rus and Revenge
"I will go to…" he began, but was cut off by a shout further down the line. Tristran, Arthur and Mordred swung around as a horse appeared out of the mist to their left flank, clattering wildly down the rocky slope.
"No. No, no, no…" groaned Mordred, his low and desperate voice sending a chill down Tristran's spine.
The scout felt the fury rising in him as he beheld the sight before him. Damn it all, Arthur. You will not stop me from riding out now.
"Oh, God," whispered Arthur as Percival's horse galloped towards them, its eyes rolling with fear, its master's bodiless head tied by his hair to the reins. It bounced sickly as the horse thundered past, the steed's grey coat spattered with blood. After a stunned moment, Galahad, the fastest horseman amongst them, spurred his own horse after the terrified animal, taking off after it into the thick mist. A shocked silence hung over the group, broken only by Mordred's desperate muttering.
"They will pay for this!" roared Lancelot, his hoarse shout startling the Knights out of their stupor. The mist muffled his call, but it shook the Knights to their very bones all the same.
"Let me hunt them, Arthur!" cried Bedivere, his sword ringing clearly as he unsheathed it.
"RUS!" screamed Bors, thumping his chest violently. The other Knights took up the war-cry, their horses prancing nervously under them. Gawain's yells were the loudest of all as he brandished his axe madly. Arthur rode forward and shouted for the men to be silent, followed by Mordred.
Tristran had no words. He wanted blood.
He and Percival had trained together, scouted together, had come to Britain together. They were from the same tribe, and had vowed to do all in their power to return home to their families at the end of the fifteen years. All hope was severed, now. Tristran felt a growl building behind his teeth. I will kill them for this, he vowed, the distressed shouts of his brothers a stark and painful backdrop to his oath. I will slaughter the ones who killed my cousin. Before they die, they will beg for mercy. And I shall give them none. Again and again in his mind's eye, he saw Percival's head thumping against the bloodstained flanks of his dependable grey stallion. He cantered up to Arthur, barely able to form the words through the choking anguish building in his chest and throat. He had no control now.
"I will find his body," he forced out, locking eyes with the Commander. Arthur flinched slightly at the animal glint in Tristran's eyes, and began to shake his head.
"Tristran, no, you…"
"I will go."
"I command you…"
Without a second glance, Tristran took flight in the direction from whence Percival's horse came.
"TRISTRAN!" Arthur roared after him. "No, Mordred…"
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Mordred winced as his horse leapt over the small ditch, landing heavily and jarring his aching side. He could see Tristran up ahead, riding like a madman, following a trail that only he could see. Well, I hope he's following a trail, thought Mordred worriedly. Though the mist had dispersed, snow was now blowing in from the north, flicking into his eyes and melting into icy rivulets that trickled down his neck.
"Come on, come on," he urged his horse, digging his heels in and flicking the reins. Blood-lust was coursing through his veins, and his heart raced faster than his horse could gallop. He would slice Percival's killer to ribbons, avenge the brutal killing of Gaheris. All with a deep wound in your side and a chunk sliced out of your neck? a cynical part of him snickered. You truly are a dreamer, as Lancelot calls you.
With his customary suddenness, Tristran wheeled to a halt, causing Mordred to grab at the reins furiously to avoid galloping into him.
"What do you think you're doing?" spat the scout, his eyes wild. "Go back to Arthur!"
"You bloody idiot!" snarled Mordred, patting his horse's neck apologetically. "Did you want me to run you down? And I'm not going back to Arthur, damn you. Perce was my friend too, and I have the right…"
"You have no right," said Tristran, his voice raw with grief. "He's my cousin! He is nothing to you. Now go. Go!" He spat at the hooves of Mordred's steed, his posture defiant. Narrowing his eyes, Mordred gathered himself up heatedly and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword.
"You will not speak to me like that," he said, his voice steady and cold. "I am your second-in-command, and I am accompanying you whether you like it or not. Now shut up and find the trail. I want to spill the blood of the savage that did this, and I want their guts steaming in the dirt." He met the scout's furious stare, glaring straight back with all the anger and authority he could muster. Finally, Tristran let loose a stream of Sarmatian curses as he turned his horse around and cantered off into a flurry of snow, gesturing sharply for Mordred to follow. The second-in-command followed, a small and bitter grin of victory flickering over his sharp features.
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"Stop."
Two hours had gone by, and they had found nothing. Mordred's previous fury had compressed into a cold, hard weight in his chest, and his side was throbbing. The snow continued to fall endlessly around them, covering tracks and making things incredibly difficult. This was the first Tristran had spoken since they had fought earlier, and with a relieved sigh, Mordred gently pulled his horse to a standstill. Tristran had dismounted and was examining the ground intently, smelling a pinch of dirt in the palm of his hand.
"We are nearby. Be ready. At least four others have been here recently." Tristran drew an arrow from his quiver and started forward, Mordred following close behind. He unsheathed his sword quietly, thanking the gods that he kept it in a leather scabbard. Bedivere's iron scabbard may have looked impressive, but metal on metal made a horrifically loud noise.
They crept through the trees, barely breathing. The snow carpeted the ground lightly, and in some places it had soaked up spots of bright red blood. Mordred felt a deep calm settle over him as he slid into his battle stance, the familiarity of the sword in his hand and the defensive crouch reassuring and safe. There was still no sound, but for the soft creaking of the cold trees and the breathy moan of the wind through the thick branches. The sky was darkening, and the light was dim and pitilessly grey. Tristran held up his hand suddenly, and pointed to the trees ahead. Three limp bodies were slumped on the leaf-litter, a dead horse sprawled beneath the boughs of an old chestnut. The body nearest to them was without a head. Mordred nodded grimly at Tristran, and they advanced into the open, weapons at the ready.
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With an internal groan of annoyance, Banna mounted up and nudged her mount in the side. As she and Donaith trotted off into the thin curtain of whirling snow, she sent up a silent prayer to the gods that they would not run into any trouble caused by the young man. Well, any trouble at all, she thought, looking south and trying to ignore the knot of dread in her stomach.
Keep us safe. Please.
Back at the camp, Iurnan smiled coldly.
Donaith shivered as a fresh gust of wind blasted him in the face, no longer deflected by the thick cover of trees. The trail Banna had found was leading them across an open plain, and the grey-eyed warrior felt uneasy. Another set of hoof prints had joined those of Murchadh's horse a short distance from their camp, and only moments ago Banna had discovered yet another set of prints falling in with the other two. Donaith was never nervous, even in the fiercest of battles, but the presence of the two tattooed brothers set him on edge, and left a bitter taste in his mouth. Ever since they had joined Donaith and Banna's tribe two years ago, Donaith had never felt completely at ease; always watching the brothers with wary eyes and deep suspicion.
"Banna," he called over the rushing wind, "This doesn't feel right." The tracker turned around and nodded.
"I know," she said, moving closer to him, "But we have to fetch him. I don't like the look of these tracks, though. They're moving fast."
"More like purposefully," muttered Donaith, the ominous feeling crawling uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. He lifted his hand to touch the lime in his hair, a gesture that usually gave him reassurance. The crunchy stiffness reminded him that he was a warrior, and the weight of the long braids that hung to the middle of his back was a reminder of his purpose. Each had a different meaning, one thick braid for each hardship that he had endured, one thin braid for each battle he had fought in. Banna chose not to braid her hair, her mildly menacing appearance more than enough to discourage opponents. She was quite fearsome, what with all the kohl around her dark eyes, her solemn face and her tangled mane; but she was also the best of friends, once she decided that she liked you. All the same, Donaith was always careful around her when she had her long spear in hand.
"Ready then?" she asked, giving her grey pony a pat on the neck. Donaith nodded wordlessly, and after one last glance around, they took off down the slope.
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Banna breathed a silent sigh of relief as they made it into the cover of the trees once more. Though they had crossed the plain without incident, she preferred to be in the forest, where the patterns of the trees were familiar, and the smell of mouldering leaves was musty and sweet in her nostrils. Donaith's nervousness was tangible, and was making her uneasy as well, though not enough to distract her from tracking Murchadh and his two companions. She pursed her lips in thought. There was something deeply suspicious about this whole situation.
The tracks continued south, and Banna sent up another prayer to the gods that they would not run into the Romans. As they rode, she kept trying to think of possible scenarios explaining Murchadh's actions, but none of them satisfied her. She had entertained the notion that perhaps Murchadh had been kidnapped by the two Roman scouts, but she dismissed this theory, remembering that the Romans shod their horses. These ones were without the clattering iron rings, and they were evidently swift-footed and sure in navigating the changing terrain of the forest. The snow, thankfully, was not as thick here as it had been further north, so the tracks were easier to follow. As she swept her gaze over the ground, her eyes alighted on a patch of disturbed ground up ahead. She pulled her pony to a swift halt, gesturing for Donaith to do the same. She dismounted quickly, spear in hand, and walked towards the markings.
Two of the men had dismounted here not long ago, and a third had ridden on. She recognised one of the sets of prints as Murchadh's; the other set belonging to a tall, heavily-built woman. Donaith stood silently beside her, scanning ahead with narrowed eyes, his axe drawn and ready. She mutely beckoned for him to follow her, as she in turn followed the footprints.
The two had led their horses to a nearby stream, and had stopped there before going across. It was shallow and freezing cold, so in an effort to spare their boots, Banna and Donaith mounted up and rode across. They followed the human and equine prints as they moved deeper into the forest, where the trees grew closer together. Banna tightened her grip on the spear as the wind blew a metallic scent downwind towards them. Blood, and some other rank smell. Donaith wrinkled his nose and spat in disgust.
"Something's had its guts spilled," he mouthed, and Banna nodded. Hopefully it was just an animal. As they made their way closer to the source of the smell, Banna laid her hand on Donaith's arm and gestured for him to spilt up and circle the other way as they closed in. He nodded, and took off to the left as she went right.
She smelt the body before she saw it. Headless, it lay beneath the low-hanging boughs of the evergreen trees, mutilated horribly. A Sarmatian Knight, she thought in horror, recognising the armour. One of the scouts. He was her enemy, but she felt a wave of sickness and anger at the state of the corpse. She had admired the skill of this scout, and had thought him once to be a worthy opponent on the battlefield. He showed mercy, and killed quickly and cleanly. Murchadh, for she was sure this was his work, had showed no such respect. She walked slowly towards the body, watching the trees around her for any sign of movement. Donaith appeared from the other side of the trees, his face twisting with disgust as he beheld the handiwork of their tribesman.
"Has he been dead long?" he asked as he came to stand beside Banna.
She crouched down, steeling herself, and examined the body. "No. He was killed perhaps, one hour ago? Maybe two? See…" she pointed to the mess that had been his stomach, beginning to explain how she knew.
"No," said Donaith, shaking his head. "Don't tell me. Grainne will punish him for this when she hears of it."
"Oh, no! I couldn't bear her displeasure." They whirled around as the mocking voice laughed from behind them, Banna dropping down into a fighting crouch and Donaith swinging back his axe.
"Murchadh." Donaith scowled as the tattooed man dropped gracefully from the lower branches of a nearby tree. He sidled towards them, a disarming smile on his face. "Why have you done this?"
Murchadh laughed. "He was interrupting us," he said boredly, holding up his hand and making an odd gesture. Banna hefted her spear a little as she stood up, watching in mounting dread as three figures melted out of the trees behind Murchadh. How did I miss them?
"Do introduce us," said Donaith coolly, his voice betraying no emotion, his posture relaxed. Banna knew him better than to think he felt at ease, however. He had always been better than her at hiding his worry, but she was a tracker, and used to picking up small signals. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the minute clenching and unclenching of his hand on the polished handle of his axe, the tautness in his arms.
"I would be glad to," Murchadh grinned, slipping his arm around the waist of the heavily-built woman that came to stand beside him. The two other men stood a little behind, their faces hidden by low hoods. "Donaith and Banna, meet Morag, Failbhe and Ivar. Old friends of mine."
"I'm sure the others will be delighted to meet you," said Donaith cordially. "Shall we burn the body, then, and return to camp?" His axe was lowered, but like Banna, he was ready to fight at any instant.
The woman named Morag titled her head, bright blue eyes wide. "I don't want to, though. I want to go north, yes, but not to see your fellows," she said, her voice startlingly light and smooth. "Murchadh told us we could get a little better acquainted with you, first." She smiled at them as she drew a long knife from her belt, examining it closely. "What do you know of knives, Banna my lass?"
Donaith started forward and moved closer to Banna. "She knows enough. Now please, let's…"
"No," said Morag warningly, tossing her short blonde hair over her shoulder. "I asked your friend, did I not? You will not interrupt me."
With frightening speed and strength, she flicked her wrist back quickly and released the knife with a toss of her fingers, sending it spinning through the air into Donaith's throat. Warm blood sprayed the left side of Banna's face.
Donaith's blood. Her friend collapsed to his knees beside her with an odd gulping sound, his axe falling from nerveless fingers.
For a single, endless moment, Banna was frozen, unable to believe what just happened. Then time caught up and shook her in its merciless teeth, the truth sinking into her with dreadful clarity.
She felt as though her lungs had collapsed. Not Donaith, no, please don't let him be dead…Struggling to breathe, she went for Morag, spear held high. As she prepared to thrust its point deep into the woman's gut, something hit her on the side of the head with shocking force, knocking her backwards. Her vision wavered as she tried to get up, her limbs refusing to obey her. She felt something warm and wet trickling down her face, heard Donaith crawling over to her, making noises strange and inhuman. Blackness crept in from the corners of her eyes, and she felt herself drifting further and further away from her body.
"He's all yours, lads," she heard a voice say as she toppled to the hard earth, her ears ringing. No, Donaith, no, no, no…
And then she succumbed to the darkness.
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A note on the pronunciation of certain names:
Donaith – DO-nee (rhymes with "bonny")
Grainne – GRAWN-yuh
Murchadh – MOOR-a-chu
Iurnan – YOOR-nun
Failbhe – FAL-uh-vuh