A/N: Dialogue written in bold indicates that they're speaking Pictish (Pictish? The language of the Picts? I'm not sure what to call it, so either one of those. Take your pick(t)). Dialogue written in italics indicates the character's thoughts.
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Chapter Seven: Frustration and Fear
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Tristran watched the woman walk into the trees, her matted, dark hair tossed around by the growing wind. As soon as she was out of relative earshot, he turned to Mordred in disbelief.
"We're going to die," he said bluntly.
Ignoring Mordred's indignant protest, he walked over to where his horse was tied. He could not believe the sheer stupidity of Arthur's second-in-command. The woman would wait until they were distracted, and then kill them and steal their supplies. How could they believe a word she was saying? He did not even understand most of it, so frail was his grasp of the Pictish language. Tristran did not appreciate the feeling of deep inadequacy that Mordred's fluid grasp of the language awoke in him. Compared to Mordred, the Pictish prodigy, his previously acceptable vocabulary seemed clumsy and awkward.
And Tristran, celebrated scout to Artorius Castus and deadly Sarmatian Knight, was most certainly not those things.
Mordred spoke the language as though it was his mother tongue. Oh, that's right, Tristran thought sarcastically as he tightened the girth on the saddle, it is his mother tongue. Dear Mordred somehow forgot to mention that his mother is the daughter of some Pict witch. His horse shifted as he jerked the straps with a little more force than was necessary, and Tristran gave her a rueful pat on the neck. "What are we going to do, eh?" he murmured, the ghost of a smile flickering over his features as his faithful mare head-butted him gently. The presence of the dead horse across from them had her spooked, and as he fished an apple out of the saddlebag, Tristran bit off a chunk and fed it to her.
Gods save him from idiots and Picts. Ah, Percival, he thought wretchedly. What I wouldn't give to have you here right now. He glanced at the body a few short spans away from him. Well, here right now, and alive.
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Mordred watched Tristran readying his horse, and heaved a deep, internal sigh.
"He hates me," he muttered to his own horse, wondering which way was best to mount. Bedivere would be beside himself with worry if Mordred ripped out all his stitches. The wound was slowing him down, and he had watched with unease the Pict woman's earlier calculating glance at his injury. Probably figuring out the most effective way to cripple me for life, he thought to himself, heaving his aching body up into the saddle. The speed with which she had thrown herself at him before had disturbed him, and he wasn't surprised to hear her confirm that she was a tracker. Trackers could strike faster than adders and tread as quietly as fog rolling in from the sea. His mother's brother had been one, before he was killed in a battle against some Irish raiders. He had come to visit them in Sarmatia only once, claiming that it was too huge and open for his tastes. Mordred did not blame him. He did not feel the deep longing for the "boundless plains" of home as did the other Knights; instead drawn to the deep forests and tree-cloaked hills of his mother's homeland. But those were thoughts for another time. Now, they were hunting.
The Pict woman – Banna, he reminded himself – came out of the trees leading a stocky grey pony. Surprised that the killers had not cut its throat as well, Mordred pursed his lips to hide a smile. So that was what they were riding in the highlands these days? Not that he'd ever been there, but even so… Compared to the strong, long-limbed warhorses that he and Tristran rode, the little pony's size bordered on the ridiculous. It was barely taller than the tracker herself, and resembled a white puff-ball, so soft and thick was its winter coat. How did she plan to keep up? Not to demean the pony, of course. He had ridden one like that too – when he was eight.
Mordred nodded politely to Banna as she mounted up and rode over to him, her friend's axe strapped to her back.
"Did they take your weapon?" he asked, still not completely confident speaking what used to be his first language. His mother would have been horrified. His grandmother… Mordred grimaced internally. Her reaction didn't bear thinking about.
"So it seems," Banna responded with a shrug. "I'll get it back, though."
Mordred heard the underlying threat in her words. "What do you fight with?" He gave her an appraising glance. She was quite muscular in the arms, and of a medium height and weight. He guessed she would fight with…
"Longspear," she replied. "Though I hunt with a bow." Curses. He'd have thought she was more the sword-and-dagger type. Mordred, my lad, you're losing your touch. Finally, Tristran rode over to join them, munching on something in a surly fashion. He stared at Mordred frostily, and finally nodded.
"Ready?" sighed the second-in-command, ignoring the scout's bad attitude. He received a terse nod. "Let's ride, then."
Banna nodded, nudging her pony in the flanks. It tossed its head, and then took off into the trees. "We ride north," the tracker called over her shoulder. "Look for signs, and follow my lead." Tristran muttered something that sounded suspiciously like: I'll follow my own bloody lead, causing Mordred to snort loudly. The scout obviously didn't like being told what to do by women; unlike Mordred, he hadn't grown up in a family with numerous domineering females, as well as a menacing matriarch. Grinning to himself as he thought of his mother and sisters, Mordred urged his horse after Banna.
As the cold wind bit his nose and cheeks, he could feel the blood-lust begin to surge in his veins once more. The danger of all this sent a strange elation through him, and despite the pain in his side and the uncomfortable tightness of the wounded skin around his neck, Mordred wanted to scream a war-cry to the darkening sky. There was something disturbingly alluring about hunting human quarry; the feel of a galloping horse beneath you, of a sharpened sword tied securely at your waist. Percival and Gaheris' killers were out there in the shadows, but they would not run and hide for long. Mordred's blade was thirsty. He would quench it with their blood.
"You wish to hunt with a savage?" Banna had asked them earlier, her voice mocking and doubtful. Oh, sweetheart, thought Mordred, a feral grin spreading over his face. You haven't seen savage yet.
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They had been riding for a couple of hours, and Tristran's annoyance was only just beginning to wear off. He rode close behind the Pict woman, whose little pony was astonishingly fast and light-footed over the uneven terrain, and watched both her movements and the movements around them carefully. His eyes constantly darted from side to side, all his senses on high alert. They had stopped to examine some tracks an hour or so ago, and the woman had told them more about the killers. Tristran, after observing the fast reflexes and reactions of the tracker, was mildly concerned at her account of the speed and stealth of Murchadh and his companions. The woman claimed that they appeared to be Picts, and that Murchadh and his brother were members of her tribe, but Tristran had his doubts. She was not sure of their motivation, either, and Tristran had to admit that he, too, was uncertain. He had voiced his concerns, as they checked a riverbank for any prints in the soft mud, about the brother that had remained back at the woman's camp.
"It sounds like a diversion to me," he had said to Mordred, who quickly translated for the woman. "They send you off, leave the camp less protected, then…" He trailed off, shrugging.
The woman had looked uneasy. "There is nothing and no one valuable at the camp," she had said slowly, pausing scoop a handful of water to her mouth. She then babbled something that Tristran couldn't make out, so he looked reluctantly to Mordred for help.
"She says that your idea is disquieting," his fellow Knight had translated, "and that, uh… I don't know how to say this. Ah… she still thinks it is a, um… valid? Yes. She still thinks it's a valid idea. She says she's never trusted them." Mordred made a face. "I'm a bit rusty with translating. Does what I said make sense?" Tristran had nodded briefly, and the second-in-command gave him a relieved smile. Why does he have to be so likeable? grumbled Tristran to himself as they had ridden off once more. Sometimes, Mordred was just too pleasant for his own good.
If he judged correctly, they were now nearing the location of the Pict woman's camp. She was certainly looking very alert as she rode; reins held loosely in one hand, axe in the other. She appeared to have taken his warning about trouble from the other brother – Iurnan? – very seriously. As they cantered along, having slowed down because of the darkness, Tristran's eyes caught sight of an odd shape in the bushes. It looked almost like…
"Stop!" the Pict woman called out, wheeling her horse around and leaping to the ground. Tristran did the same, drawing his sword as he carefully approached the thick wall of foliage. He pushed some branches aside with the blade, and growled through his teeth. He heard the swooping sound of Mordred's sword as the Knight turned around and raised his sword in preparation for an attack. Another dead horse. Saddled and bridled, its saddlebags empty and its throat cut in a similar fashion to the bay mare back where Percival's body lay.
"It is not recently dead," said the woman quietly as he came to stand beside her. "A few hours ago, maybe more."
"Is the horse familiar to you?" Tristran asked, after trying to remember the word for 'horse'.
"Yes," she said simply.
"Are we nearing the camp?" asked Mordred from behind, watching as she examined the ground around the animal, searching for tracks. She straightened up and ran a hand through her hair worriedly.
"That is where the tracks are leading." At the look on her face, Tristran strode back to his horse and swung into the saddle. The woman was already mounted and cantering off. Tristran waited for Mordred to struggle into the saddle before following, carefully scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. A plague on windy nights, he swore in frustration as every bush quivered and every tree creaked in the bitterly cold breeze. Neither he nor Mordred sheathed their swords as they followed the woman and pony through the forbidding, wind-tossed woodland. They exchanged a glance. Tristran had always tried to focus on the moment at hand, refusing to guess at the future; but in this instance, he was almost entirely certain that the Pict woman would not be finding her friends in the same way she left them.
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Mordred exchanged a glance with Tristran as they headed up the steep incline towards a thick grove of trees. This appeared to be the location of the camp that Banna had spoken of earlier, the trees crowded close together on the crest of the hill. The position would have provided an excellent view of the countryside for miles around, if only so much of it was not so heavily forested. Mordred wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but he could have sworn the breeze bore a sickly metallic tang to it, which smelt horribly like blood. One man could not kill fifteen others, armed or not, he told himself firmly, watching ahead for any signs of danger.
But one man with reinforcements could, a traitorous voice murmured in his mind, sending a pang of dread through him. Just how many killers were they dealing with?
"Mordred," said Tristran quietly, pointing over to where Banna was dismounting. The second-in-command slid off his horse and walked over to her, Tristran following close behind. The tracker held her axe with whitened knuckles as she nodded at a point near the top of the hill.
"Fire's out," she said, her voice barely audible. "Can you smell…?" Tristran and Mordred both nodded. The metallic scent was stronger now, reminding Mordred horribly of the air after a battle. He could not deny it as another gust of wind blew the sickening smell right into his nostrils. For her sake, I hope it is not so. Banna met his uneasy gaze, and tightened her jaw, motioning for them to follow her.
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Hidden from watchful eyes by a thick tangle of bramble bushes, two figures crouched low in the dirt, and waited.
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As always, please review! I'd love to hear from you. :)