A/N: I'll use the Roman names when I'm naming countries or places. Caledonia is Scotland (beyond Hadrian's Wall, in this case), Hibernia is Ireland, and Britannia is – yep, you guessed it – Britain. Happy reading, and please review if you'd like to!

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Chapter Nine: Traitors and Trees

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Mordred watched in fascination as the three Picts knelt around the small clay bowl, painting their arms and faces with intricate, swirling designs in woad. The blue paint stood out starkly against their pale skin, and he watched as the tracker trailed lines of woad over her arm, a leaping deer forming under her fingers as if by sorcery. His mother had talked of the woad paint often, of the strange cold feeling as it settled into your skin. She talked of it with reverence, and now he could see why. The deep blue patterns were beautiful and strange, but at the same time familiar to him. I am more Pict than Sarmatian, Mordred realised with a surge of guilt. He loved his fellow Knights, and Sarmatia was the backdrop to his peaceful, loving childhood; but it was here, in the magnificent mountain ranges and mysterious forests of Caledonia that he truly felt at ease. He looked longingly at the three Picts, knowing deep in his heart that he should be sitting there with them, not looking on from the shadows. His skin should be painted and patterned, and… He gritted his teeth angrily. Such thoughts are wrong and disloyal. I am the second-in-command of Artorius Castus, and I am a Sarmatian Knight. After fifteen years service in Britannia, I will return home. This is my fate.

As began to turn away, the tracker, Banna, looked towards him, their eyes meeting across the clearing. He had no time to hide the naked longing written all over his face, and she stared at him in evident confusion. Frozen, they regarded one another: Sarmatian and Pict, chained and free, warrior and tracker, man and woman. With all his heart, Mordred wished to kneel beside her, to cross over and join the people he barely knew, but knew to be his own.

"Mordred," called Tristran, and Mordred flinched, released from the traitor's thoughts that wound around him like a sweet and gentle smoke. He looked over to the scout, who was holding both their horses with a long-suffering look on his face. "I'm not your stable-hand, Mordred," growled Tristran, pushing the reins into the second-in-command's hands. "Can you tell them to hurry? They're drawing pictures on themselves, and the killers are getting away. I'm tempted to go on by myself."

"It's a scared ritual, Tris. They have to do it, and we have to wait. That's all there is to it." Tristran raised an eyebrow at Mordred's snappy tone.

"The heir to Caledonia speaks, and the masses listen," he said dryly, hoisting himself up into the saddle. "How's that wound?"

Mordred ignored the scout's previous – incorrect – comment. "A bit better. When we stop next, would you help bandage it? I can't reach very well."

Tristran looked troubled. "Mordred, I should look at it now. If it festers…"

"Too late. They're ready," Mordred said, nodding towards the Picts who had stood up and were mounting their horses. As they trotted over, Mordred tried not to worry about his injury. Tristran's comment about festering echoed his own fears, but there was simply no time to be checking the bandages.

"Banna and Tristran up front," said the leader, Grainne, her horse tossing its head as the wind gusted into them. "You two will track. The rest of us shall follow, but all must keep sharp eyes on the landscape. They could be anywhere." Mordred quickly translated for Tristran, his Pictish having become more fluent and easy with practise. He avoided Banna's eyes carefully, embarrassed at his earlier display. He hoped that she would not mention it. Ever.

With one final glance around the ruined campsite, Grainne nodded to herself. "We stop for rest when the sun reaches its zenith," she said, her voice rising, the woad paint lending her a wild, untamed look. "Go!"

One by one, they cantered down the heavily-wooded slope, heading north. Mordred breathed the cold, biting air deep into his lungs and dug his heels into his mount's flanks. Tristran and Banna rode out in front, their postures alert and ready. Far above, the stars burned brightly in the blue-black sky, as cold as the wind, as the snow, as Mordred's own heart. I am a traitor, he thought miserably, scanning the landscape around him. Even if only in thought. Arthur's face haunted his thoughts, trusting and steadfast. These thoughts were not new to him, but the intensity with which he felt them now was worrying.

My duty lies with Arthur and my Knights, he told himself firmly. The longings of my heart do not matter.

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Sunrise. It had been many hours since they left the campsite, and the group of five riders was travelling fast across the misty landscape. The wind had died down in the dark hours of the early morning, and had been replaced by a pale haze, tinged pink and gold by the rising sun. A thin crust of snow and frost covered the ground, and Tristran felt as though he was riding through the middle of a cloud, suspended in the air. The silence was broken only by the occasional birdcall, faint and far away.

Their quarry was travelling fast and light, much like themselves. With their combined skills, Tristran and the Pict tracker were able to follow the trail of Murchadh, Iurnan and their companions with relative ease. The group evidently did not expect that they would be followed so soon, and had stopped for quite some time under the cover of some old trees, even going so far as to light a small fire. The distance between them was lessening, though there were still several hours between the two groups. Hunters and prey, thought Tristran, resting his hand momentarily on his sword. But if we are the hunters, why do I feel so ill-at-ease? He had never been one to baulk from danger, but going this far into Woad territory was just asking for trouble. He and Mordred may have formed a temporary alliance with these Woads, but there were dozens upon dozens of tribes roaming these lands; all of whom despised the Roman presence.

A flicker of movement caught Tristran's eye, and he looked to his left sharply. The Pict tracker had appeared at the top of a small crest, and was beckoning him over. She had ridden out ahead earlier to check for any changes in the tracks they were following, and was under strict orders from Grainne to report any signs of danger. At this point in time, the trail was still heading north-west, though somewhat haphazardly. The younger male Woad had mentioned that Iurnan liked to think of himself as a good tracker, and Tristran could easily recognise the clumsy attempts to put them off the scent. The only thing that troubled him, as he called Mordred over to translate the Woad tracker's message for him, was that this unsophisticated behaviour clashed with the tracker's account of the warriors. She had said that they were skilled and quiet, and had evaded even her notice. After tracking and scouting with her for merely a few hours, Tristran could see that this would not easily be achieved. I have a bad feeling about this…

"Tristran! What is it?" asked Mordred worriedly, cantering over.

"I just need you to translate for me. She's talking too fast, and I don't know how to slow her down." Tristran glared at Mordred as he smirked widely.

"Oh, very well," sighed Mordred finally, and Tristran gestured for him to follow as he rode over to the tracker. Their horses' breath steamed in the cold air, and the whole scene had a sense of deep enchantment to it. No doubt Mordred was terrified. For a man so fierce in battle, the second-in-command was deeply superstitious and believed in all number of supernatural beings. When Bors had mocked the 'faerie king' of Mordred's stories, Mordred had gone as white as a sheet, begging Bors to take his words back and making warding gestures with his hands. No doubt such beliefs were influenced by his Pictish mother – by all that was sacred, Tristran still could not believe the secret heritage of Mordred's family. Mordred – the heir, no matter how indirectly, to lands and power in Caledonia. It bordered on laughable, quite frankly. He glanced over at the man as they neared the tracker, and smiled to himself. Mordred's face was smeared with filth down one side; his thick, dark hair a wild and leaf-strewn tangle. His leather trousers were spattered with accumulated blood, and his once cream-coloured wool tunic was foul. Tristran knew that he did not look any better himself, but he wasn't virtual Pict royalty.

"Mordred will translate," he said to the tracker as she nodded a greeting to them.

"I will begin, then," she said slowly, then started to speak. Very quickly. Tristran fought the temptation to smack the palm of his hand to his forehead. How could they even understand one another?

"I followed their tracks up ahead, and all seems well," Mordred translated quietly as she spoke. "There seem to be tracks from eight sets of horses, all riding close together. I find this unusual, but…" The tracker shrugged, and Tristran frowned. No. There is definitely something wrong here.

"I do not trust them," he said, and the tracker nodded as Mordred translated. "We have to be careful. Mordred, tell Grainne and Fearghus to be highly alert – expect trouble at any time." Mordred nodded and rode back down the slope, followed by Tristran and… whatever her name was. If she only ever calls me 'scout', then I am free to call her 'tracker', he thought to himself. One of the few things that I am free to do.

As they resumed their places, albeit closer together, Tristran narrowed his eyes as he stared as far as he could into the distance. The rising sun cast their shadows out in front of them as they rode, dim and faded in the mist. They looked like the shadows of giants, tall and proud, like something out of an old tale back home. He thought briefly of Arthur and the other Knights, far behind them on their way back to the Wall. They would all be worried, or furious, or angry. They may even think that we've died. Actually, that was unlikely. Though it seemed like a lifetime, Tristran realised with surprise that they had only been gone for one day in total. The thought of Arthur and the Knights made him feel guilty, however, so he took a deep breath and focussed his attention on the trail, hoping that no nasty surprises awaited them ahead.

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As the sun climbed higher into the pale winter skies, the mist was dissipated; floating away into ribbons of nothingness as the sun warmed their backs. Banna's worries, however, remained. She had the most dreadful creeping feeling on the back of her neck, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something important. She glanced over at Tristran, his stiff posture and darting glances telling her that he felt the same way.

The scout was actually an ideal companion, despite his taciturn nature. He was silent and swift, and his eyes were sharp, picking up on many small details that Banna had expected him to miss. She even had to smother a pang of jealousy a few times as he noticed things that she almost passed by; but she dismissed these petty jealousies quickly, and was grateful for his presence beside her. She almost wished that he spoke her language more fluently; but then again, that would mean that Mordred would not have to translate. A definite loss. To her dismay, she found that she genuinely liked the narrow-faced Knight, and she sent up a prayer to the gods that they would never have to meet one another in battle. She tried telling herself that she could not befriend her enemies, that it was traitorous to do so; but then Mordred would smile at her, or make a silly jest, and all her plans to behave coldly towards him fell to pieces. He was simply too… nice. She couldn't bring herself to hate him. Oh, these ridiculous feelings! she reprimanded herself crossly. I cannot afford distractions, not now.

The sun was almost at its zenith – the agreed time for them to take a rest. And about time, too, thought Banna wearily, her eyes beginning to feel gritty with tiredness. They were all fatigued, having kept up a fast pace for many hours on very little sleep. On top of that, Mordred suffered from the pain of his wounded side, and Banna was still feeling slightly dizzy from the blow to the head she had received earlier. Grainne and Fearghus were relatively unscathed, escaping the killings back at camp with a few minor wounds and cuts. Tristran… well, any assailant would have to slice through several thick layers of dirt to reach skin; from his lack of injuries, it appeared that none had been up to the challenge.

"Banna – could you check those trees up ahead? We will rest there, if it's suitable." Grainne pointed to the wide cluster of trees spilling down in a river of greenery from between the folds of two steep hills, and Banna nodded. She and Peigi flew across the open plain towards the small forest, the little grey pony delighted at the chance to gallop freely, even for a little while.

They reached the thick wall of foliage at the edge of the forest quickly. Banna dismounted and walked warily into the cool dimness, Peigi's reins held in one hand, Donaith's axe in the other. Though she was not as skilled as her friend had been with an axe, she could still use one to chop and hack at things. Or people. She glanced around, looking for any signs of human presence, moving deeper and deeper into the trees. She took comfort from her pony's relaxed attitude – if anything bad was about to happen, Peigi was usually the first to get spooked. The trees here were mostly very old evergreens, the melting snow plopping occasionally from their thick, knotted branches. Banna nodded to herself finally, feeling that all was safe. There was a good feeling about this place, and the presence of oak and rowan trees reassured her. Her people particularly revered the rowan tree, with its crimson berries and arrowhead-shaped leaves, and Banna firmly believed that these gnarled old grandfathers would offer them whatever protection they could. They were bare of their leaves and berries now, as it was winter, but when summer arrived, she imagined that the small glade they were currently standing in would be beautiful. All the same, she thought as she mounted up and began riding back to her companions, it would do to be very careful. The uneasy feeling had returned as soon as she was out of the leafy embrace of the rowans and oaks, and she urged Peigi to go faster, wanting to return as quickly as possible.

"Safe," she reported to Grainne briefly, "I think we should go there as soon as possible. It's a good place – lots of old oaks and rowans." Grainne nodded, visibly relieved.

"I take it Peigi was not spooked, then?" she asked with a smile. Banna grinned back.

"Not in the least. I don't think we have anything at all to worry about." As they were about to ride off, the scout murmured something.

"What did he say, Mordred?" asked Banna quietly, noticing the uneasy look on Mordred's face. He laughed, but Banna could hear the nervous edge to his voice.

"Oh, it's nothing," he said, urging his horse into a swift canter. Banna kept up easily beside him.

"No, what was it?" she asked persistently, raising her voice so that he couldn't 'pretend' not to hear her.

"Oh… I think it translates into 'famous last words', or something," he called back, a forced smile on his face as he glanced at her. Banna raised her eyebrows, the scout's ominous statement reflecting her own misgivings about this whole situation.

She looked over her shoulder as they entered the woods, but even though there was no sign of anything behind them, she still couldn't get rid of the prickling sensation at the back of her neck.