Note: Alright. This is the Highly anticipated (haha, who am I kidding? ;P) 4th chapter to the story. Clearly. Like I said… week-long intervals are really realistic for my updates. You know… like series episodes . Those of you that have stayed on, thanks for your patience—and I'm glad ya'll enjoy my story thus-far. I really do appreciate those of ya'll that have reviewed. As well as those of y'all that have "favorited" this story and/or added it to alerts. It's real flattering. Anywho, as always, hope ya'll enjoy! R&R 3.

Wind lashed her face numb. The sound of pounding hoofbeats rapped against her sensitive ears. Her eyes squinted against the abuse. Her exhausted legs had long ago forgotten the limits of their endurance. Her mind, lost to the pain—or rather, lack there-of. Pure ecstasy. But now was not the time for respite. Time was of the essence.

Below her, nearly three-quarters ton of pure muscle rippled in smooth harmony under a glistening ebon coat. She leaned against a thick neck, fingers knotted in an unruly onyx mane. Her thighs hugged the saddle blanket haphazardly draped over the stallion's back. A massive head strained against the taut reins, wide nostrils flaring with every fourth hoof fall. "Easy, Love." Those two soothing words coaxed the equine into a rhythmic breathing. Yet his strides lengthened. His neck extended further with his hastened gait.

Hengist had spoken true. Well, partially. Only one had walked away from the fight. The other was carried out. Unconscious, yes… but very much alive. Well, at this point, probably barely alive. Raivierra was no fool. Lancelot's vulnerable neck had been her target from the start. A perfect pinpoint strike. A steady hand. Her chest swelled with pride—no. Not now.

She had killed enough men to know which wounds inflicted a fatality… and the fact that the puncture hadn't spouted a geyser of blood was reassuring. It was that abdominal affliction that gave her reason to worry. That gave every second of this short journey the value of a priceless gem. He'd bleed out dry if left unattended; a lot of incentive for the wilderen.

The wilderin. The yawning caverns appeared on the precipice of the vast wall the duo had been skirting. The wilderin's lair. Their nest. Whatever you wanted to call it, it housed those grotesque beasts… not to mention their pungent odor. Loki slowed to a trot, independent of her command. He snorted, rattling the reins as he shook his head in disgust. The overwhelming scent of blood lingered in the air, clouding over the stockpile of bodies. All losers in Hengist's arena. Raivierra's gaze scrupulously dusted the treeline that bordered the clearing. No bandits about. Not a thing stirred for acres. That would be soon to change.

Feeding time.

Swine-like screams echoed from the confines of the grottos, announcing the arrival of the overgrown rats. As Raivierra and her equine companion came within four-hundred paces of the heap of corpses, she swung her right leg over the horse's back, dropping down his left barrel. Standing tall by the nearly-twenty-hand steed, she reached up to the twin burlap saddlebags thrown over his loins. Tossing the burden across her own shoulders, she meticulously drew the modest dagger from her boot.

A violent clinking of the reins. An agitated chomp on the bit. A cautionary whinny coupled with restless dancing of hooves.

"Easy, Loki." Raivierra murmured, looking up in time to see putrid pink and grey shriveled bodies emerging from the dens.

Shrill squeals once again grated against her ears. Whiskered snouts lifted to the air in unison, fanged mouths gaping open—savoring the taste ofblood on the gentle breeze. A few satisfied grunts… and then the colossal vermin made a beeline for what Raivierra had deemed 'the carcass buffet'. She had to admit… they certainly were extraordinarily fast for their hulking size. But so was Loki.

"Forgive me." Again, her voice was a whisper. Swiftly taking the knife to Loki's flank, she ignored his protesting whinny, pushing his biting head away. She carved a notable line along the horse's ribs, making certain the cut drained plentiful blood.

Already the wilderin had begun feasting on the first corpses they had come to. The sound of ripping flesh, popping blood vessels, and tearing of tendons generously seasoned the clearing. Hopefully Lancelot wasn't among the appetizers.

"Teach them to run." She spoke firmly into the horse's swiveling ears. Having said her piece, she moved back and slapped the stallion's rump.

Loki took off into a wild gallop, nearly tripping out of his standstill. The stallion screamed like a beast possessed as he rocketed straight towards the cluster of wilderin. The wilderin were intent on finishing their free meal, seemingly oblivious to the intruder. All of the horse's bulk barreled into the first wilderin with the speed of a ballista bolt. That got their attention. The two went tumbling, pursued by the other four wilderin. Loki was first to regain his legs, only to be backed up by two sets of bared teeth. He reared up on his hind legs, his forelegs wildly swinging as he came down. A sickening crack resonated throughout the heath—even reaching Raivierra on the other side of the field. His hooves had scored a solid hit, splitting a wilderin's skull. He was then bowled over by an elephantine body paired with gnashing jaws. He rolled onto his legs once again, and rose, neighing and bolting into the deep thicket with the predators streaking after him.

"Attaboy." Raivierra praised, tentatively crossing the field once the wilderin were out of sight. It wasn't that she didn't care about the stallion. She was simply confident. No way would those gluttonous pigs outrun that fiend borne of alacrity. Hell, he was her lifeline and hellion all in one—she'd lost count of how many times she had depended on him.

But right now, the one that needed her was Lancelot. That is, if he was still around. She slowed when she reached the collection of mutilated corpses. Stray body parts littered the ground. She picked her way through the would-be graveyard, stooping every-so-often to turn bodies over. Clean decapitations were the telltale signs of dismemberments by cleaving blades. Then there were the others. Torsos ripped in half. Faces ribboned into pulverized meat. At least, she assumed they were faces. They had eyes. Those were eyes, right?

"Damn it…" she growled, her stops becoming increasingly brief. Once the wilderin fell too far behind- once they gave up the hunt, they would return. They would find her. And they would…she had to get away before- no.

If she left, what little chance Lancelot had now would be discarded. As would he. But there he was. She'd nearly missed him; he was hard to recognize, face down and stripped of his chainmail- left in bloodied commoner's clothing.

"Lancelot!" Raivierra let out a cry of relief, knowing all-too-well that she would get no answer. She harried to him and felt under his neck for a pulse. And waited. A rustle of brush made her jump. Something quivered under her fingers.

His pulse.

She gasped out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding. It was faint. But he was alive. She positioned her feet on either side of his body and hauled him to his feet by his armpits, forcing his limp body to stand against her. Turning him around in her arms, she knelt before him, dropping the saddlebags from her upper back to an awkward nest in the crook of her left elbow. As he leaned over her, she dipped her shoulder against his abdomen, lifting him across first one, then both shoulders. She stood, grunting with the effort. Looping her right arm in between his legs at the knees, she grasped his forearm that dangled across her chest, locking-in her hold on the man.

Raivierra trotted towards the sanctuary promised by the thick canopy of the trees. If they were to stay out in the open, either the wilderin would find them easy prey, or Hengist's scouts would fell them. This detour was longer, yes, but it at least offered some coverage… though the wilderin would still find them an effortless snack. Lovely. She panted lightly, weaving between thick tree trunks. Not to mention they'd be walking back.

After several moments (bordering on eternity with her anxiety) of trekking through the forest, Raivierra stumbled abruptly, dropping to her knees. Her right leg spasmed intensely again, still fragile from the day before. A sharp pang shot up to her hip when she defiantly rose to her feet. She needed Lancelot stable. She needed him awake.

Taking refuge by an old uprooted tree, she unwrapped Lancelot from her shoulders (her taut muscles grateful for the reprieve), sitting him against the rough trunk. Flipping the wing of the left saddlebag open, Raivierra gingerly reached into the pouch, peeking into the sack as she shuffled its contents. Giving a frustrated groan, she turned it upside down, spilling its contents onto the ground already cluttered with dried leaves and twigs. What little light that managed to seep through the canopy struck the collection of bottles, bouncing frantically across their glass shells.

Medicine. 'Borrowed' from Hengist's coffers. A pleased smirk tempted the corners of her lips. These would fetch a lavish price on the market. And it wasn't as if the hoggish lout would think to waste them on treating his combatants.

Sorting through the vials, Raivierra's hands landed on a flat tub filled with a yellow cream and a fat flask of greenish liquid. A simple healing salve and… she popped the stopper on the flask, cautiously sniffing at its rim. A potent herbal aroma made her gag. Treacle. Perfect. She inched closer to Lancelot and gently pulled his shirt up and over his head, tossing the garment aside. The gaping gash in his abdomen greeted her. His raw, red flesh speckled with a darker color where his body attempted to mend itself. Swallowing the lump in her throat along with her grimace, she snatched her waterskin from the ground and drizzled it over Lancelot's wound.

No response. She then unscrewed the top of the tub and scooped a liberal amount of the thick unguent up with her fingers. She delicately touched the lips of the gouge. Still nothing. She proceeded to pack the wound with the balm, preventing further blood loss—smoothing salve over the incision on his neck as an afterthought to checking his pulse once more. Reaching into the right saddlebag, she retrieved her spare linen shirt and swiftly ripped it into two bands. She secured one around his belly and fastened the other around his neck. So far, so good. She then tilted his scruffy chin up with one hand, pouring the Treacle elixir onto his lips.

It would work. She convinced herself of that. It was strong. He was strong.

His lips moved. His eyes moved under closed lids. He stirred. She rained some of the waterskin onto his smudged face. He sputtered and coughed. Raivierra threw her head back, thanking the heavens. When she looked back at him, his dark eyes were open and fearful. His hand went for his misplaced sword, then with a groan of agony, to his crudely-bandaged abdomen.

"Don't." Raivierra grasped his hand and pulled it away. "It's nowhere near decent." She cautioned. "But it's the best I could do."

Lancelot was distracted, surveying his surroundings. His hands went to his chest then his shoulders. As if he couldn't believe he was hearing, and seeing, and feeling… "Where—how—a" His voice was hoarse, his baffled eyes faring better at conveying his message.

"It's alright. I've got you now." She spoke soothingly, offering him the waterskin. She smiled slightly as she watched him greedily drink his fill; his dazed condition becoming contagious.

"Yes, and you got me good right here…" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and felt his neck for where she had stabbed him. "How am I—how are we both—we had too—I told you to… You kil—" his thoughts ran together in a hopelessly jumbled mess.

"You know I never listen—especially not when there's something to be done. I had to make it look real, Lancelot." She interrupted him, catching his hand again. "I had to make them think you were dead… I apolo-"

"Apologize? You apologize?" It was Lancelot's turn to interject. "You saved my life." His hand fell on her shoulder and she relaxed under his touch. Just for a moment. "You've done all of this, when I'd given up. Apologize for nothing." He took her in a friendly one-armed embrace. "I can't express… how am I expected to repay you?"

She gingerly returned the gesture, careful not to disturb his dressings. She gently pushed him back, holding him at arms-length. "You owe me nothing."

"Rai…"He opened his mouth as if to say something. His eyes went soft. He reclined slightly against the log. There was something too his voice. Something never there before. It was tender. Caressing…

The moment passed.

His shoulders became rigid. His slack jaw set. He sat up sharply, flinching and holding his side with the suddenness of the movement. He turned a somber eye on her. "Where's Guinevere?"

Her face fell. She turned away and busied herself with repacking the medicine to hide her chagrin. She wasn't an idiot. While that poor girl was still in danger, she'd remain the priority…but couldn't it have lasted just a while longer? "She's waiting for us in the keep's dungeon." She replied flatly.

"Then why are we-? We must go to her at once." He slowly climbed to his feet, wincing and holding his gut. Raivierra scurried to steady him, allowing him to lean heavily on her.

"I thought you'd want to be prepared." She plucked a set of chainmail and the rest of his garb from the right saddlebag.

He gave her an appreciative look and accepted the offering. "What would I do without you?" he asked rhetorically as he began to suit up.

He'd asked her that same question a number of times. As for the answer…well, that could go one of two ways. He'd either be dead long ago… or completely better off. After all, she was the reason for his involvement with Hengist. And this was just one instance. Good God. A small smirk played across her face as she helped the links of the armor settle across his broad back. "I've stashed a cache of weapons by the stables. We'll need them." Her voice was deceivingly pensive.

He turned around, nearly falling on her as he tugged on his tunic in an effort to get it to sit just right. "Raivierra. There's just one last thing I could hope to ask of you."

Well, Hell. They were about to attempt an impossible escape from a dungeon whose only immediate exit was through tunnels infested with wilderin. Not even under the cover of night. And there was always the (probable) chance that they were caught. If that happened, they'd face down a legion of bandits with a timid serving girl, a heinously wounded man… and herself. Wonderful. Chances were, this would be the last thing he'd ever ask of her.

She scoffed to herself. "Anything."

Yet another twist =). Lancelot lives! I'm sure a few of you will be glad of that—especially if anyone was thinking of bailing after I killed off a lovely main character haha. Stay tuned for next week (or hopefully sooner—I'm already halfway into the next chapter)

Suzie0821: Thank you kindly. I've actually just decided who she will go with. So ya'll will be finding out pretty soon =). And as for your other comment: nope. Not a dream. But No dead Lancelot either =). Essentially, she intentionally struck shy of the carotid artery (which probably shouldn't have worked… but that's what fantasy is, yes? :P.

Undecided89: Thank you. I do try to stay away from "Mary Sue" characters. I'm glad (at least to you) that I have succeeded to some extent.

Corruption Tickles: Why aloha—nice to see one of my readers from another story. And thank you for the compliments. As for the other guy… you'll find out about him. Honestly though, it would be in the distant future.