5. Part 1: On the Run/Failed Escape/Rescue
("Ambush" from A Challenging Quest)
Arthur was on his knight's quest, alone and unaided. Past the border and beyond the last settlement…
But, what was beginning to make him uneasy was the lack of creature life, also. No rustling in dried grass and patchy underbrush of hare or snake or pheasant; no badger dens, no meadowlarks whistling warning to each other as he passed through. No birdsong or caution-call, not even a hawk-shape hanging motionless in a far corner of the sky.
The hairs along the back of Arthur's neck began to creep, and he resisted the urge to grip the hilt of the sword Merlin had given him.
Was he being followed, or watched?
His horse's ears swiveled as he came to the top of a rise, slightly surprised to see a small wood filling a deeper valley, before him. Arthur reined in. His gelding had been chosen for swiftness and stamina, and though all Camelot's mounts were trained, he was no charger accustomed to battle.
There was still no visible sign that he wasn't alone in the landscape, but that wood made him… uncomfortable. Unfortunately, it looked as though avoiding it would take him several hours out of his way, maybe even half a day, without promising greater safety along that route. And there was the dark edge of the tower where he was headed at the far horizon, not quite blending into the curve of hills.
"Can't go back," he murmured at his gelding, and those sensitive points turned back to catch his words without comprehension. "Won't go around… must go forward. Get ready to run if we have to."
Clicking his tongue, he shifted his weight and pressed his heels, and rode down toward the wood at a wary amble.
The ground was rocky, but fairly even, scrubby but not in a way that provided much cover for a predator of the two-footed variety. Arthur guided his mount away from the denser thickets, not holding to a predictably arrow-straight course.
But the air was too still – and then too thick. His horse labored to breathe, and as his pulse pounded in his ears, Arthur couldn't help his mind skipping over campfire stories, rumors and legends of location-based magic older and wilder than that wielded by human users. His gelding skittered and lurched, too nervous to settle into the walk but too agitated to hold a smooth jogging pace.
A branch cracked in the trees to his left and just behind the side of his vision. He glanced instinctively – nothing to see – then all around in case it had been a distraction-
Nothing to see. Nothing to hear – no birds flitting about, distressed or disturbed by his trespassing, no squirrels making the most of summertime bounty.
The gelding whickered, shaking his mane and kicking out his hooves, wanting to spook. Arthur hated to draw focus from his surroundings to control the animal, but wouldn't risk dismounting to lead his horse afoot.
He inhaled swiftly, instinct tensing his muscles to gather his reins rather than reach for his sword-
The whole wood inhaled swiftly, and then-
"Now!"
A shout, and a piercing whistle, and half a dozen men appeared, swinging around the thicker tree-trunks far and near – brandishing weapons, bellowing through the previous silence in a way calculated to freeze Arthur in overwhelming terror.
Except, he was the bloody crown prince of Camelot. This wasn't his first ambush.
One second to absorb position and movement, and there was a gap – and wisdom and discretion booted his gelding into the escape.
Swerve around this one. Rocket past that one.
Clear a fallen tree so that hooves lifted to threaten a third, and – the way was clear.
Arthur leaned low and urged the gelding's speed.
They weren't dressed as Saxons. They hadn't called out to halt his progress and demand he explain his presence in a partially-civilized way. Nothing to be gained by trying to fight six men alone, and everything to be lost.
Arthur glimpsed the edge of the forest and clear land beyond. None of them were mounted, none of them had longbows-
WHAM!
It felt like he'd ridden full-tilt into a sizable branch, swinging down at him – impossible – the tree was attacking, joining the ambush.
Sound vanished. Vision blurred.
Arthur was falling – fingers nerveless and limbs sluggish – the world slanting and the ground rushing up to meet him.
He felt himself bounce, and quit breathing.
Tumble… and roll… and then everything stopped.
5. Part 2:On the Run/Failed Escape/Rescue
("Hunting" from The Towers of Lionys)
Resting on the blanket spread for her on the forest floor, Lady Guinevere of Lionys watched as the elderly servant who'd accompanied their picnic fussed with the baskets and containers on the exposed bed of the wagon, preparing for the eventual return of hungry hunters.
Lifting her eyes to the trees of the forest, she searched idly for any signs of the visiting prince or the knights. They'd been an eager bunch, riding out, Prince Arthur at her side, with Sir Leon and Lancelot in front of them, the two other knights of Camelot behind her with half a dozen others native to Lionys.
She herself knew she would do well to become acquainted with the three visiting knights as well as the prince who'd come seeking her hand in marriage – and his sorcerer, if he ever turned up. As they rode, she answered the occasional remark of Arthur's, listening to the typical male banter going on around her otherwise, and watched the forest all around as if Merlin Emrys might suddenly pop out from behind a tree.
Or the assassin who'd attacked their party as they first entered the city, necessitating the sorcerer's separation from his companions, as he hunted the enemy through the city streets.
Riding out from the palace that morning, Gwen had ventured, "Will he–" in a low, hesitant voice.
Arthur answered immediately, confidently, "He'll be here. Even if we don't see him, right away."
She wasn't entirely sure which man they referred to. Maybe the good-natured repartee among the knights served to cover a higher vigilance. Arthur, at least, never let his gaze linger long in one place.
Reclining on the soft velvet groundcover laid for her comfort, she couldn't detect a single hint of the location of any of the three hunting parties. They'd ridden off in different directions, the prince's party being central, as his protection was a high priority for the morning. Last-minute insults and challenges were exchanged before each blended into the thick early-spring forest growth. She didn't really expect to see or hear any of them, though; they'd ride ready to fire the crossbows each carried at whatever prey they disturbed, and if they came across a fresh trail of something bigger – boar or bear or hind – they'd dismount and track more quietly on foot.
Gwen breathed deeply, relaxing, though the memory of the assassin still uncaught kept her mind awake and alert.
It might have been minutes only, or it might have been well over an hour, before she realized she heard only the sounds of surrounding nature – the rustling of leaves, the creak and rub of branches in the breeze, birds and insects. She listened deliberately for a moment, decided she was interested enough to bother, and sat up.
The two male servants were sprawled in the shade of the wagon, their tasks temporarily accomplished, waiting on further orders from herself or the returning hunters. She needed nothing; let them rest and enjoy the day also.
Only – where was Mary?
The faint surprise and gratitude she felt at the older woman's willingness to endure a cart-ride and the rough comfort of an outdoor meal without proper seating was budding into a concern for her well-being. Mary should not have ventured off by herself, the ground was too rough for an older person to wander without a companion, although any predators would probably keep their distance in the daytime.
She sat still and turned her head slowly, searching for movement or color – though Mary like most of the servants habitually wore brown – listening. Nothing.
Well, at least it gave her something to do. It was no longer relaxing just to sit there, if she continued to wonder and worry about the old woman.
She pushed herself up and descended the hill, her riding boots dislodging a few stones, her divided skirt catching on a low bramble-bush. The two male servants were on their feet respectfully as she arrived at the wagon.
"Get you something, my lady?" one of them said.
"A drink of water, please, thank you," she said, and he turned to fill a cup from a small barrel at the head of the wagon. "Where's Mary gone, do you know?" she asked the other, who shook his head and smiled in contrite ignorance.
The first handed her the full cup. "Mary headed that direction, my lady," he said, pointing. "She mentioned something about finding more water?"
Gwen looked down at the remaining inch of water in her cup, then gave the man a confused look. Surely they had plenty of water. He shrugged in response.
"I think I'll go and join her," Gwen decided, handing the cup back.
"Call if you need us for anything, my lady," the second added, as she turned away.
She had no interest in hunting or tracking, but she wasn't unobservant, having grown up in the company of men who did this sort of thing for a living or for fun. She noticed a stone overturned, a twig snapped, a patch of leaves no longer packed to the earth but shuffled, and followed the old woman quite easily. Water meant downhill, anyway, everyone knew that much.
Mary hadn't gone far, no more than sixty or seventy yards. Gwen saw her kneeling beside a small pool formed where a little brook descending from the west had backed up behind a small natural dam of stones and washed twigs.
She hesitated. Something about the old servant was – off. Mary wasn't relaxed and comfortable, enjoying the sights and sounds around her, nor was she busy with any self-appointed task of bringing water back. There was no bucket.
Mary stared fixedly down into the water of the pool, every inch of her plump, slow body tense with concentration. Perhaps there were minnows in the pool? She looked like she was watching something…
Gwen crept closer, trying to be as quiet as possible, to not disturb the old woman's activity, benign or… otherwise, but not as though she was sneaking or spying, until she was quite close, footfalls silent on the mossy carpet on the ground, and she could see into the pool as well.
At first, she saw nothing. No fish, no amphibians, no life at all to hold anyone's attention, only the reflection of light and shadow that was sky behind tossing leaves. But something didn't match. A light wind rushed through the little glen, causing the branches above them to shift and wave, but the water didn't so much as ripple, and the reflected shadows moved contrary to the air around her.
She took another step forward, and bit back a gasp. There was a crossbow in the pool.
It moved, but the water didn't, and a man's hand came into view, gripping the weapon. She realized her mistake – what she saw was not within the pool, nor a reflection. Mary was scrying. The faint sense of curious surprise that the old kitchen maid was capable of doing magic was quickly eclipsed by concern over the image shown in the water. The man's hand was followed by a shoulder, his shirt grubby white overlaid by a sleeveless jacket or vest of some thick coarse material.
He wore neither the red of Camelot nor the dark green of Lionys. But he was in the woods somewhere with a crossbow.
"Is that the man who attacked Arthur?" Gwen gasped, falling to her knees beside Mary, who paid her scant attention, merely mumbling an affirmative. "What's he doing?"
"He's waiting in ambush," the old woman said, matter-of-factly.
"We have to warn Arthur!" Gwen lifted her head to scan the forest, as if somehow the waiting assassin or the oblivious prince might be within ordinary view, or hailing distance.
"I cannot," Mary murmured.
"But he's in danger!"
"That he is," the old woman agreed calmly.
"There might be others hurt as well," Gwen objected. Perhaps Mary could give her an idea of direction, she could take her horse to try to reach one of the hunting parties.
"There is always that risk," Mary allowed. She hadn't lifted her head or looked away from the scene shown in the pool once.
She hadn't called Gwen my lady either; Gwen wondered if the old woman was even aware of the identity of the person beside her. But she hunched forward suddenly, her attention gaining intensity.
"Who is that?" she snapped, her gnarled hand hovering over the surface of the water.
Gwen leaned forward as well, studying the landscape the scrying pool showed.
"I don't see anyone," she said blankly. That was good, though, wasn't it? If they saw anyone else enter the image, that meant the assassin would see them also, wouldn't it?
"No, you wouldn't, would you?" Mary snarled, putting her hands down at the edge of the pool, heedless of moss and mud, to lean even closer to the water. "A sorcerer, damn his eyes! He's blocking me!"
"A sorcerer?" Gwen said, bewildered. She saw nothing but the man's arm and the crossbow jerking in frantic action, firing and loading and finally flung aside. "Oh, good! Merlin Emrys, he'll protect Arthur! He'll handle–"
Mary's hand flew, viciously and carelessly. The back of her knuckles caught Gwen's temple and knocked her sprawling backwards. Stunned, she watched as the pool erupted with bursts of silent light, obliterating the scene without disturbing the water's surface. Lifting her eyes, she saw the forest spread around them incongruously tranquil still. Mary snarled unintelligible words; they sounded cruel and dangerous, her gestures vehement and erratic.
Gwen managed to gain her feet, staring at the good-natured old servant in disbelief, trying to make sense of the chaotic scene in the pool – flashes of fire and wind-tossed branches – and the last image horrifyingly abrupt.
A man's body flopped to the bracken-covered ground, eyes open and face caught in the final grimace of undeniable death. He looked plain and ordinary, otherwise, his hair thinning on the top of his head. White shirt and brown vest. It was the assassin; the water went black. Gwen's sigh of relief was cut short by an agonizing wail from the old woman that set her nerves quivering.
"Ah, Thomas, Thomas!" Mary keened, and the name was familiar to Gwen before the servant continued, "My son, my son!"
What.
She took a step back. Mary had a son named Thomas, she recalled. He lived in town, and they saw each other one day out of the week. She hadn't known he was a sorcerer, either. She hadn't known he was an–
"Damn you, Emrys!" Mary hissed at the blank inoffensive water. "Damn you, Pendragon! You will feel the pain of loss before death, I promise you that! I will–"
Gwen's foot broke a stick.
She froze as the old woman turned on her, her wrinkled face twisted with venom, gray hairs escaping the sedate scarf she wore, wild-eyed now with grief and hate.
"We'll start with you, shall we, my pretty one?" Mary said, rising slowly to her feet. "The prince came here to hunt, did he not? Then let him hunt!" She raised her hand toward Gwen and shrilled a malicious-sounding phrase, light literally flashing in her eyes.
She had no time to run, or hide, or duck. She stood still, her heart pounded and her head swam. But nothing happened.
Mary smirked and added, "I wonder what Lord Lionel will do when he finds out what's become of his beautiful daughter, who he will hold responsible. I wonder what Sir Elyan will do to your golden-haired prince. I wonder what Sir Lancelot–"
She was interrupted by a shout from the direction of the wagon. Someone was calling Gwen's name; one of the other servants, maybe. Mary crouched a little in reaction, curling her arms inward against her chest as she clutched an amulet hung around her neck. Her incantation was hurried and desperate, and she tipped her head back as a wind swirled wisps of opaque mist around her, seeming to draw her upwards, and then she was gone.
Gwen was shaking, and couldn't help staring all around her, uncertain that the witch – there was no other word for it – was gone. She wanted to go to the pool for water to ease the dryness in her throat, the nausea of terror in her stomach, but for the memory of the magic performed there.
No. Best to return to the wagon.
She had not recovered from the shock, hadn't quite grasped the significance of what had occurred, she thought, stumbling in a fashion that was uncoordinated, for her, back toward a place of safety. But there was no reason for quiet, was there? The hunters ought to be alerted – the party to return to the city – her father to be told–
Through the trees she saw the brown-garbed serving men, and almost sobbed in relief.
"I'm here!" she called.
They didn't hear her, still visually searching the forest. Two others came up behind them, in her father's dark green colors but still too far for her to recognize them, their hunting bows swinging casually at their sides.
Gwen quickened her clumsy pace and called out again, waving to gain their attention. One of the servants tensed as if he'd seen her, leaning toward the knight beside him and pointing.
The knight raised his crossbow, aiming for her.
She froze, again. Hadn't they seen her? Perhaps there was an animal behind her, a predator stalking her that she hadn't noticed. She whirled round, scanning – nothing. She turned back – he was clearly going to fire his weapon. She stepped sideways behind a tree as the bolt sliced hissing through the air where she'd stood and the leaves just behind her.
"It's me!" she yelled from behind the tree. "It's Guinevere!" She risked a look.
The second knight had his crossbow up, the first was re-loading another arrow. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but one of the servants pointed to the tree she'd taken cover behind, and the second knight nudged his fellow to the left as he stepped to the right. She watched for several incredulous moments as the two adopted a hunter-stalker's distinctly stealthy tread.
Perhaps Mary had returned to the wagon area and enchanted them… All four of them? What did they see? Her eyes fell on the knight on the left, she opened her mouth and let out a blood-curdling scream. He didn't pause, didn't blink. He signaled something to his companion, and lifted his bow, once again aiming directly at her.
Gwen whirled and fled. There was no plan in her mind, no time for reasoning actions and making choices. Only escape.
There might have been another arrow, or five. She heard shouts behind her as the two men, heavier and encumbered with their weapons, gave chase. Instinctively she headed downhill, it felt the fastest route. She passed the pool and leaped over the stream and when she reached the bottom of the hill she turned northwest.
It was rockier and narrower and eventually she had to scramble over rocks on hands and knees, her gasping breaths and thundering pulse so loud in her ears she didn't know whether they might be gaining on her, or have lost her entirely. She only knew she did not want to try to outrun them on level open ground.
Reaching the top of that rocky slope, she risked a glance back. The two knights loyal to her father followed still, but their eyes were on the ground rather than on her. Had she lost them in the rocks?
A twig snapped, away to the south and she flinched. Zip-thud! and another arrow struck the tree beside her. One wild look showed her Lionys green and Camelot red – more hunters, joining the two she'd run from.
She moaned and began running again. The frantic energy of her first sprint was gone, leaving only a desperately determined strength that was beginning to flag. She stopped for breath and turned; glimpses through the underbrush showed her pursuers following inexorably. She sobbed under her breath and shrieked out, "Help me, somebody! Oh, help!"
Not a one of them looked to have heard the words. Should she climb a tree or would they shoot her down? Was there a spell on her? Would it wear off if she could elude the hunters long enough, or would she wander the woods until she died or was killed?
Gwen moved off again, more slowly, more quietly. The wood was thicker here, it meant she could keep out of their sight. So she believed until she gained the peak of a ridge and leaned against an enormous oak to try to catch her breath. Her chest burned and her feet throbbed in her boots and her legs wobbled and –
The shout and the pain were simultaneous.
"There it is!"
Fire exploded in her left thigh, melting muscle and bone, boiling blood. The force of the blow tipped her balance too far forward over the steep drop into a ravine, and her leg refused to hold her weight.
She fell.
It wasn't a life-threatening distance, but perhaps a bone-breaking one. Her outflung hands met an exposed root of the oak, and grasped, and her descent came to a halt. She hung there for a moment, the incline of the bank such that gravity would pull her down without her hold on the anchoring root, but a good bit of her weight was supported by the earth and not her arm.
Gwen looked back, and up – part of the bank had crumbled away, forming a hollow beneath the roots that would not be visible from above. If only she could… She kicked with her right leg, digging the heel of her riding boot into the side of the slope, and pulled. Inch by agonizing inch, clenching her teeth against the whimpering, she managed to tuck herself into the hollow, bracing her weight on a root with her good leg, so she could let go. She was shaking.
She closed her eyes to avoid looking at whatever injury was causing her entire leg to throb, to jolt her toward sickening darkness if it was bumped. She closed her eyes as a child playing hide-and-seek, illogically hoping that if she could see no one, then no one could see her. She heard them, though.
Rustling footsteps, and voices. The men, the hunters, though she didn't put any names to individuals, and didn't want to.
"Did you see where it went?"
"It was right here when I hit it, where could it have gone?"
"Are you sure you hit it? My old granny has a better eye for aim than you do…"
"Shut it – your arrow went wide, anyway, everyone saw that."
"There's blood."
"Maybe it went over the bank." Silence. Gwen held her breath.
Then, "If it's wounded, it'll head downhill. I know where this ravine comes out, we can pick up the track further down."
"How much further? It's nearly noon…"
"Oh, quit whining."
"Forego eating now, and we'll have something to contribute to the feast tonight." The voices began to fade, the footsteps to diminish.
"Was it a young buck or a doe, could you tell? I didn't see any horns."
"I didn't see a fawn, in any case."
How in all hells – she swore mentally, there was no one to correct her for unladylike language – had they mistaken her for a deer?
The leg supporting her weight began to tremble. She wondered how long she could remain in her hiding place before falling. She wondered how long it would take them to reach the end of the ravine, conclude that their prey had not passed that way, and begin to work their way back up to her. And when they did… a vague belief fluttered through her mind, that enchantments were broken when the caster – or the subject – died.
"My lady."
She jumped at the soft call and gasped at the shock of pain the movement sent through her.
There was a man below her, on the floor of the ravine, a peasant by the look of him. Rough, plain clothes somewhat grubby with long wear or hard work. Brown trousers, boots, jacket, faded red shirt. But his hands were empty; he carried no weapon. And his face held honesty and concern. And–
"You can see me," she said. "You can hear me?"
"Yes." He began to climb up the side of the bank toward her, careful with hand- and foot-holds in the steep incline, using the root system of the large oak to come almost even with her. "You're hurt."
"The hunters," she said, and her voice came out a miserable gasp. "I think they thought I was a deer."
"Yes." He nodded his head, shaggy black hair a bit damp with sweat tumbling over his forehead. "It's a strong glamour." His lips quirked at her; he looked young to be wandering the woods alone. "I don't suppose I need to ask your permission – why would you say no, after all – but some people feel more comfortable with a bit of warning before I do magic."
She stared at him, unable initially to draw the proper meaning from his words. There was something in his eyes - the accustomed heaviness of a burden, an accepted level of weariness that somehow laid aside the consideration of his troubles to make hers his priority.
He smiled again, more gently, even shyly, and spoke a few soft words. His blue eyes flashed golden, as Mary's had done, and again she could not tell that anything had changed. But he looked pleased with himself.
"You're a sorcerer," she said, and immediately felt stupid for stating the obvious.
"Yes."
Her mind began to work at something approaching normal speed again. "You're Arthur's sorcerer. Merlin Emrys."
"My lady Guinevere de Gransse, if I don't miss my guess," he said, as courteous as if they'd met in the atrium of her father's palace, but with a frank friendliness that made her feel immediately comfortable with him.
"Just Gwen, please," she told him.
His eyes shone with an immediate acceptance and connection that made her feel as if she'd passed some test. "Just Merlin, then, Gwen," he said.
But… "He said you were skinny," she said, with some confusion. Slender, maybe lean, but that impression was aided by his height, she thought.
His grin was boyish and infectious. "Arthur said?" She nodded, and he added, "The lady Morgana advised me years ago that I should do some growing out as well as up, and I have done my best to obey. Your leg is bleeding." She wasn't surprised, and didn't look down, only nodded when he added, "May I?" After a moment of jaw-clenching and eye-squinting – completely unnecessary, she didn't feel him touch her at all – he observed calmly, "You've been shot; the arrow is still in the wound. I can treat it here, or we can slide to the bottom of the ravine first?"
She looked into the deep blue of his eyes, earnest and focused, and at his hands. Empty. "But you've nothing…" she trailed off, not wishing to contradict her rescuer. But he had no water, no bandages.
His eyebrows, black as his hair, lifted in good humor. "I was intending to heal you with magic," he told her.
Oh, right. She blessed her complexion, which didn't show blushes easily. "Yes, please, if it's not too much trouble. Here?"
"If you wish, although I will have to remove the arrow first, which will cause some additional pain…"
She nodded and shrugged at once, reaching out to grip one of the knobby, dirty roots that ran fairly close to her head on her right, which turned her away from the injured side. He shifted his position, and she felt his touch on her leg, then, each twinge like a red-hot poker touching her skin.
"I'm sorry," he said, "deep breath in."
Gwen began to inhale, and he gave an almighty jerk. Her lungs filled with her pained gasp and pink and yellow stars burst against the back of her eyelids. Dust sifted into her face as her hands shook on the root she gripped for dear life.
She heard him murmuring again, felt his hands on her leg. The blaze calmed to a hot throb and then to a dull warm murmur.
And then she was only exhausted and damp with perspiration and trembly all over.
"I'm so sorry," he repeated. "You're all right, though. It doesn't hurt anymore?"
Not trusting her voice for a moment, she shook her head. Then she managed, "Down. Let's go down."
"All right. Stay behind me a little." He turned to descend the steep bank with his back to it, allowing himself to slide a couple of feet before halting to assist her. And if it hadn't been for his outstretched arm – he was stronger than he looked – a couple of times she'd have fallen the whole drop at once.
"Arthur really ought to knight me," he commented over his shoulder to her, his wry expression telling her he was joking. "Rescuing damsels in distress is a thing for a knight to do, isn't it."
"If he won't, we'll ask my father to do it," she responded, a little breathlessly, and he snorted in amusement. When they reached the bottom, he stood, but she shook her head. "I've run all over creation this morning," she said. "I'm going to sit for a while."