Chapter 1: Dragon Hunt
Arthur woke up with a start, his body drenched in sweat.
Abruptly, he sat up in bed, heart thumping wildly in his chest. There was a faint ringing noise in his ears and his mouth tasted of copper. When he brought a shaky hand up to his lip, his fingers came away bloody. He must have bit on it in his sleep, trying to stay quiet.
As nobody came rushing into his chambers, he must have succeeded. Good. The Prince of Camelot could not be heard screaming in his sleep every other night. Guards and servants tended to be the worst sort of gossips.
Arthur exhaled sharply and let himself fall back onto his pillows. The ringing was already subsiding, though his heart was still pumping blood at an impossible speed, a staccato of painful thuds in his chest.
Finally, with his pulse slowing to a more reasonable pace, he wiped his sticky brow on a clammy sleeve, then glanced towards the window. The curtains had been sloppily drawn. Arthur could see pale moonlight shine through the stained glass and past the thick velvet cloth, painting faintly coloured shapes onto the floor of the Prince's chambers.
It was the middle of the night. He should try for more sleep if he wanted to be fit for training tomorrow.
But Arthur knew that if he closed his eyes now, he would slip right back into that nightmare. Even now, wide awake, he could almost hear the screams: women, pleading for the lives of their children; boys and girls much younger than Arthur himself, sobbing and screeching in fear.
Suppressing a groan, Arthur fumbled with the blankets and sheets until he had extracted himself from the bed. His bare feet were cold against the stone floor and his sweaty skin immediately prickled in the cold of the chambers. The fire in the hearth had burnt down to mere embers. He approached it, picked up the iron and stoked the flames, adding some more logs from the wood basket once the ashes had flared to life.
The Prince should not be doing this himself, a chore beneath his dignity, but Arthur had banished his manservant from the antechamber soon after the nightmares had started. He simply could not stomach Morris's uncomfortable expression and pitying looks as he asked, "Do you have need of me, sire?"
With the flames roaring, Arthur settled down on an armchair in front of the hearth. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then watched the fire for a while, trying and failing not to think about the pictures seemingly etched into his skull.
Abruptly, he balled his hands to fists, pressing them painfully into his thighs. Why? Why was he so weak? Why was all this still affecting him, months after the raid had happened?
They had only been druids. Sorcerers, most of them, and those without magic were friendly to it, used it indirectly by living in the same tents as witches and their like. Killing children and women went against the Knight's Code, yes, but his father had said that the rules did not apply to those using magic. That even a child could be easily corrupted by the evil powers of magic. Arthur had done nothing wrong when clearing that camp.
And yet…
Arthur shuddered. He uncurled his fingers and brought up his hands to press the palms against his eyes until he saw stars. If only he could erase what he had seen, expunge the pictures haunting his sleep. Sometimes, he wondered if he had been cursed by one of the hags they had slain that day, forced by wicked magics to relive the bloody scenes again and again.
Maybe he should see Gaius about a potion. He knew Morgana had been having nightmares. Infrequently, only every other week or so, but often enough to require some sort of help with them. Gaius had been brewing a sleeping draught for her. Perhaps Arthur could have one of those.
But the King might hear of it. Might ask questions. Might realise that Arthur was still… affected. That he was weak.
Uther could never know Arthur was weak.
He was the Prince of Camelot. Even at seventeen, great things were expected of him: surpassing older knights in training; impressing the nobility with his prowess; winning tournaments.
Leading raids on druid camps.
Arthur exhaled sharply and got up from the chair. He needed to go back to sleep. He needed to keep up his strength.
By the time dawn had approached and Morris appeared in his chambers holding a breakfast tray, Arthur had drifted off only into the lightest of slumbers. He was immediately awake when the servant started quietly setting out the dishes over in the sitting area.
Somehow, Arthur made it through the morning drills and subsequent duels in spite of his fatigue, though he only barely managed to beat Sir Kay, who usually was an easily beaten opponent, slow as he was with the broadsword. Had they fought with the mace – one of the few weapons Arthur had yet to master properly – the older knight would have likely pummelled him into the ground. Fortunately, he was spared the embarrassment.
At lunch with the King and Morgana, Arthur had to stifle a yawn, born from exhaustion as much as from boredom. Uther was listening patiently to Morgana's numerous demands and wishes for her upcoming birthday. Arthur did not care for talk of jewellery, fancy fabrics and round dancing, and focused his attention on the lunch Morris had served him.
"… true about the dragon, sire?"
Arthur stilled, a forkful of mutton half-way to his mouth. Had Morgana just said dragon ?
"I'm afraid so, Morgana," Uther replied, his voice warm and indulging in the way he only ever was with his beloved ward. "You mustn't be scared, dearest. My knights will take care of the horrible beast. You are perfectly safe here in Camelot."
"I'm not scared," Morgana returned with just a hint of petulance, brushing a wayward strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Actually, I'd love to get the chance to see a dragon. I think they're magnificent creatures!"
"No, you're quite wrong there, my child," replied the King with a grimace, though with little heat behind the admonishment. "They are disgusting, dangerous monsters. Nothing a young lady like you should concern yourself with."
"A dragon, you say?" Arthur spoke up, setting down his cutlery.
Uther sent him a side-way glance. "Yes. The very same that escaped Sirs Osric, Bors, and the others last year."
Arthur nodded. Of course, he knew what incident his father was referring to. The King had not been well pleased with the knights he had sent out to capture the infamous Balinor. They had returned with nothing but their word that the dragonlord was dead. "Has Balinor's son been seen with the beast, then?" Arthur enquired.
"No." Uther balled his right hand to an angry fist. He had turned away from Morgana now, his eyes focused on his plate as he scowled. "Though I'm sure the dragonlord must be close. These wicked creatures never fly far from their masters."
Arthur could hear the hatred dripping off of every word. His father, he knew, had been obsessing over capturing the last of the dragonlords for the past months. Balinor's son had disappeared from the family's house in Essetir the night of Balinor's killing and had not been seen or heard of since. Uther had someone keep their eyes on the mother, lest he returned to her, but to no avail.
"If I may ask," Arthur ventured. "Where exactly has this dragon been sighted?"
"The Mountains of Andor, near the Mercian border," Uther informed him, his voice still laced with anger.
"And you're sending out armed men after the dragonlord and his beast?" Arthur prodded nonetheless.
"Well, of course," the King confirmed with a sneer. "We can't let them roam free and threaten our land and people. Sir Bedivere will leave with some men at first light on the morrow."
Arthur thought that over for a moment, choosing his words carefully when he replied, "It is my understanding tensions have been rising with King Bayard."
Uther sat back in his chair and studied Arthur, eyes narrowing as he looked him over. As usual, Arthur stiffened, but tried not to show just how much his father's gaze could still unnerve him. He was the Prince. It was his right to discuss these kinds of topics with the King – Camelot's safety was his responsibility as much as it was his father's.
Fortunately, Uther seemed to agree. "I see you've been paying attention in the council sessions, then. Yes, there's been some minor skirmishes. You remember Sir Pellinore's report about the Plains of Othanden?"
"Yes, sire," Arthur replied. "Othanden, I believe, is only an hour's ride away from the Mountains of Andor. Might Bayard not see the presence of Camelot's men-at-arms in the area as a form of aggression?"
Uther's mouth was set in a firm line. "I will not let that man's paranoia dictate my decisions on where to send my knights in my own kingdom! Do you think me that weak?"
Arthur quickly bowed his head, mindful of his father's temper. "Of course not, sire."
"The dragon needs to be slain and the dragonlord captured," Uther continued, his fist coming down on the table in a determined gesture. "Sir Bedivere and his men are under strict orders to stay on our side of the border. Bayard's knights will have no reason to feel provoked, unless their king is looking for an outright excuse to start a war."
Which he very well might be , Arthur thought grimly, remembering the recent reports read at council. Out loud, he said, "In that case, Father, may I make a request?"
Uther let out a noise that might have been an impatient sigh, but waved his hand in a let's-hear-it sort of motion.
Arthur tried not to let his father's attitude get the better of him. "With your permission, sire, I would accompany the troops to the Mountains of Andor."
Uther raised his eyebrows. "You wish to join the dragon hunt?"
"Slaying a mighty beast such as a dragon should be the prerogative of the Prince, should it not?" Arthur argued. "The beast adorns our banner; it is part of our family's name. It would only be proper that a Pendragon should be the one to slay the drake. Besides, a prince must prove himself in the eyes of his men, as Your Majesty has reminded me on many occasions. If I kill the creature myself, it will go a long way to earn their respect."
The King brought a hand up to his chin, steely eyes never leaving Arthur's face as he considered this. Arthur tried his very best not to fidget on his chair, meeting his father's impending judgement head-on, and ignoring Morgana's enraged huffs.
Finally, after what felt like a full minute of scrutiny, Uther's lips twitched upwards in a show of approval. "Quite right," he said. "Well argued, my son. I will inform Sir Bedivere of my decision to let you partake in the quest."
"Thank you, Father."
When Arthur turned his head to focus back on his meal, he caught Morgana's eyes. She was glaring at him, clearly unhappy about Arthur riding out to kill her precious dragon. Arthur was well pleased by his father's acquiescence, though, and thus only sent her a provocative smirk before digging into his roast mutton and peas with new-found gusto.
It was only after lunch that he thought to consider his father's words more carefully. Partake in the quest , not lead it. He scowled as he realised that the King had only allowed him to tag along, nothing more, in spite of Arthur's impassioned little speech about his duties as a Pendragon prince.
Well, in that case, Arthur would simply have to put in the work to distinguish himself. No need to let it get to him.
He would personally slay that dragon and prove to himself, and the King, that he was every bit the mighty warrior, a man worthy to one day wear the crown of Camelot, not a weak little boy, plagued by nightmares. If he could capture the dragonlord as well, and bring him before the throne, that would be the icing on the cake.
Arthur woke early the next morning, broke fast quickly, then grabbed the saddlebag that had been readied by Morris the night before. When he entered the courtyard, fully armoured and keen on leaving the citadel, his horse Hengroen was waiting for him, chestnut coat painted bronze in the light of dawn. A couple of knights were already gathered in the main square, looking over their bags or having their squires do some last-minute checks on their armour.
Arthur was pleased to see Sir Leon would be joining the dragon hunt as well. He was about five years older than Arthur and had been knighted only last summer. Of all the squires that had trained alongside Arthur, he had always liked Leon the best. If such a thing were possible for a prince, he might have called him a friend.
"Sire," Leon greeted him with a small bow. "You're coming?"
"Of course," Arthur confirmed as he fastened his bag to Hengroen's saddle. "I cannot have a dragon roam free in Camelot without doing something about it myself."
Sir Bedivere, already on his horse, had spotted him, too. He nodded respectfully. "Your Highness. It's an honour to have you with us."
Arthur sent him a smile that he hoped wasn't too tight, then checked over the stableboy's work, tugging at Hengroen's saddle straps. While Arthur outranked Bedivere, there was the unspoken agreement with Uther that Bedivere would remain in charge of this quest. Again, Arthur tried not to let it get to him that his father had not outright entrusted him with leading the mission himself. It was simply all the more motivation to prove that he was worthy of such responsibilities in the future. If Arthur managed to slay the dragon by his own hand, the King would see what kind of stuff the Prince of Camelot was made of. Even better if Arthur were the one to get a hold of the last dragonlord.
Before long, the rest of the party had arrived and everyone mounted their horses. By the time the sun had fully risen, fifteen men had left the citadel and made for the Mercian border.
It was over a full day's ride to the Mountains of Andor. They made camp at the edge of a forest, still hours away from the lowest peaks, with just enough daylight left to hunt down a couple of hares and have the pair of squires they had brought cook up a hearty stew.
Meanwhile, Arthur and the knights had gathered around Bedivere, who had spread out a map of the area on a rock near the campfire.
"The dragon has last been sighted here and here," he said, pointing at the forests surrounding the mountains. "We will patrol along this road and look for signs of its lair."
"It might be nesting in a cave far up high, and only come down to hunt or at its lord's behest," Arthur thought to point out.
"We will ride up into the mountains if the forest doesn't give us a trail, sire," replied Bedivere.
"It could be dangerous to face it on anything but even ground, though," Arthur argued. "We're at a definite disadvantage in the mountains. If it does live up there, we should try and draw it out towards here." Arthur pointed at some fields about two leagues away from the red dotted line that was the Mercian border.
Bedivere nodded, but the slightest frown had appeared on his forehead, and Arthur decided to back off. It wouldn't do to undermine the man's authority in front of the other knights. If Arthur succeeded in slaying the dragon, that would earn him their respect without creating fissures in the chain of command.
They settled down around the fire, with Arthur being served first – a perk of being the Prince, he supposed. He sought out Leon's eyes. The knight followed his silent invitation and settled down next to him on the fallen tree that served as an impromptu bench, bringing his own bowl with him.
"You seem quite determined to get at the beast, if I may say so, my lord," he said between two bites.
Arthur hummed around his own mouthful. "I'm sure we're all equally set on ridding the land of monsters such as this, Sir Leon."
Leon studied him for a moment, but only responded, "Of course, sire."
Arthur lowered his eyes onto his bowl. Was he too obvious? He hadn't meant to come across as over-eager. If the others felt it was the Prince's wish to draw first blood, they might hold back and risk everyone's lives in the process. Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut when Bedivere had laid out his plans.
"What are your thoughts on Mercia?" Arthur changed the topic.
"The recent skirmishes have me worried," Leon admitted. It was no secret tensions had been simmering for months. War in the Five Kingdoms was only a matter of time. If not between Mercia and Camelot, then between some other parties. Albion was not usually at peace for long.
"Agreed," said Arthur. "In fact, I warned my father that Bayard might react poorly to our presence in this area."
Leon raised an eyebrow at him. "You believe they are scouting across the border?"
Arthur shrugged. "There were no such reports."
The but hung in the air and Leon latched onto it a moment later, "If you are worried Mercia will try something while we're out here, you might want to say as much to Sir Bedivere, sire."
Arthur glanced over to where the senior knight was sitting with the other seasoned men, deep in conversation. "I believe my father has briefed him on what he thought necessary." He was sure Bedivere wouldn't be too happy about more of the Prince's interference just now.
Leon nodded gravely, again understanding more than Arthur had said out loud. Not for the first time, the Prince got an inkling that the man would quickly rise up the ranks among the knights. With his quick mind, paired with a calm demeanour, he would make for a fine First Knight a few years down the road. "We're all glad to have you with us, Your Highness," Leon said earnestly.
"Of course," Arthur replied, averting his eyes. He had been fishing neither for reassurance nor for pledges of loyalty.
They finished their stew in silence, then made for their bedrolls after confirming the order of the night watch with Bedivere. Arthur was on last watch with Sir Lionel, which meant he would get some uninterrupted sleep. Another princely perk no doubt, though he didn't mind this particular privilege, either.
Fortunately, he did not have another nightmare that night, and come morning he was itching to put a hand on his sword and drive it through the wicked dragon. They left as soon as the sun was strong enough to peek through the foliage and before long, they were patrolling the road Bedivere had pointed out on the map, working their way towards the mountains.
There was no trace of the dragon, however. A couple of knights split off, dismounting to walk alongside the path a few paces into the woods to look for signs there – scorched earth, remnants of slain prey – but found nothing. When they crossed paths with some wandering traders, they, too, had not seen the beast, nor had they heard of recent rumours regarding the dragonlord's whereabouts.
Soon, noon had passed without them being the least bit wiser. They stopped in a village nearby for a chance to rest the horses and fill their waterskins. As they stood gathered around the well, a peasant approached them.
"I'm Headman Bert, m'lords," he introduced himself with an awkward bow, his straw hat clutched nervously in his hand. "What brings ye to humble Rodan, if I may be askin'?" Arthur supposed it would make any commoner nervous to see fifteen men-at-arms ride into his home without prior warning.
Bedivere stepped forward. "King Uther has received reports of dragon sightings in the area. We've come to slay the creature. Have you seen the beast?"
Bert loosened his white-knuckle hold on the straw hat and his shoulders sagged a little as he confirmed, "Aye, m'lord. T'was seen here. Snatched two sheeps, right from Wymon's pen, don't ye know?"
"When was this?"
"But two nights ago, m'lord."
Bedivere hummed. "What did it look like, the dragon?"
"T'was a huge beast," Bert said, awe and fear mingling in his voice. "Head the size of a man, with shimmerin' white scales. Gave us a right fright, m'lord."
"Did it set anything on fire?" Arthur thought to ask when Bedivere made to send the man away.
"Nah, m'lord," said Bert. "Snatched up them sheeps and off it went."
Once the headman had walked off, Bedivere pulled the map back out. "Not far from the other sightings. We're right on track."
Arthur decided not to voice the thought that two days were plenty of time for the dragon to have moved on to different hunting grounds, but kept quiet instead. There was nothing for them to do but ride around and look, either way.
They left the village of Rodan behind and followed the road into another forest, the Mountains of Andor now looming close and the path getting a little steeper. They rode on for an hour until they had reached the top of a hill just shy of being part of the actual ridge. The area was clear of trees and offered a good look across the forest.
In spite of the promises he had made to himself, Arthur rode up to Bedivere's side. "That old watchtower over there marks the border to Mercia," he said, pointing out the ruin in the distance.
"So it does, Your Highness," the knight responded, clearly too polite to say outright that the Prince was telling him old news.
"We're very close to the border," Arthur stressed. Awfully close, in fact. If they followed this route another half hour or so, they would be but a few paces away from starting a war.
"I suppose that's true, sire," said Bedivere, though he sounded entirely unbothered.
Frustrated but unwilling to push the point, Arthur gave up, leading his horse back to where had been riding with Leon at the centre of the group. "I don't like this," he told him under his breath.
Leon glanced around. "You saw something, sire?"
Arthur shook his head. "Just a bad feeling," he admitted.
The bad feeling only grew worse when Bedivere decided, another half league down the road, that they would make camp in the middle of the forest and start searching the area on foot from there. They were far too close to the border for Arthur's tastes. Mercian troops could easily reach them here on foot and would be long gone before anybody could catch them on Camelotian soil.
They spent the rest of the afternoon scouring the forest in smaller groups without finding any sign of the dragon and returned to the camp tired and frustrated. At least the squires were roasting some pheasants on the fire, though Arthur couldn't help but think that the smoke could likely be seen over in Mercia and might attract the attention of enemy scouts.
By the time night had fallen, Arthur was filled with a restless energy that kept him on his feet. He found himself walking the perimeters of the camp several times, staring into the forest, squinting in every direction, trying to gauge whether the cracks and rustles he was hearing were something they needed to worry about.
"Your Highness! A word, please?" Bedivere called out eventually, so loudly that it seemed to echo through the entire forest. Arthur winced. If somebody was indeed watching, they would definitely know the Prince of Camelot was with the party.
He walked over to the campfire to meet Bedivere's guarded eyes. "Sire, far be it for me to criticise my Prince, but—" Arthur arched an eyebrow, which had the knight clear his throat. More quietly, he added, "You're making the men nervous. Is anything the matter?"
Arthur crossed his arms. "I don't like this spot," he admitted. No point beating about the bush now. "Too close to the border. Not protected from any side."
Bedivere frowned at the criticism. "The dragon was sighted in this area, sire. Where else would you have us camp and search?"
Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but his words caught in his throat when an arrow suddenly embedded itself in Bedivere's neck. The man toppled over with a sickening, wet gurgle and fell to Arthur's feet, dead. Arthur's hand snapped to the hilt of his sword. "We're under attack!" he shouted, then ducked before another arrow could come his way, the whole camp jumping into action around him.
He remained low to the ground as he made his way over to the treeline, seeking cover, watching at least two more men going down with arrows embedded in weak spots. Expert shots. Arthur was under no illusion that the men attacking were random vagabonds. This was marksmanship of the highest order – the skill of trained soldiers.
As if on cue, men in blue cloaks started flooding the clearing. There were at least twenty of them, Mercia's white tower emblem stitched onto their cloaks, proudly displaying their loyalty to Bayard. Arthur had been right. Not that his self-righteousness was helping anybody when they were both outnumbered and taken completely by surprise. With a determined roar, he raised his sword and started fighting.
Arthur managed to down one Mercian knight by running him through from the back and injured a second man enough to make him stumble backwards, right into Leon's path, who finished him off on the spot. The two of them ended up fighting back-to-back as a team, holding their own against Bayard's knights. But their own numbers were quickly dwindling all the same. Too many men had been sitting on the ground, already half-asleep or nibbling on a second serving of pheasant, to properly defend against a sudden horde of well-trained Mercians.
They were losing. Badly.
By the time Arthur had downed another enemy and had a moment to look around and assess, only five of the men left fighting were wearing red, whereas there were at least ten more Mercians, quickly advancing on the rest of them.
With Bedivere dead, Arthur was most definitely in charge now. "Retreat!" he shouted as he did just that. "Get to the horses!"
The men obeyed at once, though Sir Lionel tripped as he walked backwards and was killed before he could make his way to the nearest horse. The others, including Leon, made it, mounting as quickly as they could while fighting off their pursuers.
"Don't let him get away," a Mercian shouted. "We need the Prince!"
So they were after Arthur specifically. They must have overheard Bedivere! Swearing under his breath, Arthur got one boot into the stir-ups and all but flung himself onto Hengroen, who was already pawing at the ground and swivelling his tail, riled up by the fight. Without further ado, Arthur used his sword to cut the reins loose from where they were tied to a tree and spurred Hengroen on.
"No! Stop him!" someone called out.
But they were off already, riding towards the dark road. They had left the clearing well behind when suddenly, Hengroen let out a terrible neigh and faltered, losing speed within seconds and slowing down to an uneven trot. Not a moment later, something slammed into Arthur's left arm with incredible speed and a sharp, hot pain jolted him. Gasping, and thrown off balance by the impact, he just managed not to tip to the side and fall off the saddle.
With a pained grunt, he swivelled his head and – hells ! He had been shot! The tip of an arrow had dug right through the chainmail. From the way Hengroen was hobbling forward, the gelding had been shot, too. A look behind revealed an arrow sticking out of the horse's flank. Further back, Arthur could just make out Mercian knights getting on Camelotian horses to pursue.
With his left arm now hanging uselessly by his side, Arthur bowed low over Hengroen's back to keep himself in the saddle, the other hand still clutching his sword. "Come on, Hengroen," he ground out, fiercely digging his heels into the horse's sides. Somehow, the gelding overcame his own pain and caught his gait again, abruptly falling back into a sharp gallop.
They rode for several minutes, quickly swerving off the road and down a small path into the forest, then making their way directly into the woods, zigzagging as best they could in the darkness to lose any pursuers coming after them. Eventually, Hengroen slowed down again. He was losing whatever momentum he had gained from the instinct to flee and was hindered further by the thickening underbrush. Soon, he was limping in earnest, neighing pitifully, and Arthur knew his horse had gone well and truly lame. He turned his head left and right, but saw nothing but dark forest, sparsely illuminated by moonlight. He dismounted.
Hengroen was huffing and squealing. If he kept making a fuss like that, they would quickly draw the attention of any pursuers nearby. A look at the horse's flank showed the injury was bad, the arrow driven deeply into the bulging muscle, the wound dripping blood.
Arthur knew what he had to do. He didn't want to – Hengroen was a well-loved mount, raised from a foal right in Camelot's royal stables – but this was not the moment to be sentimental.
"So sorry, handsome," Arthur whispered, lifted his sword and swiftly put the animal down.
Once Hengroen had stilled, Arthur stayed silent, too, listening. In the distance, he thought he could make out shouting and the sounds of galloping hooves, but nobody seemed to be in his immediate vicinity. Still, it wouldn't do to linger. He needed to move, get some more distance between him and the Mercians. Hengroen had left a clear trail that any half-seasoned tracker would be able to follow, even in the dark.
Gods, but his arm hurt ! The pain flared up whenever the arm was even slightly jostled, and it seemed only the lingering buzz that came with a fight for life or death was what kept him from keeling over on the spot. He wouldn't be able to stay on his feet for too long.
Still, he needed to move. But not without supplies.
Arthur went to his knees next to Hengroen's body to get at the saddlebag, half-buried under the dead mount. He managed to open the buckles one-handedly, all the while listening if any of the distant sounds were coming closer. Eventually, he had retrieved the bag as well as a waterskin and started walking, as quickly as his injured body would take him.
He walked until he no longer heard any sounds but those of the forest. With a groan, he finally sat down between some bushes, taking cover in the darkness, then sat for a long moment, simply breathing, his heart beating away and his injured arm burning like the hells.
He needed to get the arrow out and bandage the wound. Who knew how much blood he was losing? Already, he was feeling light-headed, though if from blood-loss or general exhaustion, he didn't know. Gathering his remaining strength, Arthur lifted the leather strap of the saddlebag and placed it between his teeth. Then, he curled his hand around the arrow, drew in a sharp breath through the nose, and pulled at the shaft.
It didn't go out on the first try and he screamed into the leather. Tears welled up, teeth grinding painfully against the strap as fresh waves of agony ran through his body. On the second try, the arrow gave with a sickening, wet sound. Arthur pulled it from his flesh, keening, a couple of tears now spilling down his cheeks. It bloody well hurt!
He flung the arrow into the darkness. When he tried to spit out the leather strap, his jaw was twitching with the effort it took to unclench the muscles. Trembling from his ordeal, he squinted at the blood-smeared chainmail covering his arm. He could not get at the wound with his armour on. He would have to get rid of that, too.
It was a slow, painful process. Moving his shot arm was quickly becoming torture, but it had to be done. He stripped off his armour, fumbling for buckles and metal edges in the darkness until finally, after what felt like eternity, he was rid of the plates and hauberk, the gambeson as well, and assessed the wound with feather-light fingers. It was a coin-sized hole, from what little he could make out in the pale light of the moon, deep enough to still be bleeding profusely.
Arthur dug through the saddlebag until he found a fresh tunic he could use. He bit down on the collar and started ripping off improvised bandages with his good arm. Eventually, he had the wound wrapped, best as he could with one hand. He shouldered the pack as well as the waterskin. His sword, he could carry at the belt, but he would have to leave the armour behind, weakened as he was.
He stood. He couldn't stay in these bushes. He needed proper shelter for the night. In different circumstances, he might have climbed a tree, but that wasn't an option, injured as he was. He would need to find some large roots to crawl under or, better yet, a cave to hide in.
Slowly, mindful of his steps in the dark, he walked, squinting into the moonlit woods, trying to catch a glimpse of something that would make for a good hide-out. Every once in a while, in spite of his best efforts, he stumbled. Soon, his eyes were starting to droop from exhaustion. His left arm was throbbing hotly, feeling almost grotesquely swollen underneath the bandages. He needed to rest. Just then, his foot caught on a root and he badly twisted his ankle as he fell forward, only just avoiding a tumble on his injured arm. When he had scrambled back to his feet, his ankle was protesting every step.
He couldn't walk much longer like this. Perhaps he should just lie down underneath some bushes after all and hope for the best.
That was when he saw it – something white, shimmering in the light of the moon. It was some paces away yet. Was it water? A pond, perhaps? Either way, it seemed like the trees were clearing a little over there. It was worth a shot. There might be something there, a burrow, a hunting blind, something that would keep the worst of the elements at bay.
He limped forward, ever closer to the gleaming white, squinting as trees and bushes kept obscuring his view. Whatever it was, it was large and bulging. A rock formation? That might mean a cave, a ledge to cower under. He grunted, blinking against the ever-growing fatigue. Just a couple more steps and he would be there, and—
He stopped abruptly, almost falling over in the process, drooping eyes suddenly snapped wide open.
A dragon. A white dragon, at least twenty paces long, curled up on some rocks, large wings and slim tail wrapped around itself, its scales gleaming in the moonlight. The very beast they had been tracking was right there, in the middle of the forest!
A gasp escaped Arthur as he took an instinctive step backwards. Unwittingly, he stepped on a branch, a loud crack sounding through the forest. He lost his balance, his bad ankle not enough to support him. With a soft curse, he fell, landing sharply on his tailbone, then toppled over onto his left side, injured arm grinding harshly against the forest ground.
The pain was unbearable. He let out a strangled shout, momentarily curling in on himself, bright sparks dancing at the edge of his vision. For a moment he was sure he would pass out, exhaustion and pain getting the better of him, but there was some fight left in him yet.
He must have alerted the beast to his presence. If he gave up now, the monster would devour him. He would not faint in the face of a dragon!
He grunted, pushed himself into a sitting position with his good arm, barely keeping himself propped up with his muscles trembling. He blinked against his rapidly blurring vision, fighting against the darkness creeping about the edges, until the dragon once more came into focus.
Its head had come up and it was staring right at him. Its eyes were brightened by the moonlight, two gleaming slits of silver in the darkness. When their gazes met, it let out a growl that sent shivers down Arthur's spine. A moment later, his arm gave in and he crumbled backwards, his head meeting the forest ground with a loud thud, the impact enough to knock him out for good.
He fell unconscious with one last observation floating past him: Just below the dragon's head, sitting on the rocks, there had been a boy.