Chapter 4: What They Left Behind
Lancelot opened his eyes, turning into the beam of torchlight and squinting at them, raising one gloved hand to shield himself from the invasive brightness…
Arthur caught the glint of reflected torchlight from a sharp edge in the pilot's hand – he wasn't unarmed.
"Guinevere," he said urgently, warning her before she rushed forward.
Whether she'd seen the knife also or simply responded to his caution, Gwen took a moment to unbuckle and discard her helmet and the eyewear stretched over the brim, before kneeling carefully slow just beyond Lancelot's nearest outstretched boot.
"Lancelot," she said gently, and her voice trembled. "It's me. It's Gwen."
Arthur had to turn away.
Someone ought to watch that their position wasn't compromised, after all. Just because the psychic was right didn't mean he was trustworthy, after all. He noticed that the light had left the valley to climb high on the tops of the mountains as he slipped his slide-board from his back and jammed it upright in the snow for future use.
" 'M I dreaming?" Lancelot slurred.
"No-"
" 'M I dead?"
"No – let me take that, love, you don't need it anymore. Let me – Lancelot, I don't want you to hurt yourself, or us – we're going to help you, we'll help you get home again. Are you hurt? Can I just – Arthur."
Satisfied they'd be safe for the moment, he turned at the frustrated note he heard, maneuvering himself further in the hollow than Gwen so he could keep the wider world in the side of his vision and crouch over Lancelot's knee. The pilot retained the knife and handled it with careless inattention, making Gwen hesitate to reach closer. Maybe her gloves and parka sleeves would protect her and maybe not, but they didn't want the integrity of her gear compromised with an unintentional slip.
"Come on," Arthur said coaxingly. "Stand down, pilot. Back-up's here."
Lancelot blinked at him, pulling his hand back as if readying to strike – but the movement was weak and unsteady.
"Pendragon," he said, recognizing Arthur. " 'M not dead. Not dreaming?"
"Yeah, that would be weird," Arthur chuckled, to put him at his ease. "C'mon, now, that can be mine for a little while, can't it?" He reached for the pilot's elbow and gripped it, tight and fast, slipping the knife free of Lancelot's fingers. It wasn't hard to do; gravity might have claimed the weapon in another minute. Flipping the blade back into its slot in the handle, he tucked it inside his parka's elastic cuff.
"Came for me," Lancelot breathed, ducking his head as Gwen shifted forward, torch between her teeth and shining in the vicinity of his stomach. She tucked two bared fingers inside the collar of his parka to check his pulse.
" 'Course we did," Arthur said stanchly, casting a glance down the man's legs.
The flyer's emergency kit was tucked under his left arm opposite Arthur – the source of the uniform patches he could see, left arm and side. Otherwise Lancelot might have succumbed to exposure to the inclement weather, with his flight suit ripped up in the crash. He didn't see any blood, but the patches could cover that evidence. At least the cold might have slowed blood flow to more serious wounds, and the emergency kit would have included concentrated food and bottled water as well as basic medical supplies; it was a good sign that Lancelot had the presence of mind and the physical ability to carry it with him.
"Gwennie," the pilot said, as she shone the flashlight in his eyes, checking for signs of a concussion.
" 'On't call 'e 'at," she mumbled around the torch, like it was a response she'd made before, taking little attention and less annoyance.
"Why're you here?" he continued like he hadn't heard her.
"We came to rescue you," Arthur said, as she unzipped Lancelot's suit and reached in to test him for internal injuries. Nothing too bad, Arthur assumed, or he wouldn't have made it this far, or this long. Confusion or disorientation were to be expected for hypothermia or concussion, or even just a despairing conclusion after too many long hours alone, that rescue wasn't coming.
"No, I m… why're you…" Lancelot's head rolled so he could make contact with Arthur's eyes. "Why'd you bring her? 'S dangerous here."
Gwen made a noise to convey displeasure; Arthur couldn't read whether it was for his words or her own findings. Lancelot probably had some impressive bruising from the pilot's safety straps. Save your life at the cost of cracked ribs – pelvis – dislocated hip…
"I didn't bring her," Arthur said honestly. "Hell, mate, I followed her most of the way this morning."
Lancelot let his head bob forward again to tell her seriously, "You shouldn't be here."
Gwen took the torch from between her teeth long enough to say shortly, "It's my job. Lancelot – does it hurt more somewhere than anywhere else? What about your-" She moved to his left arm, checking the limb or trying to make deductions based on what was missing from the emergency pack.
Lancelot curled toward her, making a sound of strangled agony that spiked Arthur's pulse. Survived-this-long wasn't a guaranteed home-free.
"What is it what is it?" Gwen demanded, handing the torch back to Arthur without looking at him. He leaned to keep the beam focused where she needed it. "Ribs? your leg here where you patched your suit?"
"Don't-" Lancelot panted. "Oh, don't touch-"
Sounding tight – upset, but controlled – Gwen tossed over her shoulder at Arthur, "Air cast in your pack."
Arthur removed his glove with his teeth and fumbled past energy sticks and enhanced-water bottles to find the first aid kit.
"This is going to hurt a lot at first, and then it'll help I promise," Gwen said, unrolling the plastic inflatable sleeve. "Lancelot?"
"No," he whimpered, and Arthur ached in sympathy for a grown man making that sound. "No, no – don't touch me!"
"I'm trying to help," she whispered insistently, close to tears, herself.
Arthur moved forward, looming intentionally over the pilot, grabbing his jaw and forcing Lancelot to focus on him.
"Go," he said to Gwen. "Do it fast. Lancelot – Pilot, focus. You've got a mission to finish – you've got a report to make and do it now!"
Lancelot jerked, moaning and trying to squirm away as Gwen bent over his arm.
"Listen to me!" Arthur commanded. "Tell me where the recording is. Lancelot – the recording. Your mission – the recording of the base-"
"The base," Lancelot gasped.
"Yeah, the base," Arthur encouraged. "Fort Araun – your mission, Lancelot, the recordings."
"I – I took – I have-"
Gwen finished inflating the cast and sealed it with a snap. Lancelot cried out, struggling against Arthur's hold, and she cursed breathlessly, turning again to fumble in Arthur's pack. He caught a flash of garish coloring – the box of condoms – she ripped one open and slid it inside Lancelot's parka collar, inside his clothing, down to his upper arm. She kept her hand in place for several long moments, watching him.
Lancelot's movements weakened; his head dropped back and the whites of his eyes showed, unfocused.
"What-" Arthur started.
"Meramine," Gwen explained briefly.
Well, yeah. Can't exactly bring that over the border as-is. Not the fast-acting stuff, anyway.
She hunched over her knees and held Lancelot as he surrendered to the sedative his body was absorbing through his skin. "I can feel the bone through his sleeve, Arthur – compound fracture – worse, I think, but we can't do anything here and it's been… it's probably infected, and we can't – he can't-"
"Use your scarf," Arthur told her. "Bind his arm to his body to further immobilize it while we move. I'll rig our slide-boards to carry him."
Her dark eyes glittered suspiciously bright in the torchlight, but she nodded and turned to obey.
He slid back out of the hollow, down to their boards and her helmet. The slide-boards were both light-weight and flexible; he wished they were six feet long, it would be easier and more comfortable, but they'd manage. Using Lancelot's flip-knife, he slit his parka to claim the cords that tightened the hood, that ran the length of the front enclosure and around the bottom hem, and tied the boot-sockets of the two boards together. It wouldn't keep the flat bottoms from separating, but the gap wouldn't be big enough to matter.
Boot laces to lash the pilot to the makeshift sled, since the tongues of his boots were connected to the sides with an elastic flap and fit snugly enough to his feet that he could travel without turning an ankle on loose footwear. He heard Gwen slip from the hollow behind him.
"Judging from the amount of damage to his flight suit…" she said, and her voice trembled on the incomplete thought. "But I mean, he made it here, carrying the emergency kit. And we didn't exactly follow a blood trail…"
"Snow covered his tracks," Arthur said shortly. It was nearly a league and a half back to Ealdor, but it wasn't a straight line or even ground, and it was cold and exertion and tension had been sapping their strength all day. He flipped the knife open and handed it back to her without looking. "I need the ties from your parka – round the bottom and the hood."
"I don't think he'll be able to walk much at all," she continued, speaking her worry and distress aloud.
"S'all right," he answered, turning to take the knife back as she pulled the ties free of her parka with a soft zipping sound. "We'll pull him. Legs down and back up." Keep the pilot's head higher than his heels, that way – better for a concussion than the other way around.
She grunted. "Wish those boards were six feet long."
"Hm. Imagine trying to traverse a hillside with that kind of turn radius," he said lightly.
Her chuckle sounded more like a sob, and she put the back of her glove to her face like she needed to physically hold back tears or wipe sniffles away. "I thought… I didn't know what to expect. When we found him."
He couldn't help hearing his own concern – if we found him…
"Yeah." He understood. A little, anyway. To have someone you loved in danger – hurting, missing, fearful. "He's all right, though. We'll get him home."
She shook her head, looking away. "He's always saying stuff like that. You know? The job's dangerous, he doesn't like it, I have nothing to prove to anyone, wouldn't I like to go to university 'cause he'd help me pay. I could study medicine and if I had to be military, couldn't I be a base medic, that's safe enough."
Arthur made a neutral sound. "You know he's just out of his head right now, don't you? Can't hold him accountable for things he says."
"I know." She nodded, half-turning – paused like she wanted to say something else. But only repeated, "I know."
They shoved the side-by-side slide-boards up to the hollow-cave and rolled and shifted Lancelot onto them, awkwardly propped between the lashed boot-sockets, and tied him in place. They weren't going to be traveling fast, after all, and the trouser-legs of his flight suit were going to keep snow from packing itself down the tops of his boots with the dragging movement. The least of his worries, maybe.
"We'll go around to the north, like we did this morning," Arthur said as they started off.
His boots felt unsecure and the front of his shins cool from being unbound. The rest of him hummed exercise heat touched with weariness and he wanted to get as far as they could before they lost the boost of energy from the triumph of finding Lancelot alive and relatively well.
"You don't think the psychic will tell the others where we went?" Gwen said, panting alongside him. They knew exactly where to go now and there was no need to pause for searching, and the slide-board sled moved Lancelot's weight smoothly and handily, but the whole rig couldn't help being awkward. Small, fast steps so it didn't ride up their heels with a jolt for everyone.
"I don't know," Arthur responded. "Can't figure him out. If he does tell them, we won't be able to do a thing about it, til we see 'em coming. If he doesn't… stands to reason they focus their search south." And wouldn't that complicate things for their escape?
"We're going back to Ealdor, then," Gwen said, not really guessing.
"He needs to get warm. Good food, hot water, soft bed," Arthur said, glancing up from the next two paces of shaded snow to the gleaming pink-and-orange of the hilltops. "Need to get him out of the flight suit, assess and treat any other injuries."
See if he could survive a trek over the range, south across their border to Camelot. It could be another week, climbing and sliding and foraging. Escape and evade, if the Essetirians realized the pilot had help, and tracked them.
The slide-boards, even side-by-side, weren't wide enough for Arthur and Gwen to pull in tandem comfortably. He bumped her shoulder and she stepped on his boot and they went another hundred paces through the low places between hills saying Sorry, breathlessly.
"Stop this isn't working," Arthur gasped.
Lancelot moaned and shifted, and Gwen let go of her hood-cord to shuffle around beside him before collapsing to her knees. She reached in her pack and Arthur leaned back from his hips, stretching out muscles that already felt whole-heartedly sick of hunching and pulling. And they'd only gotten around the fourth peak. Three more to go – and the shorter two were already in shadow.
Too early for dinner. But it might be full dark by the time his father and sister were descending to the formal dining room, dress-and-heels, tie-and-jacket. Political company waiting in the drawing room...
"What day is it?" he said to her without thinking.
"Thursday," she said. "I think. Here, eat something."
She tossed him an opened energy bar and went back to coaxing Lancelot to swallow mouthfuls of a liquid protein mix, her own bar dangling from her lips as she munched it shorter, and worked with her hands.
"What dosage are those meramine patches?" he mumbled, consuming the bar in two enormous bites.
"One makes him comfortable for two hours. Two will put him under for four," she answered.
He swung his pack off his shoulders, opening the top flap. "If you take the heavy stuff, I'll take the bulky stuff," he said. "You've got the torch – you go ahead of us and scout the way. I'll pull him."
"But-" she began to object.
"It'll be easier in the long run," he said brusquely, not meeting her eyes. "Hey. Thompson. How come you didn't go to university?"
She twisted the cap back on the protein mix and got her boots under her again, one at a time, lifting her pack to her shoulders. "My father was infantry. My brother's a sailor," she said shortly. "I was going to sit in a classroom full of books and theory?"
Arthur bobbed a nod of acknowledgement, looping his pull-string and Gwen's together and knotting them to the adjustment straps of his kit's shoulder-padding. That way he could pull with shoulders and legs, and not worry about hand-grips and arm-angles. He shouldered his kit, feeling the pull again on muscles unused to an all-day full-gear-and-kit march.
They started forward again. They could make it before midnight, he reckoned, even with two or three more stops, but Ealdor at 8:30 was going to be different than Ealdor at 11:30, even if it was a resort town during holiday break.
"You didn't ask about my mom," Gwen added, keeping pace and watching him narrowly.
She carried the torch in one gloved hand, but they could still see fifty to seventy-five paces ahead of them, til the next curve or rise. He didn't answer her, focused on finding a sustainable rhythm. Wasn't it warm for a snowy winter afternoon?
"And," she said. "You called me Guinevere."
"Sorry," was all he had breath for.
"No one does," she said, which didn't tell him if she hated it, or not. It was, don't call me Gwennie, with Lancelot, though. "You read my file?"
Not technically allowed. He had to pull favors for Percival in Records, but the ease and amiability of that transaction made Arthur think it wasn't uncommon. Unorthodox, but not uncommon.
"All the files," he said. "All the teams. Not just yours."
"Helps to know who you're working with," she agreed, almost suspiciously calm.
He glanced at her. The tinting on his protective eyewear made the world a shade dimmer than it needed to be. Helped keep his face from frostbite, though, so there was that. He said, "If you read my file, you know why I didn't ask about your mom."
She hummed, a sound he couldn't deduce meaning for.
Then again, what happened to his mother was a matter of public record, his father being who he was.
Sliding the torch's toggle to On, Gwen quickened her pace, stomping ahead of him in the snow to cast the beam of light ahead of them.
No more chit-chat, then. Fine with him.
The slopes closed at dusk, which mean the resort would be closed by time they got there. Maybe after-hours staff at the lodge, but no one who should notice or wonder about or act on a discovery of them. If he commanded the Essetirians, he'd have them combing the hillside in an organized manner while daylight lasted, pack it up if they met with no success, and start again at daybreak tomorrow, widening their search area.
But maybe the Essetirians relied more on their psychic than they did on common-sense strategy and military discipline. At least, this unit on this mission.
Didn't the psychic realize that the flight and the photos and the rescue were ultimately about him? About neutralizing the threat he posed? Not if he didn't know about the button-recorder. No reason to think he did, either; as Arthur understood it, the tech was a plant, and the observer carrying it had no idea of its presence. Nothing for a psychic to read, unless he actually touched the button. No reason to think he'd done that, though. Either way, it was a good bet that the Essetirians wouldn't pose a problem for them tonight unless the psychic decided to.
The makeshift sled wobbled when Lancelot moved, coming slowly back to fuller consciousness, and Arthur called ahead to Gwen, letting himself stop. He hung over his knees, dismayed at his own trembling, and wanted nothing more than to faceplant in the snow and sleep. Dark, and cool…
She crunched back to them, offering an opened bottle of water. "You okay? We can switch-"
"Shut up," Arthur said roughly, grabbing and gulping. The water hit his stomach like a slosh of ice. "Slap him with another patch. When he's in pain he moves and it's throwing off my rhythm."
"I'm sure he'd apologize," she retorted. "Y'know, if he was in any condition."
Yeah. Arthur straightened, dragging freezing air into his lungs and twitchy to keep going before he simply fell over.
"I saw the first of Ealdor's lights," she told him, kneeling next to Lancelot in a controlled collapse. Slower with gloves and kit, though he couldn't see more than shadows and outline against the snow. Stars visible overhead, now. "It's not far."
A groan crawled out of his throat, and it sounded sarcastic.
She snorted in amusement. "Yeah – I might be tempted to trade places with Lancelot right now, too…"
"You're doing really well," he told her around the blood thundering in his ears. His knees wanted to lock and his back was going to snap right in half and he needed to finish this grueling task before he couldn't.
"For a woman?" she snapped. Pulling on her gloves, she braced herself against the ground in order to stand.
"For anyone," he said honestly.
She turned away without saying anything, slogging forward again through the snow.
He followed. And she was right; it might feel like the last third of a marathon to his legs and shoulders, but objectively he agreed with her assessment. Not far. They were just slowing down.
The sports slopes on their right, to the south, dimly illuminated – here we are, we're closed now but aren't we magnificent? come back tomorrow – and Ealdor glowing across half the horizon. Arthur fancied he could hear train-whistle and trolley-bell above the rumble of his own breathing and the battle of heart-rate. Then again, he could believe that he heard all the foot traffic and the murmur of every single population-seventeen-oh-seven in the village, too.
A good trick to survival was distraction of the mind.
The resort was separated from the edge of town – save for a few private estates climbing the surrounding hillsides – by a wide track flanked by deep ditches and periodic draining culverts. Gotta have somewhere for the spring run-off to go.
"Thompson!" he gasped out. Still on the resort side of the track, able to pick the B-n-B – advertising proximity to the resort – out of the shining lights of town. Another half a hundred paces, maybe.
She stopped, switching off the torch, and came back. "What is it?"
"This is what we should do," he said, finding it harder to recover his breath than he expected. "Put Lancelot in my coveralls and parka. Get him on his feet. You take him and my ID to the B-n-B for the night – they'll give you dinner, and you can figure out whatever medical aid he needs." As he spoke, Arthur struggled out of his kit, fumbling clumsily to disengage the pack from the makeshift slide-board sled.
"What'll you do?" she asked wearily, kneeling beside Lancelot and beginning to pick at the knots holding him in place.
Arthur found Lancelot's flip-knife and offered it to her. "Just cut those – we'll figure out something else for tomorrow."
Lancelot was regaining awareness also, moving his legs and moaning as Arthur unzipped his parka. Damn, it was cold. It felt good. He should probably be worried about that.
"Easy, easy," Gwen soothed. "It's me. Remember? We came for you, we've got you. We're almost to Ealdor, and we'll-"
"I can't sit up," Lancelot rasped, panicked. "Get me up – I can't-"
Arthur moved around to face him, offering a hand for the pilot's uninjured right as Gwen boosted him upright from behind. "You listening?" he said. "Plan is, you wear my gear to keep that flight suit covered, take my ID, get a room at the B-n-B with Gwen tonight. Rest, and recover. Got it?"
"Gwen?" Lancelot said, confused by the cold and the effect of his injuries. "She can't be here. It's too-"
She growled, interrupting him with her annoyance, as Arthur unzipped his coveralls and shimmied them stiffly down to his boots. Damn. That cold cut through him, now threatening to stiffen all his joints at once. Gwen moved over to his feet, leaving Lancelot slouched on the slide-boards, and eased the weather-proof trousers over his boots as he picked them up one at a time.
"What about you?" she repeated, turning in her crouch to begin fitting the coveralls over Lancelot's boots. "What are you going to do?"
"They'll want your IDs when you check in," he said. His voice sounded odd in his ears; his jaw was clenched against an involuntary need to shiver, but he bent over Lancelot, scooping under his good shoulder and bracing to bring them both lurching to standing, unsteady but on their feet. "We don't have three. And he needs all of that…" Warmth. Food and water and rest and her tending him… "More than I do."
"What if I get Lancelot up to the room and come back down with your ID? We can't use it twice at the B-n-B, but you could at least go get a room at the hotel."
"No," he said.
"Is it the funds?" she said, pulling the trousers up Lancelot's legs over the flight suit. The pilot's head bobbed, watching her.
He protested weakly, "You shouldn't be-"
"Partly," Arthur admitted, ignoring Lancelot as she did. "Partly it's… line of sight."
She struggled to her feet, zipping the coveralls awkwardly over the flight suit; it looked bunchy and uncomfortable but he didn't figure Lancelot minded, really. Slow to follow his reasoning, she repeated, "Line of sight?"
"Lobby closes at midnight," he said. "Bar closes at two. Can't monitor the movements of the Essetirians about the place without being – suspiciously conspicuous."
It was hard to say those two words consecutively. His mouth was cold and his lips wanted to shiver too much. He was proud to articulate as well as he had.
"What are you going to do, then?" she asked again, and part of Arthur recognized how cold and tired she had to be, to repeat the same question. How stubborn, too, and he found he liked that in her.
He should tell her sometime.
He should get them moving and settled safe for the night before he made an idiot of himself.
Arthur helped her settle the parka around Lancelot's shoulders – right arm through the sleeve, wounded left arm bound to his body, zip it all up. After stuffing their slide-boards and helmets into the nearest culvert, he took Lancelot's good arm around his neck to begin to stagger the last fifty paces down the track to the B-n-B.
"I can-" she started.
"No, I've got him," Arthur countered, teeth chattering. "It's – warmer, this way."
They staggered on, and for a moment it seemed like the track was rolling backward, taking them further from town with every forward step.
Disconcerting.
"The hotel lobby will be warm," Gwen said, slogging along beside them. "The bar will serve food, right? You don't need ID for that. And then you'll…"
Arthur craned his neck under Lancelot's elbow, trying not to trip the half-conscious pilot or let the other man trip him. If he recalled the street correctly-
"Across from the B-n-B," he said. "Little house. Needed paint. Porch furniture left out instead of being… stored for the season."
"Huh?" she said.
"Yard-fence needed fixing. Means… inattentive owners. Shed in the corner, facing the… street. And the B-n-B. That'll be shelter enough, and I can see clear to the corner. See 'em coming, if they come. It'll give me… five minutes. Before they reach you."
"Huh," she said again, contemplative rather than confused.
Arthur supported most of Lancelot's weight over the curving track to the resort that formed the northwest perimeter of Ealdor, down to the corner where the B-n-B faced south. Corner of the town and a row of peaks – picturesque save for the rooms that only looked out on Ealdor's roofs.
Maybe some folk found that picturesque. There were mountains beyond Ealdor to the east, also…
Every room of the ground floor of Cheery Point was well-lit, shining out into the night, emanating music and laughter and the suggestion of movement and occupation. A trio of young guys occupied the far end of the porch, smoking cicalas and dance-shuffling to keep warm, laughing and shoving each other's shoulders.
Past the kitschy sign, then they were all college students on a vacation bender, up the walk. The three steps to the porch took all Arthur's willpower and most of the rest of his strength.
"Almost there, now, almost there – see how close we are? You can do it, you can make it…" Gwen kept up a steady stream of low encouragement, and stepped ahead of them to open the front door of the establishment.
"You all right?" one of the young guys from the far end of the porch called down to them.
"We are – all right!" he answered, the cold slurring his words just enough to make the trio snicker at how far gone they were.
Arthur leaned Lancelot up against the shakes-siding to give him a last once-over, making sure nothing of the flight suit was visible. He felt shaky-weak and too light, as if his body was going to float away or evaporate, without the pilot's weight on his shoulders.
Lancelot looked worse, as if Arthur's hand was the only thing keeping him from sliding down to the porch floor. Eyes half-open, jaw clenched reflexively – bruising visible on pale skin to the left side of his face, nearly hidden by his hair. Blood clumping dark locks together. Arthur fumbled the parka hood up to cover that.
"You should take the recording," Gwen said suddenly, her hand paused on the door handle. "If we're discovered, he can't run, and I… can't leave him."
Her eyes were enormous in the porch-light. He plumbed the dark depths, realizing that she was choosing between love and duty… or was she? I won't be the sort of person to leave a wounded comrade behind, someone I've committed to, even for the sake of the job and the intel. She was making her priorities, right here and now, and he saw that it scared her to put personal loyalty above the oath she'd taken to serve Camelot.
"I'll take the recording," he told her, glancing over her shoulder to be sure the actual college students were still keeping distance. "But if you're discovered, they won't take him, or you. I'll get you out."
Which was maybe, Arthur making the same choice. I won't leave you behind, not even to deliver vital information intact.
Lancelot swayed, lifting his head with an effort to look at Arthur, then Gwen.
"Which pocket?" she said to him. "Where's the recording?"
A chill breeze curled round the corner of the house and cut through Arthur's college-boy jeans and sweatshirt, and he couldn't help a single violent shiver. Maybe that shed had a camp-stove or a kerosene heater or even a damn discarded hot-plate or toaster-oven and an outlet.
"I hid it," Lancelot mumbled, half-aware. "Hid it. 'F they find me, they don't get it. Evidence."
Arthur shivered again, all his blood pulling back to a place in the pit of his stomach, beginning to realize.
"Hid it?" Gwen repeated. "Where?"
"There was a tree. Before I got to the… hollow. Missing limb… all rotted away… reach in, cuz you can't see…"
Bloody hells. Arthur turned to look out at the distant peaks, black on the midnight blue of the sky. Damn. It. They'd left it behind; their intel was all the way back there. Hours away.
He could be there and back again by dawn, if he took the torch.
"Arthur, no." She caught his sleeve and he looked down into her pale distress, a bit surprised at her reaction.
He hadn't said that out loud, had he?
"It's too dangerous. It's too cold, and you're exhausted, and you can't go alone."
"We can't go home without it," he said, his words feeling stiff on cold lips. "I could go tomorrow and leave the two of you here, but that delays medical treatment for him another day. A B-n-B might take my ID for him, but not anything like a clinic or hospital."
"We could all-" she started.
He interrupted her, straightening and pulling back so the trio of partying vacationers could pass them, going through the door.
"Coming inside, then?" the last one said, holding the door ajar.
"Yeah thanks I got it," Arthur said, reaching to take the weight of the door so the student and his friends could continue deeper into the interior – dining room, lounge, stairs to second-floor bedrooms. He couldn't go in, though. Not if the sight of his face made the clerk question the ID presented as Lancelot's. "Can you take him from here?"
Gwen's jaw was set. She wasn't happy, but she was on the job, and he trusted her as a fully competent scout. "Yeah, I can handle him. But – Pendragon."
He paused in the act of balancing the half-conscious Lancelot over to her shoulder instead.
She frowned intently at him. "Take care of yourself. I'll meet you on the porch at first light. See what's going on."
He should have a plan by then, too. "If you need me, I'm just a shed away." He jerked his thumb, clumsy in his glove, over his shoulder to indicate the dilapidated structure across the street.
An unreadable look crossed her face as her eyes flicked over his shoulder briefly – something sad? "Thanks… 'Night, Arthur."
He held the door til they were clear of the threshold, and ducked away as the clerk looked up from whatever paperback she was reading behind the high check-in counter to greet the new pair of guests.
Back down the steps. Jog-shuffle along the sidewalk, hugging his sweatshirt to his chest for warmth. Wasn't it odd how much colder the world got after the sun went down? One streetlight approached him, promised warmth with light, blinded him momentarily, then retreated behind him. Another, and another, and then the corner.
One more block, then cross the street to the hotel. The half-dozen steps to the brightly-welcoming front entrance were insurmountable and Arthur stood swaying there for a moment, half-expecting someone else to come and take control of him. No such luck.
But the bar attached to the hotel was next-door and sub-level, down six steps to a door painted dark green, and the warm smell of frying food wafted up when a middle-aged couple exited, climbing up toward him chatting excitedly.
"Poor boy, you look froze through," the woman said, cheerful under a red knit cap. "What happened to your coat? Get on in the warm, now!"
"Yes, ma'am," he said sheepishly, prompted to move. Down the steps, across the dark-polished plank floor, dodge other diners and servers moving back and forth, and take the bar stool next to the wall. Let his pack slide to the floor between his boots, and keep the outer door and the entrance from the hotel in view.
None of the black-clad Essetirian soldiers were present. His legs wept in relief as he sank to sitting, and for a moment he thought the rest of his body would collapse bonelessly to the floor.
"What happened to you?" said the woman behind the bar, a stocky woman with dangling earrings and big blonde curls and tattoos only slightly marred by wrinkles.
He tried to hang a charming grin on thawing lips. "Too much time on the slopes, not enough time with my girl. She locked me out."
The woman snorted, mouth twitching with amusement. "Her loss… What can I get ya?"
Fried sandwich, side of potatoes, hot coffee. Shot of whiskey.
The room was warm enough that some of the female patrons weren't wearing much by way of sleeves. Darts in one corner, an abbreviated arcade at the far end.
"Say," Arthur said as the bartender lifted his plate from the kitchen-window and slid it along to his place. "Those soldiers come in here? They been in here yet? You seen 'em in here?"
"Not yet, why?" she said, knowing immediately who he meant. Obvious, in a small town like Ealdor.
"Thought I might buy 'em a drink," Arthur explained. "Never had a drink with one of those guys before."
She snorted in amusement and moved away to other customers.
Midnight ticked closer, and Arthur's muscles melted comfortably. The ache in the soles of his feet and behind his eyes quieted, and not a soldier in sight. If he was in charge of them, he'd have ordered lights out hours ago in preparation for an early morning and a second day of searching the wreckage and surrounding mountainsides… But he could still see the street-level through the front windows of the bar, and he'd know if any of them passed by, outside.
He could follow them if it was one soldier alone or the whole group, and if worse came to worst and they were headed for Gwen and Lancelot in the B-n-B, he could take them from behind, if that became necessary – the flip-knife was still in the pouch-pocket of his Camelot Northern sweatshirt.
"You're not going to try to sweet-talk her into letting you back in?" the bartender asked, pouring him his second shot about an hour later. "She'll be less likely to open up if you're drunk, young man."
And she meant the innuendo, he saw by her smirk. At least heightened color wouldn't show under the dim-crimson bar lights.
He shrugged. "She'll find something else to harp on tomorrow, anyway." The bartender wasn't impressed, so he cocked her a self-deprecating half-smile. "She'll let me know when she's in the mood to make up, believe me."
The bartender's eyes crinkled, and she moved away again.
The crowd thinned down to college students and local regulars, just enough that no one was paying much attention to him. His belly was full; the alcohol warmed his blood and the caffeine woke him, and he wasn't in a rush to go back outside.
But then it was last call, and then it was closing time. His muscles and tendons stretched protestingly when he stood, but grudgingly agreed to the movement and the necessary weight of his kit, and gradually warmed to the duty of the night ahead of him, across the floor and out the door and up the stairs to street level.
"Ain't you at the hotel?" someone asked him, a skinny guy with beard-scruff and a knit cap pulled over his eyebrows, and he wasn't the only one paying attention. "There's a bed-and-breakfast if you turn at that corner and go down two blocks…"
"Thanks," Arthur told him, "I think I will check that out, actually."
The soles of his feet informed him that they were at odds with the insides of his boots at the moment. He reminded them that they had all day tomorrow, and then who knew how long if they took Lancelot over the mountains to the border.
They weren't happy.
One block down and two over wasn't long enough for him to feel more than slightly chilled, with his hood up and his hands back in his gloves. The running-down house on the corner across the street was dark, but there were still lights on in the B-n-B, in a few of the bedrooms upstairs and a turned-down glow in the ground level. The porch-lights were off; front door locked, he expected, and turned to the shed feeling curious if there were tools therein that he could use to pick that lock if he had to.
The fence was hip-high and only shuddered slightly as he twisted to hop it, both legs to one side, and the shed's lock was so flimsy he only had to squeeze hard and force it to turn to let him in. There was a window in the front, crusted with years of dust and humidity-grime, but enough of the street-light penetrated the glass to let him see the shapes of the interior as he eased the door back to the threshold behind him.
There were cracks between the plank walls of the shed, and each of them curled slices of freezing air inward. There was an ancient refrigerator with rounded corners, and he huffed a chuckle at the irony. Work-table, battered and scarred, shelves for gardening supplies, for painting supplies, for common household tools. Crowbar – that would be sufficient to force the front door across the street, if it came to it.
Ash-bucket and scrap wood. Stacks of newspapers. Old enough to be dry and used in small enough quantities that he wasn't going to smother on the few wisps of smoke in the space, not dissimilar in size to his bedroom in the barracks. No one was awake anymore to notice the faint orange glow, either.
With his sweatshirt hood up over his ears and his gloved hands tucked under his arms, Arthur hunched over the glowing ash-bucket on a backless chair with uneven legs, positioned to be able to see through the grimy window at the front of the shed without being seen himself. Down the street to the corner, illuminated by three street-lights.
He'd see them the minute they rounded the corner. Out the shed door, across to the B-n-B and through the door with the aid of the crowbar, and probably they wouldn't see him. They'd be right under a streetlight at the corner, and he'd be past the last one, into the dark… If he was fast and the door was old…
Knives in the kitchen for close-quarters defense, in addition to the bent iron bar he'd take with him. Possibly Gwen and Lancelot could be up and out the back door, in five minutes, though.
His toes were losing feeling inside his boots, and shivers periodically rippled through him and the whole street was dead silent. He could burn his hands and freeze his butt at the same time, feeding the small flickering flame nestled in the bottom of the ash-bucket.
No one was coming out. The Essetirians were all snug in their beds – by now they wouldn't even be bullying their psychic into telling them what he evidently hadn't, yet... He could let his eyes drift shut and sleep for the first time in… two days.
Three days? Did you count it like that? He'd slept hard and deep and peaceful the night before receiving Gaius' summons to Op headquarters to watch that damn recording. That made him feel guilty – that was the night Lancelot's flyer went down, Arthur just hadn't known it yet. The pilot deserved the night in the B-n-B with Gwen.
He shifted his position on the backless chair, letting one shoulder lean into the corner of the shed. Maybe if he scooted sideways onto one hip his butt wouldn't go numb… There. And he could still see the corner under the street-light. When the Essetirians came out…
No, he'd be long gone by then. The first trolley went past at 5:43, and he'd slip back out of the shed, with no one the wiser til spring, maybe. Meet Gwen on the porch to find out how Lancelot had spent the night, reassure her that if the soldiers hadn't come yet, informed about the scouts from Camelot by their psychic, they probably wouldn't. Pick up his slope-board and helmet from the ditch where they'd been stashed, make the trek around the north side of the hills, again, back to where Lancelot had said he'd hidden the recording.
Unless the Essetirians decided they'd canvassed the southern slopes well enough and they were going to expand their search. Unless they focused on persuading their psychic to be more forthcoming, in which case would Gwen and Lancelot be in danger if he left them behind?
Huh. Persuading.
When the air was still, it was almost bearable. But any little breeze that found the cracks of the shed and wandered inside to investigate inevitably found the barest layer of warmth his body had managed to generate, and shredded it with innocent carelessness.
There was once, when Leon was coming back to base from deployment and Arthur was supposed to pick him up in an assigned troop transport and it was mid-January. And the train was scheduled in at 11:50, but it was delayed because of snow across the tracks and no one told Arthur. So he waited like he said he would in the black night and the frigid orange lot-lights and turning the big old noisy engine over long enough to heat the cab – then turn it off because he couldn't run it all night, it wasn't his troop transport. And curl up on the bench seat with the belt fasteners poking him, hips and shoulder-blade and feel the cold seep in relentlessly. And try to doze, and mostly endure and hypothesize, what the hell is going on – no, don't think of hell, at least it would be warm how much trouble would I actually be in if I scrounged material and fuel for a fire here in the lot probably the guard detail would be called up and wouldn't that be humiliating? And the train pulled in at half-past five and Arthur was bleary-eyed and surly and Leon apologized at least three times even if it wasn't his fault and Arthur had returned to the barracks for a long hot shower and then a nap cuz he called in not sick exactly but don't call me unless there's an emergency.
Don't think of hot showers. Probably they've got a tub in the B-n-B.
Probably a large luxurious tub that could fit two people who wanted to be that close, all tangled up in steamy scented water.
Don't. Think. Of…
Another impish breeze found the edges of his hood and slipped along the seams of his jeans and the tops of his boots and he realized he'd let his eyes shut.
Did it matter?
Before he could decide, his senses alerted him. A scuff, a click – his eyes flew open and his whole body braced to leap into action, one hand reaching into his pocket for Lancelot's flip-knife, the other reaching to grip the crowbar.
Something or someone was moving outside the shed, past the angle of his vision through the grimy front window. The latch on the door lifted-
Hide? bluff? or-
In the faint glow of the smoldering scrap-wood in the ash-bucket, Arthur recognized the big black overcoat – military boots – knit cap. One hand in his pocket as he leaned the door inward. White face, enormous eyes, full lips open on a soundless inhalation.
The psychic froze in the same instant Arthur did, framed against the blue-white reflection of the street-lights and the blue-black sky beyond the doorway.
They'd found him. No, the psychic was alone.
The psychic was alone. And here. He was alone here with Arthur – and he was vulnerable. And he was the reason for Lancelot's flight – for the mission – for the extra day in enemy territory necessary to recover info meant to help Camelot neutralize a threat… that stood in front of Arthur vulnerable and alone.
Two seconds. Flip the knife open, right in the side of the neck, drag the body into the shed and maybe no one would find him til spring. Retreat to the B-n-B, make a plan to avoid the uproar the Essetirians would cause, searching for their missing psychic – or just flee immediately and hope no one followed… But the mission would be done.
The psychic swallowed noticeably, poised but motionless. Taut with fear and focused-
Dammit, probably he knew each one of Arthur's thoughts as they zipped through his mind like small-calibre shot. Knew Arthur's people probably wanted him dead. That outcome was easiest for Camelot.
But he was still standing there… alone.
Arthur breathed. A trap, maybe. If they knew who he was, maybe they'd waited til he was apart from Gwen, vulnerable himself, easier taken alive if that's what they wanted…
Why send him, though? Why not two or three of them pointing rifles? He might've fought anyway, the flip-knife was even odds against long-barrel guns at this range and in the cluttered shed…
Was he even old enough to shave? Arthur couldn't help thinking of the exact same expression on the psychic's face to see the card-man enter the white room. Wary… defensive.
Slowly and without relaxing, Arthur shifted his boots, lifted himself off the backless seat. The psychic watched–
The hell was he doing, if he could read Arthur's mind?
Before he consciously decided to, Arthur opened his mouth. "What do you want?"
Not curiosity. Not the mild annoyance of a knock on his barracks door at 2:00 am. But the opening of negotiations - the better to evaluate his opponent and start to make decisions on the situation and presented options.
The psychic blinked and seemed to calm a degree. He said, "I want to choose my own destiny."
