Mordred knew that Morgan’s wisdom was right, and so he stepped away from the door. Then his ears picked up rushing boot steps from outside and he heard the recognizable voice of a perturbed knight. It was Sir Armand, with his very distinctive baritone voice that he had only so recently regained.

If Mordred sprung his sword on Lancelot, then Armand would become involved. As of yet, Mordred had not yet ruined Armand’s trust. And Mordred was not interested in losing him as an ally. The same would happen if Armand learned that Mordred had wielded his sword against a lady—a dame, no less.

Now he was even more dependent on Morgan and her intervention. Through the narrow vision of his visor, he saw Morgan standing up to him boldly. Now that she had stopped laughing and shedding her crow feathers, he was forced to take her seriously. He had always known that she was a strong woman, but it had only been recently when he had begun to challenge her.

She wanted all that he had rattled off in his time of need: his new prized falcon, the freedom of his squire, and his private pleasuring. His eyes burned from behind his helm. The woman was shrewd! He had not expected her to demand every option. And in return for all of that from him, she would give him one item which wouldn’t directly benefit him: a charm that would make Alanna healed and oblivious.

Her offer seemed final, but Mordred challenged it regardless. “I will take the charm, if only it takes away her memory of the incident, but not the injury. Because of that omission, I will give you what I offered—all except for my falcon. You didn’t want my bird that much anyway, hmm Morgan?”

He would part with his squire, but not his precious raptor. He had the sense, anyway, that Heath was bound to get in trouble, and it would be a benefit to him that the unruly lad be shipped to the North to scrub Morgan’s chamber pots. Or whatever it was Morgan would want a slave to do. Which Mordred was bargaining for himself as well—at least for a night or two. It was so strange for a young man to know that his older aunt (an aunt of even stronger blood, given that she was a sister to both his parents) wanted him. Even for a twisted fellow like Mordred, it was strange.

But spending a night with his aunt was not the most torturous outcome he could think of. He would have felt far worse if he had lost his falcon.

“Well, what say you, dear aunt? A night of my attention and the lasting servitude of my squire? That, in exchange for a simple charm that will fade Lady Alanna’s memory of the last half hour? It sounds fair to me. But be quick, Morgan. There’s no time for dallying.”

Approaching the largest home in the villiage of Pershore, Dylan would have gotten a basic understanding of the village itself. It was obviously not a manor, but the functional nucleus of several families. The main house was two stories tall, the first of stone and the second of timber. It was old and though not poorly kept, one could see that it was oft repaired. There were several outbuildings including a barn, small stables a house for chickens and two smaller buildings which might serve as homes for local workers or staff. It followed typical patterns for any other village, with dry stone walls seperating paddocks and fields and the buildings you'd expect, houses, a small smithy, tavern, facilities for pottery and, in the distance, a tannery. In one of the small pens nearby the main house was a ring of well-worn dirt around a single dummy for pell work.

The people moved about finishing their business, seeming generally pleased by the weather and the approaching end of the day. An unhitched wagon nearby the stables had a small group of men gathered around it, a simple map laid out on the wagon bed. The discussion was nothing out of the ordinary for such a place. The topic was that of a water wheel in a tributary stream flowing near the town which would allow easier grinding of grains. Present was a carpenter who had helped in building a larger such wheel in Droitwhich to the north, the man who leased the land that the proposed wheel would go on, a representative of the farmers who would contribute time to build the wheel and whose grain would be ground by it once it was build and, lastly, the man who would facilitate the project. This man was one Edric Rudyard.

Though interested in the plans of the thing, Edric's part in the project, mainly financing the wheel through various shifting of debts and credits, was largely finished, at least so far as the other men were concerned and he was looking for an excuse to send them on their way. That very excuse came in the form of the rider approaching the home, wearing armour and trailing two horses. Edric noticed the discolouration in the mans one eye, and immediately knew he was not a local. If he were a man out of Worcester, Edric might have known him, or he would have at least heard of a large warrior with such a feature within county Worcestershire. This man was new, and Edric was intrigued.

"I think we can agree that the idea is sound and agreed upon, men," said Edric to the others gathered around. "I'll leave the specifics to your more capable hands. I'm afraid I have other business."

The three other men looked behind themselves and saw the rider. If someone was sending a soldier to small Pershore, it was obviously very important and urgent business. Best let Edric deal with it, they thought, and promptly said farewell, nodding respectfully as they passed the stranger, who would become the topic of conversation in the public house this evening. Edric moved a few steps towards him, waiting until the man stopped a respectful distance away.

"Greetings, traveler," he began formally in a voice accented identically to the local villagers, but more confident in words and mannerisms. "I am Edric Rudyard and this is my families home on my families land. What business brings you along this road so late in the day?"

From this close distance Dylan would have been able to make out his features in detail, his clothes which were not so different from the villagers, his strong arms and work-lean form, a gold ring with three stones of two different sizes and a quiet confidence of motion. There were, however, no special efforts made to look friendly or welcoming, as it would have done little. Edric's face, despite any expression he might muster, never looked inviting.

Armand stood pacing above the lain out body of his squire, his fists clenching and unclenching with his great fury. Though he was outraged at Ian's behavior, he still did consider the lad something akin to a son, or a younger brother. And Ian had always been studious and loyal under Armand's proverbial wing.

"Heath? Which Heath? Surely not Sir Mordred's squire!" Armand demanded, still pacing as Mennah went about healing Ian's wound. "I'll speak with Mordred, and watch as his squire's neck is wrung!"

Armand had complete faith that, if Mordred's squire had done ill against Armand's, then either Armand's squire was at fault or Mordred was unaware of the matter. A scoundrel he may have been in some matters, but Armand's faith in Sir Mordred was unbreakable. Such were the bonds of brotherhood when forged in battle.

And Armand was so busy being furious, and uttering oaths of extreme violence against whichever 'Heath' was responsible, that he did not hear Ian's weak but determined suggestion that aid was needed within the stables.

As Dylan rode up the hill towards the hall he noted the activity near a stables and a cart four men were using as something of a table. They all turned at the same time to see him and he could tell from their expressions he was not something commonly seen in these parts. Three of the men were dismissed by the fourth and they filed past him nodding politely as they did, he nodded in return. His horse continued a few more steps before he halted a dozen feet from the fourth man, a fellow of startling ugliness. Like Dylan his face bore the marks of a bad run in with some beast but unlike Dylan, it had made him plain ugly. The man's words were of the same accent as the locals but his mannerisms spoke of a man in charge and his words confirmed that to Dylan. Dylan dropped from his horses back and extended a hand.

"Fair greeting to you sir. I am Dylan of Conwy. I am bound for Camelot and require a place to stay tonight. I am not wealthy in coin but I can be persuaded to haggle." He waved a hand at the two extra horses and the gear they had across their backs. "Two horses, several sets of armour and weapons along with decent saddles."

Edric grasped the newcomers hand and shook it, something that a more important man might not have done. The other mans grip was strong and he moved in a self assured manner, what you would expect from a soldiers hand. Edric approved, and nodded to show it.

“Men from your land aren’t often through here, Dylan of Conwy. You’ll have hospitality in this house, such as we can provide it. Come to the stables and see to your horses,” Edric told him leading him in that direction. The stable was not grand and was manned by a boy of perhaps 14, hints of stubble on his face. There was a family resemblance to his features.

“Trafford,” Edric addressed the boy. “We have a guest and his horses. Put them all on the right side there, I think. Good lad.” Turning to Dylan, Edric regarded him for a moment. “I’m open to barter. We haven’t much use for your arms, here… Perhaps you’d be willing to part with one of your horses?”

Dylan had approved of the small but well kept stables. It meant that any beast under its roof should have some good care for the night. The young man who greeted them and was instructed to take his horses looked strongly like Edric and Dylan smiled to himself, a poor noble family indeed. He watched as the lad led his horses away before turning his attention back to Edric. He listened to the fellow speak and began to chuckle even before the man finished speaking.

“My good sir. I wont give you a horse for a lone night stay unless you plan to give me the bed as well!” He clasped his hands behind his back, wondering how much he dare ask the man for his horse considering the obvious poverty in the area. “I will give you the horse in return for a nights stay and 30 Gold coins. He is a fine beast, a charger meant for war, or for pulling a cart if the need should arise.” He jerked his head towards the unhitched cart.

“Fair enough, stranger, I see you haven’t got rocks between your ears,” responded Edric without malice. “Thirty, however, is not possible, though I suppose I should be flattered you think so well of us here. I do not wish to cheat you, however, and though this animal will like to be turned to farm work, I see it is a fine animal. Ten of the same.”

Dylan scoffed, and the haggling began in earnest. Both men went about it with practicality, but there was no ill thought and the smiles when a price was settled on showed they’d both enjoyed the little game. The horse went to Edric, with saddle but no other tack, for ten gold coins, six silver, a smattering of smaller denominations, two wool blankets, and other useful items for the road. String, oil for leather and maille, a small whetstone, needle and thread for sewing, hook needle and cat-gut for sutures, a pouch of salt, a candle, two fishing hooks and line and a set of bone dice. They shook each others hands once more, and sealed the deal. Edric sent his younger sibling Trafford, who had finished carring for the horses to tell a ‘Berenice’ of the items they’d part with as part of the trade for the new animal. Edric lead Dylan outside the stables.

“You’ll eat with us tonight,” the host said. “There is a basin for washing around the back of the main building. I expect dinner should be ready any time now,” Edric looked at the darkening sky, “and I’ll have a place ready set for you.”

Dylan nodded his thanks and made his way around the side of the building to the wash tub where he carefully stripped his armour and laid it on the ground. He took a few minutes to scrub the dirt from his hands and face before taking a piece of woollen sacking and patting his skin dry. He picked up his armour and made his way around the front until he found the main door and gave it a heavy knock with a scarred fist. It took several minutes but finally the door opened and young man he remembered as Trafford stood before him.

“Come in sire.” That word again, these people were certainly country bumpkins, and he had thought the Welsh to be backwards and out of touch. He gave the boys shoulder a heavy slap as he went by with a cheerful “thanks lad.”

Trafford led him through the halls to a big room where the main table had been laid with a large yet simple fare. He was seated next to Edric at the head of the table and one by one the family came to join them, each one introduced and immediately forgotten as the others came in. He was terrible with names. It seemed Edric had a large family. Lastly, at the other head of the table, the Lady of the house: Edric’s mother, one Annabeth Rudyard.

“Lars won’t be joining us for dinner,” she said dispassionately. Edric, at Dylan’s inquiring glance, informed him that his father was ‘ill.’ There was a short grace said, then the assembled began to eat.

“Tell me then, Dylan,” said Edric quiet enough that the conversation was obviously between them. “You said you rode for Camelot. Is this business for Wales, or personal?”

“Oh,” Dylan said with conversational smile. “It’s quite personal.” At Edric’s raised eyebrow, he went on. “You could say I’m a soldier of fortune.”

“And this fortune of yours,” Edric’s ears visibly perked. “It will be in Camelot, will it?”

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. If I am to go seeking, I thought it best to go where there is a King in need of fighting men. I plan to seek my fortune.”

“King’s will always need men willing to do violence, I think. You’ll join the army then, as a man at arms? Take the King’s coin?”

“Never been my style to stand in formation and take orders,” Dylan said with a slight scoff. “I’ve fancied myself leading a band of my own men against the Saxons.”

Edric nodded thoughtfully. “They say their boats land every day, bringing warriors to conquer us all. I see though that you travel alone, Dylan of Conwy. You have no men of your own. Are you a knight of your land?”

“I am one of the greatest swordsmen of Wales,” Dylan responded boldly, drawing an awed look from Trafford and another younger sibling. “But alas, we have no King’s to create knights. I intend to raise my own band of soldiers, and carry the war to the Saxon lands and perhaps then earn a knighthood.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Edric in a burst of youthful excitement at the thought of such a thing. “That is a fine plan, I think, bold and brave if I ever heard one. I’m sure you would earn yourself lands in that way. Would that I could do the same - though I am a knight myself, I am a… small lord.” His face fell, then, looking even more morose for his disfigurement. “I have my duties.”

A sudden interest flickered through Dylan’s eye and he leaned across the table towards Edric. “Oh but you can, Edric. War with the Saxon’s could bring you more then enough wealth to ensure the survival of your family and your lands for generations to come.” An enthusiasm that matched Edric’s earlier, but with a flash of energy and bloodlust came into his speech. “Battle is the path to glory, riches and renown beyond anything you can imagine. Where you are a simple country lord, in just a year you could be a great man, leader of a host of men and wealth to buy all of Worcestershire. All you need to do,” Dylan paused dramatically, “Is fight.”

Conversation at the table dropped to a murmur at the table, as everyone seemed to pointedly ignore the conversation between the two men, despite obviously paying attention. For Edric’s part, he had grown quiet, his face serious. He’d always wanted that, to live the glories of his families past. The talk of riches, too, was appealing. He was not ignorant, and was well aware of his situation. Such spoken of wealth would allow him to lift his family above where they were, and have his younger siblings live as they should always have done. His consideration was seen as he stared at the family ring on his finger, a gold item with a large ruby in the centre, flanked by smaller emeralds.

Dylan stood sharply and planted both fists knuckle down on the table to lean towards his host. It was only then did Edric truly notice the strangeness of that pale eye. Dylan’s voice rang hollow in the chamber, as any and all other attempts at conversation failed.

“If you want a chance, even a small chance, at bringing your family this wealth and renown, then, Lord Rudyard… I have a spare horse, spare armour, and I leave in the morning.”

Dylan of Conwy bowed his head, slightly, to Edric’s mother, then strode from the room.

Morgan removed a small number of pouches from her pocket and knelt beside Alanna. She withdres tiny incriments of powder from each pouch and mixed them in her hand, muttering something that sounded like latin. The powder sparkled like lavender glitter, and she blew it into Alanna's eyes.

She stood with a pop of her knees and straightened. "I am amazed the bird means so much to you Mordred. I'll have her all-the-more now. Considering I have more than enough men under my servitude, including you. A promishe of a night or two is nothing compared to a lifetime of knowing I've taken something precious from you, my darling nephew." Her lips curled incidiously, as she'd upheld her end of the bargin, but specified nothing until it was carried through. A favorite game of the dark queen's; one that had cost fair maids their entire youth. Of course, he could still refuse. He could try and barter his way out or weasle away through some flaw in her speech. Either way, she'd find some way to remind him in the future.

It was later in the evening, with the sun down and most gone to bed after the evening meal had been finished and cleared away that Edric found himself sitting in what amounted to the study. There were candles enough to read by, and a small but intelligent selection of books on one shelf. There was a desk for writing, a few chairs of solid make, a table and a fine old rug. He sat opposite his father, who slouched in the most decadent of the chairs, wrapped warmly in a blanket. Between them was the table, carved in a grid of squares, eleven on either side and covered with a scattering of game pieces.

They were playing a game called King's Table, or Hnefatafl as it was also called. It was a game invented by the Northmen that traded with the island from the lands of Noreg, Svealand and Danmark. The object of the game was for the defending King, white, to escape from the encircling attacking pieces, the darker of the two groups. If the King reached one of the corner squares then the defenders win, but if all possible escape routes are blocked then the attacker wins. Players take it in turns moving any one of their pieces either horizontally or verically around the board. Pieces were removed from play by having one of your pieces on either side of an opponent's piece, thus eliminating it. The king could only be taken by having attacking pieces to all four sides. The corner squares count as opponent's pieces for the purpose of taking pieces, thus a piece that is next to a corner square needs only to have an opponent's piece placed next to it to be taken.

Edric's father, Lars, was a master of the game. Edric could beat him, but it was rare. This wasn't looking like one of those times, and Edric's defense around his King was crumbling. Lars took yet another of his sons pale pieces from the table, causing the younger man to sigh. At length, he spoke for the first time since proposing the game.

"Father, we had an interesting guest this evening. He joined us for dinner and will be off in the morning," Edric said. Lars glanced briefly from the game, enough signal to let his son know he was paying attention. Edric continued, "Dylan of Conwy was his name, a Welshman. He had some interesting things to say. An interesting... proposal as well."

Lars made a move on the game table.

"In short, he would say that I should take up arms with him and leave Pershore, for a year or so. Travel south and fight the Saxon's for the King of Camelot. There are riches to be had in this, and I could return and provide for us all here so much the better." There was a long pause, Edric not touching any of his pieces on the table.

"How would the family cope without you?" asked Lars to his son, a shrewdness coming into his usually cheerless eyes.

"Samuel is yet unmarried, and could take on my duties," responded Edric critically. "Maude and her husband live close, as does Mitchell and his family. Berenice is fully capable, and Trafford has been showing great promise with the livestock. We have a new horse, good stock purchased just recently. That new waterwheel benefits everyone and has moved a few debts in our favor, so we shouldn't want for labor. The place should be well without me, certainly for only a year..."

Edric sounded mostly confident, but not completely. It was plain he was after his fathers approval. He moved one of his pieces, taking one of his fathers soldiers from the board. It was a subtelty they'd developed for serious discussions, on the rare occasion they had them. Edric's was emphatically the last word on the estate, but he did value his fathers years and wisdom on tough descisions. Each would say his piece, then make a move in their game, allowing the other to respond.

"It sounds as though you've thought this through all ready," said Lars gruffly. "You have the skills, though it's been some while since you've held a blade in violence. You've also got the inclination, I see it when you speak of this. If you''ve thought this through, and consider this for the right reasons, your family and name, and not merely for your own gain... perhaps it might be for the best. Perhaps, you will gain your fortune."

Lars moved a piece on the table. Edric suddenly realized that his King had no way to escape to the corners of the board. The King was trapped, and Lars had won a decisive victory, despite the score of soldiers Edric's own had taken from the table. Edric nodded and stood.

"Remember your goals, Edric, and don't get caught up in the game. Do right by your name," said the elder Rudyard. As an afterthought, he added "You should carry your families sword." Edric considered this, then went up to bed.

The next day, he awoke at dawn, before any of his family. He rose from bed and began dressing. It would be a Day.

It wasn’t looking good for young Ian. Lancelot furrowed his brows when he saw the bit of blood at the corner of the squire’s mouth and noticed Ian’s labored breathing. Damn that Heath—what a trouble maker!

Then, to his surprise, Lord Armand strode forth, announcing himself in a deep voice. “Sir Armand, brother!” Lancelot greeted in a troubled, but amazed, tone. He shifted over so that Armand could be closest to his injured squire. Then he looked up and his expression brightened when he saw Mennah accompanying her husband. He had just been talking about her, and here she was! He looked at her as if she were an angel of light, come to patch the stab in Ian’s side.

He became assured that Mennah would be able to heal him. There was still something urgent in the lad’s face, though, even when he had been assured recovery by his Lady. Lancelot’s eyes darted to the boy as he coughed out a dire message.

“Alanna needs me? In the stables? Dear Lord, I’ll go expediently!” Lancelot burst as he jumped to his feet. He had been immediately alerted by Alanna’s name, that he had not heard Ian’s final contemptuous mention of Sir Mordred. He left the group in a flash, and threw open the door of the stables.

“Dear!” he cried, upon entering the dim, hay-filled building.

Mordred was antsy as he watched Morgan blow her lavender dust on Alanna. Then he clenched his fists after she stood up and announced that she still wanted his bird. He wanted to spit some vile words at his despicable aunt. She admitted that she didn’t want the falcon for any other reason than to be cruel to him. And then she insinuated that he was already her servant. Just as he was formulating a heated outburst in retaliation, that was when Sir Lancelot entered, calling for his wife.

Mordred stayed where he was, and only turned his concealed head at his fellow knight. Lancelot probably didn’t even notice him, though, for his eyes were their largest ever, and completely focused on the sight of the fallen Alanna.

The first thing he did was to make haste to the side of his wife. He was too stricken and anxious for words, as he fell to his knees and scooped her limp form into his arms.

This was one of his worst scares—ever. It was akin to the time when he witnessed his love towed away by a giant dragon. Just like when he had chased after her that time, his heart was now in his throat, and his limbs were all a-jitter.

His eyes had adjusted well enough to the low light that he saw the red color in her hair. At first the splotches looked almost black. Now he saw that it was blood, and that the same blood was on the anvil. He put the two together quick enough—it was not unlike the time when she had hit her head on the hypocaust, back in the Lake villa.

Only, this time was much worse. She was horribly pale and lifeless, and her head had been cut and drew blood. And an anvil was a far heavier thing than a concrete brick. He feared—he feared she was dead!

She had never looked more dead before. He was shaking almost to the point of convulsing. Then he buried his face in her chest and made a long, sorrowful howl-like cry, muffled by her bosom. His moaning and crying died down when he detected her faint heart beat and her lingering warmth. Then he lifted his head and looked again at her face. It was peaceful and pretty, but he was still graven by the fact that she was hurt and unconscious.

Mordred, standing aside and watching this devoted display, was tempted to stab Lancelot in the back. His hand even traveled to the dagger sheath that hung from his belt. He stepped forward. Instead of taking out the knife, he looked down at Lancelot and faked a voice of remorse.

“I am so sorry, Sir Lancelot. I tried to stop him, but he pushed her into the line of the anvil and she fell,” Mordred said. He was quite a good actor, and he sounded genuinely worried to the more gullible of ears. Sir Lancelot, bless his soul, was still quite gullible.

“He? Who is he? Who did this?” Lancelot demanded as he turned to look up at Mordred. His voice and face was raw with emotion. He still remained by Alanna’s side, kneeling. He wasn’t even sure that it was Sir Mordred at first, since he did not yet have his eye trained to recognize all the knight’s helms and surcoats. And it was difficult to judge voices, especially when they were muffled by helms.

“My squire, Heath,” Mordred lied. He had decided in a split second to blame the deed on his squire, since he planned on getting rid of the lad, anyway. Not to mention that it seemed entirely in Heath’s character to pick a fight with just about anyone, even ladies.

“Your squire, Sir Mordred! I’ll have him dead, I swear it! He stabbed Sir Armand’s squire just minutes before. Lord, but the boy is a villain!” Lancelot growled savagely, bearing his teeth.

“Worry not, Sir Lancelot. The boy is no longer my squire; I will chased after him and have him duly punished. In the mean time, you should care for your wife. Poor Dame Alanna; she looks quite pale,” Mordred said with false pity.

Lancelot looked again at Alanna, his heart rending. “Oh, my love!” he murmured to her, still distraught. He stood up, his strong knees feeling abnormally weak. He lifted up Alanna with him, cradling her with all the sorrowful preciousness that existed within him. Then he turned back to Mordred, with a grave look. He also noticed Morgan’s presence for the first time. “I will see to it that you do punish the unruly cur,” he said coldly to Mordred. “But first I will care for my lady.”

He walked out of the stables with Alanna cradled in his arms. Outside, he came to Armand, Mennah and Ian. He looked stricken with grief, and then the tears began to fall from his wide eyes. He held Alanna so that her back was bent forward and her head was given the most protection, nestled in the crook of his neck. He turned his face and sobbingly rubbed his cheek against her forehead. In the sunlight, he noticed how bloodied her hair was, and it made him even more miserable that his beloved had struck her precious head.

---------

Mordred stayed in the stables after Lancelot left. He turned to Morgan and uttered obstinately, “I will not give you my falcon.”

Dylan had gone swiftly up the stairs to his room, a simple affair underneath some recently repaired thatch. He tucked himself snugly into the hay filled mattress and was asleep in minutes. His dreams were troubled, as they had been his entire life. Every night he dreamt of being out at sea, oars splashed and wind whipped cold spray over the railing. The boat was long and low to the sea yet she seemed to speed through the waves without trouble. Her oars were pulled by big men, thick forearms covered by strange rings, thick long hair like his own and most with the same blonde hair and blue eyes. The sun above them was shining brightly but the heat on his face was weak almost as if the sun were far from the earth. A hand landed on his shoulder and he turned to stare into a big broad face that smiled and spoke to him in a language he barely recognized.

He awoke there, not a sudden start but the feeling of a man waking from a pleasant dream. He felt cozy but a glance out the window told him dawn was not far off. He slid from beneath the blankets and strode across the room, taking the bucket from a peg by the door and heading downstairs. He went outside into the bitter cold, his breath swirling about him in a white mist. He took a bucket of water from the basin and headed back inside. He stepped into the kitchen and quietly lit a fire, large enough to warm the water he had. It took several minutes but at last it was almost to hot to touch and he poured the water back into his bucket before heading upstairs again.

Here he washed with a rag, his face first then the rest of his body. He hunted down the few lice on him and crushed them between thumb and forefinger. That task completed he began to pull on his gear. First the soft wool under shirt and pants, then leather leggings and upper armour. Next came his chainmail tunic, heavy leather boots and greaves. He slid Serpents-Breath from her scabbard and checked for any damage before pushing her back into the fleece lined scabbard. Finally he stood, noting for the first time the small satchel just inside his door. Closer inspection revealed it to hold the coins and other items he had bartered his extra horse for. He smiled and slung it over his shoulder, picked up helm, shield and leather gloves before making his way down the stairs.

In the stable he found his horses happily nestled in solid looking berths. He gently patted the one he had sold before moving to his own charger, Steapa, and giving him a swift brush down before pulling the saddle from the stable wall and throwing onto his back. He began to fasten the straps one by one, making sure one was properly seated, it would be a long ride today.

Behind him the sun's first rays shot over the horizon and a rooster challenged the new dawn.

Morgan stepped forward, her light and sinewy fingers touched beneath his chin. The devilish grin on her face made it clear that she knew what she was doing in this situation.

"Let us consider a moment, dear Mordred, the position that you're in." Her tone was hard and dark like fine wood. "I should think that the... most noble, if not trusting, knight would far believe a lady of the court over another knight who is known for being covettous."

She pulled her hand away and moved toward the window, facing away from him. "And if that charm should happen to slip free from the Dame du Lac's memory... well, who knows what stories she might tell..." A low and sinishter laugh emmitted from the dark queens chest and shook her shulers. She attempted to stifel a truely hardy laugh, but could not stanch it any longer.

Armand quickly rose to his feet when he saw movement coming back out from the stable. He had of course allowed Lancelot to go and see to his wife on his own, as he had his own wife and squire to see to. He, too, had not heart Ian's last comment about Mordred. Though whether it was because he did not wish to, or because Lancelot was speaking as he hurried off, one could not be certain.

But when Lancelot returned, with a hardly lively-looking Dame du Lac, Armand briefly forgot his other attachments. It was always a terrible thing when a lady was injured...but the wounds of battle were not something he was accustomed to seeing on a woman. Scratches and bruises from kidnapping, perhaps, or pricks on fingers from needles...but even Armand, who had fought beside the battling maiden before, was stunned to see so much blood on a lady. He initially believed her dead, and thought to grieve for her loss and for the quick widowing of his friend, Lancelot. He even stepped forward with a sorrowful expression on his handsome face, ready to apologize for the loss. But upon closer inspection, he could see a very shallow rise and fall of the lady's bosom. And Lancelot did not look quite as grieved as he surely would have been, had he been carrying his wife's corpse.

"What has happened, Sir Lancelot?" Armand asked, a deep frown permeating his face. "Come, we must have your lady at rest."

Edric heard the heavy footfalls of Dylan as he dressed, but didn't go out to meet him. He went about it as he always would, socks, braccae or wool britches darkened to a brown colour. Next came a tunic, off-white and made of the same wool. On his feet, then were calcei; leather shoes that covered the whole foot and were fastened by leather straps at the ankle and calf and laced in the front. They were comfortable footwear, good for all weather and suitable for working or riding. Fighting too, he supposed, considering the iron hobnails on the souls and how well they'd grip the ground if he found himself engaged in combat on foot. That thought reminded him how different today would be from his others. He sighed and went downstairs.

When he arrived, his entire family was present, even his father was sitting in a chair. Berenice and Trafford looked like they were about ready to fall asleep as they stood. All faces turned epectant as he stepped around the corner however, and his mother moved to say something but her voice seemed to catch in her throat. She knew he was leaving without him needing to say so. He gathered himself.

"I'm leaving to go to Camelot," he said strongly. There was a chorus of small gasps or sighs. "I will return within the year if I am able. Samuel will take on my duties while I'm away. This is final and not up to discussion. I... would appreciate your help with my armour."

Small talk was short that morning. His younger siblings knew better to question him when his voice was as determined as it was then. A chest in the other room was brought out and opened. They helped him dress, then one by one said their goodbyes. His mothers was longest and he shared a solemn nod with his father before heading outside. Into the world.

He strode towards the stables, the chink of mail following along with him. He wore what the romans had called lorica hamata, a shirt of maille made of rings woven together. His had short sleeves and stretched down to his thighs and had a mantle of doubling accross his shoulders, an extra layer of maille that buckled accross the chest and procided additional protection against blows from above. The garment was cinched at his waist by an elaborately made leather belt. It had metal plates riveted along its length and a finely wrought buckle made of bronze. He wore greives over his shins, the same iron grey as his maille and with articulated knee joints for comfort and flexibility. Around his shoulders, fastened by a silver pennanular brooch was a decent wool cloak dyed in a faded green. He carried a shield strapped accross his back, a centergrip oval painted in red and green, patterned in the swirls of the Britons. There was a spear as well, in one hand and a one handed axe on a ring at his belt. Edric's left arm held a bundle, made of a blanket, which held the supplies he'd need for the road. His scarred face was framed by the cheek guards of a helm and split through the middle by the long nose guard.

Feeling a strange mix of exileration and a churning of his stomach, Edric of Pershore stepped into the stables where his house guest of the previous evening was readying the tack on his horse. He reached into the bundle and pulled a smaller package from within.

"Dylan of Conwy, breakfast," he said in a voice far to formal for so early in the morning. The other man turned and he tossed the small package to him. "I'll join you in this quest for fortune and glory, but I have two requests. Firstly, I would like to make a stop at my brothers estate. It is in about the same direction, south east of here and we should be able to be there within a few hours. It shouldn't set us back much time. Secondly... seeing as I'm leaving my family a man short, I would like to leave them that horse I purchased from you. You have two fine beasts, I must ask if I could ride the spare at your leave, until I find a replacement."

Edric persed his lips. He regretted this possible point of contention so early on, but for his family he must ask.

Dylan didn't say a word, he just jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the extra horse. He took a minute to tighten the final strap before turning to look at Edric, his gaze went down to where the small axe was tucked into Edric's belt. He raised an eyebrow. "You don't have a sword?"

Edric nodded at the gesture. He made to set the tack on the horse. Bridle, saddle, and all the other necessary accessories. He also began transferring the goods from his cloth bundle into saddle bags. "That's why we must go to my brother's home. The sword is there. Cadeyrn is its name. It means 'battle king.'" Edric pauses. "I think it came from Welsh words actually."

"We must go to your brothers house?" Dylan dragged the sentence out as he stared at Edric. "Why, pray tell, do we need to get this sword? And why does he have it and you don't?" He voice had gotten low and slightly menacing as he spoke.

"Yes. We must. I must. It is the sword of my family, my father's sword," Edric said, turning away from the horse. "My brother moved to Evesham after being married. I was away. He took the sword with him. With my fathers blessing, I must get it back. What is a knight without his own sword?"

This seemed to make complete sense Dylan as he nodded and began to lead his horse from its stall. "Right then, might as well go and get that sword." He climbed onto the horses back and turned to look thoughtfully at Edric. "And suppose he doesn't want to give you the sword?"

Despite being slightly surprised at how quickly Dylan's mood seemed to change, Edric did not blanche. "He will give me the sword," was Edric's reply. "He has no reason not to. The man does not fight and makes no secret of it."

It took the older man another couple of minutes to have his horse and bags ready to travel, then he led the beast out to meet Dylan. The younger man waited silently on his charger, gently running a hand down the horses neck. He was staring out over the countryside, eyes roving over the green fields and rivers. He waited for Edric to join him then gestured towards the horizon. "You ready? You may never see your home again."

Edric mounted his horse with the ease of someone comfortable in the saddle, his shield rattling against his back. He looked back at the house and the faces in the windows.

"I am ready," he said both to Dylan and himself. Then, a little cheerfully, "Though I think your words of encouragement are more effective in the evening rather than the morning."

Dylan began to chuckle and slapped the other man on the shoulder with a heavy hand. "Lets ride then Lord Rudyard." 

The town of Evesham was only seven miles to the southeast of quaint Pershore, and Edric and Dylan arrived there swiftly, crossing the River Avon on their way. It was larger then Pershore, with more people, craftsmen and buildings. They recieved many stares and a few waves as they rode through the countryside, the simple folk always interested in travelers and instinctually wary of armed and armoured men. Edric's mood darkened as soon as they were within sight of the town. He led Dylan through the streets until a large house came into view accross a field. He took his helm off and hung it off his saddlebow and dismounted.

"This is my brothers home," Edric informed Dylan. "Wait here, and I will go speak with him."

Edric wrapped the reins of his horse around the hedged fence that seperated the road from the field and leaned his shield and spear against it as well. Edric glanced once around at the town, busy with people in the midmorning, then walked towards the house.

Edric was recieved at the door by a boy, not yet past his tenth year. It was one of Maxwell's sons, Edric's nephew. Lars, named after his own father. Young lars stared at first, at the armour and Edric's face, before rushing out into another room.

"Father! Uncle Edric's here!" he heard the boy cry, then took the liberty of stepping inside and closing the door behind him. His brother came around then, an obviously fake smile on his face.

"Edric, what a fine surprise this is, so good to see you!"

"Maxwell," Edric nodded and shook his brothers hand. "It's been too long."

"Can I get you anything, Edric? Anything at all? I'm afraid you're too late for breakfast, but I'm sure I could find something for you to drink or eat, whatever you need..."

Edric raised his hand dismissively and the string of insincere words stopped leaking from Maxwell. The shorter and rounder man frowned and put his hands on his hips and his lips persed. Edric furrowed his eyebrows and they looked at eachother harshly for quite some time in silence.

"What do you want, Edric?" asked Maxwell sharply.

"You wound me, brother," began Edric's retort, "By assuming I don't come just to see my dear older brother." Maxwell's angry glare almost made Edric smile. "Fine! Damnit, yes, I came to ask you for something. Father's sword. I came to ask you to let me take father's sword."

"Absolutely not!"

"Maxwell, you don't need it! You couldn't weild a sword against a drunken old hag!"

"I'm the eldest son, Edric!" his brother said, a vein visible on his forhead. "It's mine, by right! I'll not let you have it!"

"Damn you!" yelled Edric, and stormed off through the house with Maxwell, furious in tow. "Give me the sword, Maxwell."

"No! Leave this house, you cannot have the sword! It's mine by right!"

They continued to shout at eachother as Edric worked his way around to their main dining hall. There, on the mantle place in a finely made scabbard, was his fathers sword. The 'battle king.' Edric reached for it, but was suddenly bowled to the side by his brothers shoulder. Edric glared at him, and saw that he had a knife in his hands. Edric growled in rage.

"You would fight me!? Draw your own families blood? You coward!" hollared Edric. Maxwell's face was likewise a mask of rage.

"No, brother, I would have them do it!" Maxwell gestured behind Edric to the other entrance to the room. Edric turned slowly, then scowled. Two men, one with an axe and the other with a crossbow leveled towards him. At this range, his maille shirt would be useless.

"Leave, Edric. I will not say it again."

Edric strode past his brother, chest heaving in anger. As he reached the door he turned, just in time to see his brothers wife descend the stairs. She gasped as she saw his expression and the armed men. Edric pointed at his brother, glaring with all his fury.

"There will be no more kind words between our houses," declared Edric powerfully. "The Rudyard's of Pershore no longer know thee. This betrayal will not be forgotten, Maxwell of Evesham!"

Edric stormed from the house, startling a number of pecking chickens as he did. He strode down the road at such speed as his angry legs could carry him, then rounded the corner of the hedged fence out of view of the house. Dylan was there, looking at him expectantly. The question in his eyes was obvious, but before he had a chance to ask, Edric delivered a kick as mighty as he could to his shield. There was clap of wood on wood as it banged against the fence, then clattered to the ground.

"Damn!" he yelled, wishing the shield still stood so he could kick it again.

Dylan had dismounted with Edric and simply nodded when told to wait, tying his charger to the fence as well. He settled himself against a large Oak tree, his face towards the morning sun and took a deep breath, the smell of crushed grass, manure and cooking smoke wafted to him on the breeze and he sighed happily. With his right hand he propped his head against the tree trunk and with the other pulled his cap down low over his eyes as if asleep. It did not last long.

Shouting drifted across the field to him and he saw two armed men run into the house, one with a crossbow and the other with an axe. He stood, settling his helm on his head, slung his shield over his back and was about to pick up his spear when Edric appeared. Dylan opened his mouth to ask the question but Edric answered it for him with a mighty kick to his shield. Dylan sighed, pulled on his gloves and placed a hand on his companions shoulder, forcing the other man to look him in the eye. "Easy Edric. I'll get your ruddy sword."

Dylan turned without another word, dropped his shield and made his way down the lane towards the big house. His armour and weapons marked him as a man of some wealth and the two men who had watched Edric retreat stood aside for him as he demanded to see the lord of the manor. Several heavy strikes from his fist and the door was opened by a young lad, no more then ten seasons or so. He started in fright at the towering giant with the scared face but nodded quickly enough when Dylan demanded to see the lord of the house.

Maxwell of Evesham still looked angry as he greeted his quest in the same long room he had just humiliated his brother in. He took several breaths to calm himself then looked at this latest disturbance in his day. "What can I do for you stranger? Do you need a place to stay?"

Dylan shook his head as he slowly paced around the table towards Maxwell. "No lord, I come from the North. The Welsh have been raiding to the south again and we fear they may be on route here!" He spoke so sincerely and with such concern that Maxwell glanced out the window as if expecting to see Welsh raiders at any moment. He turned back to find Dylan only a foot or two from him, his eyes level with the towering mans throat. Dylan was grinning and the grin didn't leave his face as he slammed his helmeted head into Maxwells nose.

The sound of breaking bone could be heard above the dull crunch and Maxwell went to shriek in pain just as a massive fist hammered him in the belly to drive the wind out of him. Dylan stooped over the fallen man and plucked the necklace from about his neck, then, after a moments consideration, he took the fallen man's three rings as well. A coin pouch on Maxwell's belt was also taken before Dylan stood and took the sword from above the fireplace. He was testing it balance when a voice spoke behind him.

"Who are you... Oh my god! What have you done? Maxwell?!" Dylan spun to see the woman of the house staring in shock at her fallen husband. She rushed to his side and fell to her knee's next to Maxwell, anger contorting her features as she looked at Dylan. "You will pay! Guards!" She screamed the words and Dylan took the opportunity to begin a hasty retreat. He paused on the way out the door to steal a silver plate from a surprised family member then smashed through the door and into the two men trying to enter the house. They both fell backwards with Dylan on top of them and a heavy punch at the crossbowman made him drop his weapon.

Dylan kicked the weapon wide, swung and missed at the second man and then was gone running down the lane. He rounded the corner to see Edric staring towards the house. Dylan's voice filled the air. "Get on the horse! Get on the horse!"

Edric was still staring at him as he rushed up and pushed the sword into the stunned mans hands. Dylan grabbed his shield from the ground and slung it onto his back before hurling himself onto his horse, still shouting at the surprised Edric.

"Get on your sodding horse you useless git!"

Edric's eyes went wide as he saw Dylan running towards him, his brothers men at arms in tow. He understood what the man said. Get on the horse. But exactly why didn't dawn on him until after the sword was thrust into his hand. Then he realized what had happened, or at least guessed. Those men had violence in their eyes. Edric frantically gathered up his shield and spear, then mounted his horse. He had the scabbarded sword held in his left hand, as well as the reigns. He turned around just in time to see the raised crossbow and the tung-wisshh as it fired, the bolt going wide of him. That was the only encouragement he needed.

He and Dylan galloped from the town, Edric only able to shout directions so the other man mgiht take the right roads to have them heading south. Eventually they slowed to a lively trot, and Edric had a moment to catch his breath and regain himself, head swimming with adrenaline.

"What-what have you done!?" he stammered to the larger man. "Gods and faeries, man, what the devil did you do?"

Dylan threw back his head and laughed, a huge grin splitting his face as he slowed his horse to speak with Edric. "Do? My dear man I head butted your brother, stole the sword, a neckalce and some rings then buggered off, after bowling a couple of his fellows over and running out his front door!"

"You- Wait, you.. what? No..." Edric was completely shocked. Dylan had head butted his brother? Robbed his home? It was ridiculous. You just didn't do that sort of thing. Dylan just chuckled at him, and they rode on in silence for the rest of the day.

They had lunch in the saddle, and continued on until the sun was low. They found themselves in the middle of nowhere, and purchased lodging for themselves and their horses in an empty barn. Thus was the glorious life of men on the road. After caring for their horses and eating, they each sat leaning against the wall in silence. Eventually, Edric sighed.

"You, uh... you really hit him in the face?" he said with a weak chuckle.

"It seemed like the right thing to do." Dylan grinned and shrugged as he strecthed against the wall. He began to laugh again suddenly. "The best part as the look the crossbowman's face when I crashed into him on the way out the door!"

"Ha! Aye, that bugger. Wish I'd had the chance to pop him one, if he'd just lower that bow."

"It felt damn good to give your brother a thrashing," Dylan said then sighed and began to pull a fire together. "Its been a while since I just properly hit someone."

"I'd give my right foot for the chance to break his face, lousy coward," Edric spat.

"Dont waste your breath on him." Dylan blew flame into the hay beneath the wood be had piled, watching it as it flared to life. "Cowards go to the Corpse Ripper, its that simple. If you want a fine end, die with a blade in your hand."

"Corpse ripper, eh? That's Northmen thinking I heard," mused Edric. "Got to die in battle or you go to some cold hell. Fair enough, I suppose. Makes a man live life as strong as he can I suppose. Doesn't leave much for farming folk, though."

Dylan paused for a second as if preturbed by Edric's comment but at length he nodded. "I always figured it was more of a live your life to the fullest and all will be well kind of thing." 

"Could be, could be," Edric said noncomittaly. He was quiet for a while, watching the small fire.

Dylan remained silent as well, staring into the fire. Edric's comment about Northmen had made him think about the dream he had every night. Was he a Northman? he certainly looked nothing like his adopted Welsh parents and even less like the Britons he had encountered here in the south of the country. At length he pulled a hunk of meat from his bag and set it to roast over the fire. Eventually, they ate, then when the fire had burnt to reddened coals, they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and blankets and slept. In different ways, they'd each counted their first day on the road a success.

The infirmary at Camelot was more like a hospital; the city had the most advanced medicine known to medieval Britain. They still believed in humors and bloodletting and nearly the entirety of their remedies were herbal, but the hospital was also renowned for housing incidents of miraculous healing. Whether it was from Christian prayer of fey supernaturalism, there had been miracles.

Lancelot, a newcomer to Camelot, did not know about the hospital’s reputation, but he did believe that Alanna’s recovery rested in Lady Mennah’s hands. Both Alanna and Ian were brought to the infirmary (Lancelot insisted that his wife not leave his arms). He looked at Mennah with a reverence. He cringed to remember that he had once thought lightly of the younger half-fey who wanted to be a knight. That was when she had first arrived in the Lake. Two years later, after she had proved her value on multiple occasions, he considered her a dear friend—a truly remarkable lady. And she was married to his renowned peer Lord Armand, and that made her ladyship seem even more remarkable.

He had briefed Armand and Mennah about what had happened to Alanna. By then, the name of the wayward squire was uttered with much loathing, given that he had struck Ian, and now had supposedly been the cause of an injury that left Alanna nearly lifeless.

The infirmary looked and functioned much like a monastery, and was located near Camelot’s chapel. Many of the healers were holy men, as well. There were also many women who cared for the sick. A select few were even educated, and had learned to read the handwritten medical manuals of the day.

One such lady showed the knights and Mennah to a cell where the unconscious squire and dame could stay. Sir Lancelot set his dear spouse on one of the beds and kneeled by her side to watch over her and hold her hand. Some nurses came in and proceeded to gently dab at her bloodied head with damp clothes. Lancelot explained the trauma again as he frowningly watched them lift her eyelids and look into her unseeing brown orbs. The well-read woman knew to check Alanna’s pulse, and then flipped through one of her texts.

Then one of the ladies took a small knife out of a cloth and brought it to Alanna’s wrist.

“Lady, stop! There is no need to draw more blood!” Lancelot shouted, abhorred. He knew nothing of invasive procedures such as surgery or bloodletting. All of the healing in the Lake had been effortless magic, herbs and charms. He deftly grabbed the hilt of the knife and plucked it out of the nurses’s hand before it could enter into Alanna’s skin.

“Sir Lancelot, forgive me. I was only meaning to examine your Lady’s humors,” the soft-spoken nurse explained, quite startled.

“I would rather… I would rather that my wife were cared for by Lady Mennah,” Lancelot requested, looking at the concerned faces of the surrounding nurses. He handed back the knife, very cautiously, and keeping his eye on Alanna to be sure that they were not bleeding her while he wasn’t looking.

“Very well, Sir Lancelot,” the head nurse said obediently. Lancelot was, after all, the Queen’s champion, and the nurses were obliged to heed any request he made. But they did pass their eyes at Lady Mennah as they filed out of the small room. Once they were outside, they whispered semi-critically amongst themselves about pagan healing and Lady Mennah being part fey, and how they imagined that Sir Lancelot was accustomed to all of the Goddess worship that took place under the Lake.

Lancelot, shaken, turned to Mennah and Armand. He now vowed to himself that he would spend all of his time in the infirmary cell until Alanna was recovered. If he were to leave, even for a few hours, he feared that he may return and find Alanna’s veins cut open and ugly, black leeches sucking on her lovely flesh. And that was a nightmare to him.

“Oh, Lady Mennah, what would I do without you?” he sighed, placing his clammy hand on his forehead in a gesture of exasperation.

Morning came with a chill mist that rolled across the fields to hide everything beyond a hundred feet from view. Dylan had risen minutes ago and was crouched over a feeble fire he was trying to coax into life. He feared the mist. The spirits of the dead wandering the earth until the sun drove them away. He pulled his blanket tighter about his shoulders and touched the hilt of serpents-breath in its place on his back for reassurance. Several more carefully broken and placed twigs and the fire was getting underway. he pulled several sticks of wood from under his saddle that he had been storing overnight and set them gently on the fire. It took several minutes but at last they caught and began to crackle. He rubbed his hands together over the fire and stood. With a toe he prodded Edric until the other man's eyes blinked open.

"Morning yer lordship. I'm going to go grab us some breakfast." He dropped his blanket by his saddle and made his way into the fog. He had marked a farmstead the evening before and found it swiftly enough. He watched for several minutes, observing the farmer and two sons as they set off into a field to look for a stray cow, two dogs with them. He waited until they were into the fog then hopped the fence and stole quickly across barnyard to a hen house. He slipped inside, eyes quickly picking out the sleeping forms of the hens in the dark. He stepped to the nearest one and with a swift motion killed the animal before it even knew he was there. Two minutes later he was over the fence again and vanished into the fog, an unfortunate hen and six eggs in the bag at his side.

Edric had kept the small fire going nicely and Dylan pulled the hen and eggs from his bag and set them down next to the fire. He grinned and looked at Edric. "Eggs for breakfast?"

Edric was slightly startled when Dylan returned from the morning fog. His size made him seem like some sort of avenging monster straight out of the stories they told of the Northmen. The squawk of a very unhappy chicken quickly dispelled any sort of intimidating effect he may of had. Edric pulled an iron pot from one of his saddlebags and arranged it over the fire, then dug out two gammon steaks to go with the eggs.

"Least it's not raining," Edric said, apparently in a decent enough mood. "Want to save the chicken for dinner?" The thought that the bird and eggs might be stolen never even passed through Edric's mind.

Dylan nodded his assent and squatted next to Edric, holding his hands out the small blaze. "A good idea." He glanced about at the fog and then down at the steaks sizzling before him. "We might have some time while they cook, lets see your hand at sword play."

Edric nodded and they rose, unsheathing their swords. They stretched a bit, went through a few forms, then clashed. Neither of the two of them were giving it their all but it was clear who was the better swordsman. Not only did Dylan's great height give him extra reach on Edric's blade, but more practice and battle experience gave him an obvious advantage. Edric had never used a sword outside of a training ground and though passable, he was certainly no great warrior. After two very quick matches, they paused for breakfast.

"Not bad. Obviously you have never carried a blade against an enemy," said Dylan while cutting his steak using a small knife he kept attached to his belt. Edric nodded, making no secret of it. "You will need to learn a few tricks from the dirty fighting book if your to fight in a shield wall," the bigger man added.

"Though I intend on staying on my horse, I'm sure that won't always be the case," Edric aquiesced. "I'm open for your dirty tricks. Better I learn them now, then find them out the hard way."

Dylan nodded and took a piece of meat and dropped it into his mouth, a blast of white steam coming forth as he tried to cool the hot meat. At length he chewed and swallowed. "There are some things you just wont learn from a trainer. Like how to kick in a mans knee for example."

They finished their breakfast, then sparred for a while longer, waiting for the fog to clear. After an hour, they decided they'd have to brave the mist as best they could. It had at least thinned somewhat. They mounted their horses and carried on. By noon the air was clear, and they bartered some lunch from a man for helping him pull a cart out of a ditch. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful, they stopping early and cooking the chicken for dinner.

Several days passed similarly, they living off the land as best they could and trading or buying supplies and lodging as they needed. They practiced often, and Edric showed a marked improvement in his swordplay, though Dylan continued to consistently best him in free-form sparring. The weather was fare and thus their moods were good. They spoke about each other and their pasts, and any number of other topics, from fishing to farming to the inevitable topic of women. Mostly, these were Dylan’s anecdotes.

On the fifth day of their travel, with only a few more until Camelot, the air was cooling. They were traveling through a rare stretch of wilderness, some time between villages. Chatting amicably, Edric and Dylan rounded a corner to find four men across the road. Two were mounted and armed with a club and an axe, the other two on foot carried a spear and a billhook. They bristled at the arrival of the two armoured horsemen, the lot of them seeming no older then eighteen.

“Travelers, good day!” the oldest looking of the four said in a rural bur. “We hope you been liking our road so far. Unfortunately, we got to ask for a toll. Upkeep and things, you know. So get off your horses, then, all nice-like.”

Edric and Dylan looked at each other, the larger mans face quickly turning into an angry snarl. There was movement on either side of them in the brush just off the road, and Edric had enough time to note the glint of steel when Dylan charged. The spearman barely had time to throw himself sideways as the heavy horse bore down on him. Serpents-breath flashed in the sunlight and the man screamed as his fall continued, blood trailing from a wicked gash on the side of his head. The horsemen with the axe was still staring at his fallen friend in shock when Dylan's heavy horse slammed into his own mount. The outlaws horse reared and he flailed, dropping his axe to clutch at the horses mane. Serpents-breath slammed into his face, the heavy hilt pulping his eye into nothing. He screamed, letting go of the horse and toppling from the saddle The chargers heavy hooves slashed down now, a horse trained to kill. Three times the big horse struck heavily with its front hooves and the blinded man's screams ended, his skull crushed beyond recognition.

Edric was only a moment behind Dylan, the man with the billhook slamming his weapon into Edric’s shield with a resounding bang. Edric responded, jabbing swiftly at the man with his spear. The man started flailing at the spearhead, but to no avail. With a determined thrust, the steel spearhead parted the flesh of his throat, neatly opening the bandits windpipe. He dropped his billhook and scrambled off the road clutching his throat. The fourth man was all ready retreating, his horse panicking at the scent of blood. There was movement on either side of the two riders and a ragged shout as more highwaymen scrambled out of the bush to stop them.

“We’re outnumbered,” shouted Edric, sweeping his spear in an ark to keep a pair of clubmen at bay while his horse danced and twitched, always moving to make a harder target. “Ride through them or we’ll be dragged down!”

Dylan was swearing in a language unfamiliar to Edric. A fluid yet harsh language that he seemed to spit at the attackers. His sword flickered down at another attacked and the man reeled away with a broken arm. "Damn your eyes!" The first words in English since the attack began as his sword stuck for a moment in a shield rim. He jerked his horses head around at Edric's shout and kicked back his heels. The horse bowled over two more club wielding highway men and was clear of the melee. Her turned there, prepared to cover Edric's retreat if need be.

Edric smacked a man armed with a spear on the head with the shaft of his own, then kicked his horse forwards with a wordless shout. He surged from the mass of men, catching up with Dylan and the two men rode swiftly, weapons ready, until they were certain they weren’t being pursued. When at last they slowed, Edric was still breathing heavy, energetic due to the excitement and adrenaline pounding through him.

“Bastards,” he said in a tone of righteous indignation. “Good English lads ought to be on a farm or under some lord. There’s honest work enough, no need for banditry!”

Dylan snorted in reply. He was busy cleaning his bloodied blade on his cloak. He slid it back into the scabbard and turned to look at Edric. "They need a strong lord. It seems to be a problem around here, not enough of them." He didn't speak maliciously but there was an anger in his voice. "To many masterless men when there are enemies to fight elsewhere." He settled into his saddle and thought for a moment. "They need a leader, yes..." His eyes suddenly turned on Edric. "We could raise a band of men, outlaws like these and lead them to war!"

“Yes, and I’m sure they’d be very susceptible to joining in your crusade so soon after we bloodied them,” Edric responded without mirth. “Also, if the local Lords learned we were traveling with a band of known bandits, we’d be hanged just the same as then. Not how I want to end my travels. No. Come, we’re in Wiltshire; Devizes maybe. Camelot should only be another day or two.”

They proceeded more cautiously after that, but nothing more exciting or exceptional befell them that day, or the next until at last they were within the bubble of protection caused by the fortified city of Camelot. Their pace quickened as they heard how close they were, eager for the comforts of a city and the promise that their adventure would soon begin in earnest.