Post by Lancelot on Dec 30, 2012 5:26:21 GMT -6
The Patrol
With Uriell
South of Antoine's Wall
early October 468 AD
The weapons were sharpened, bows strung and quivers full… The horses were saddled… And they had only provisions for six days. Their task; to ride the northern trails, looking for and, if necessary, engaging the enemy. Arthur had ordered the patrol, and issued the task to reconnoiter the area; but it was Lancelot, as First Knight, that issued to the order, should the men encounter Saxons, none would be able to move against Arthur. There were five in this party… Lancelot, Tristan, and three knights, reassigned from Hadrian’s Wall; Sagremor, Hoel, and Erec.
The first day was mere waste as it would be two days to the border… But the second day was in earnest patrolling the border securing Arthur’s northern flank. Rumor had the Saxons running the northern ridges in small teams… nothing to be concerned with, but should they start terrorizing the villages would be another story. Lancelot would send Tristan ahead of the patrol as usual.
Saosin, the freed falcon, returned to its master not long after Badon Hill; something that made the scout smile. And the two seemed inseparable. Once more the scout would raise his arm, and the falcon would take flight, as if the Gods had connected them from the very beginning.
The woods were eerily silent… not even the wind stirred noise… leafless trees stood like sentinels, their branches cloaked in blankets of frozen snow. The only signs of life small plumes of smoke... breath that rose into the cold late afternoon air… frozen suspended breath of both man and beast. Her hand wrapped in leather clad furs, soothed over the warhorse's neck calming him... for hours they had watched the pass, hidden in wait for their prey... the beast were fidgety, laying on their sides beneath layers of detris… it was abnormal for the equines... but they submitted to their human masters... the waning sun left long shadows on the craggy wooded hillside that overlooked the olden path... the path Romans had carved out of the earth when they had expanded their empire north, their legions burning, destroying their way to this land... Uriel's eyes slid upward as the trill of a bird sounded in the silence... a warning… the scout hidden high in an ancient oak some mile away trilled the sighting of the advancing raiders... not Romans this time... Norsemen... they pillaged, raped, murdered, and destroyed what life had been reclaimed after the Romans had retreated from the isle… but the children of the Isle, the Picts, were a fearsome, determined lot... to hold fast their piece of land... for they belonged to the land... all of them... women and men fought together in bands of smoke and magic... or so the tales were told.
Lancelot twisted in his saddle and looked to the road below, then to the woods to his left and right. Canting his head, his dark eyes narrowed. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Not the same feeling he got with the Woad, similar, but as if a touch of lightning was added. Standing in the stirrups, he saw the men upon the road… approximately 20-25 men on foot, and 5 on horseback. With a usual smirk, knowing the leaders might be upon horseback, this was a raiding party.
Uriel watched as the first of the Norsemen’s line came in sight; it was a small party less than 30 men, raiders, smaller parties that fanned out from the central group. She wondered how far the main group was... noting the direction on a small scrap of leather map with a charcoal stick, to report back to the others, and stuffed it inside the fur vest she wore. Her hand was lifted to signal the others to hold... until the whole of the raiding party was within the small gorge...
Lancelot had learned much combat from Arthur in the last 15 years or so… yet still he could not refuse the urge to bust in a door now and then… or to feel the rush of battle as he hurried the fight. Spurring the black stallion, he withdrew his sword and leaned forward as the men followed suit and rode down the hillside…
and then, from nowhere, an attack began... From behind the Norsemen, a cavalry cadre rushed in... 5 or 6 lightly armed men. Intent, from what Uriel could see, on suicide... It became chaos below as the fighting broke out... for a moment she was confused as to what was going on and then she saw them... the Sarmatians... “crazy bastards..." she had heard of them... but never this far north... behind the wall...
Into battle the five rode, Tristan and his bow made swift elimination of three men on horseback, and several in the group on foot… and the mounted knights seemed to thin the ranks of the raiders… until they too were unhorsed. Now Lancelot had both swords drawn, and was in the usual offensive style of attacking with dual swords…
All five men fought courageously, while many of the Saxon raiders, ran, then turned and reformed… a tactic unusual for them… now the knights were on the defensive…
Her hand still signaled hold as she watched the drama unfold below... but as the tide seemed to shift in favor of the Norsemen, her hand came down... and from the hills above her rag-tag army of some 20 men and women dressed in furs and hides, most on foot, some on horseback that could have been plow horses, or grain nags... descended into the melee...
The poor Sarmatians might have thought that hell had surely opened up, as the blue-painted warriors screamed like banshees. Arrows flew, and hooves pounded... soon the ground began to bleed red with the Norsemen’s blood.. The Picts were fierce, untrained savages... and the most savage of them was Uriel... her dappled grey thundered down the hill, trampling those before it without mercy, the spear she carried aimed with deadly efficiency pinned one ginger-headed Norseman to a pine trunk... the blade spearing thru his left eye, she barely wasted a breath, in the second it took her to yank the blade from his skull, sending grey matter splattering on the snow and blood showering upward over her own blue-painted visage. She whirled the horse, hooves pawing the air, and speared another attacker in the throat sending up plumes of blood that fogged the air with the last heat of the dying man.
Dual blades blocked and parried, as if a dance of death was unfolding before the audiences very eyes. It was a dance of death that the first knight was renown, and feared, for… for he had on several occasions noted to his beloved Arthur that he would surely die in battle… and sometimes the man’s tactics appeared as if willingness to die was overcome by preference… and this day was no different. It was either kill… or be killed… but now he fought for what was his to keep or give away… his Freedom.
He was focused…focused on the man, or men, before him; and once eliminated, he moved to the next. And nothing distracted him, not even the screaming banshees emerging from the woods …Though he did note, in a few moments later, that a group had joined the battle… a familiar group, their skin either painted blue or covered by furs… not the leather and fur of the Saxon. He smirked wildly, and canted his head before he took on another assailant.
The man was the largest Lancelot had ever seen… nearly an arm’s length taller than he… and his blows to the man’s shield seemed to disconcert the man at all… on several occasions Lancelot barely dodged the man’s large axe as he back-pedaled time and time again. In defense posture, the blade of his swords bounced off the metal shaft of the axe with a simple ping of metal to metal. In a parry of sword to axe, the man swung the axe at Lancelot, and as he dodged, the handle hit his chest knocking his to the ground.
The crook of the double-bladed axe yanked the remaining sword from his hand as the Saxon mammoth was set to deliver the death blow to the grounded Sarmatian knight…. Lancelot’s saving grace was a quick handling of a dead man’s shield that blocked the first and second blow… but how many more could he manage from the behemoth of a man.
It seemed as though the third blow would do him in, cleaving the shield in half , rendering it useless in two pieces within Lancelot’s grasp... the mammoth heaved his axe upward for the killing blow, the double edged blade held high above his head as he laughed… a rough coarse sadistic laugh... then suddenly a flower bloomed beneath his chin, a scarlet bloom that opened into a dark crimson wound... from its middle, a spearhead protruded, then twisted, as the ax dropped to the side falling from limp arms, the mouth gaped open, the only sound that of burbling blood, as thick spitted foam pink sprayed from his lips... his body canted sideways like a marionette... and fell to the side.
His arms were tired… and it seemed that death would come quickly as he looked upwards at the Saxon, the double-bladed axe high above the man’s head… the split shield now nothing but an extension of the inevitable… But… he saw the man freeze, as if the gods took control of his body… There upon the behemoth’s face, was an expression he had seen upon many a man’s face… the expression that death had a hand in their fortune… and the wound appeared… then the metal tip… The axe fell from his grasp. That was when Lancelot began to scramble backwards, giving himself enough distance from the man as possible and looking for his swords.
Behind the Saxon, as he fell away… the Pict warrioress... her face slashed with blue, and flecked with blood... merely nodded at the downed Lancelot as she withdrew her spear, turning away to strike an on-rushing attacker... the spear twirling about and hitting him with the butt end at his jaw, sending him to his knees, and then a well placed vicious kick to his chin, snapping his neck back with force enough to break it in a sickening crack…
Lancelot, swords once again in hand, stood up as he watched her strike down the last aggressive Saxon… Automatically, he was ready to turn back-to-back with her, should any other attacker approach, a sure sign of trust… for now she would be considered a sword-brother… a sword-sister? A sister-in-arms? The confused words quickly mulling over in his mind. Oddly, in the matter of months, the Picts had gone from enemy to ally… and this one had not hesitated in saving HIS life. A fact that he would never, ever forget.
She turned halfway, surveying the decimated Saxons, Lancelot’s men, and her own finishing off what was left of the survivors… a hand motion and her men were picking the bodies clean... salvaging food, weapons and supplies... gathering horses that had run off... even clothing... She herself picked up the double-bladed ax, hefting it to test its weight... then tossed it aside as an ungainly heavy weapon. She moved thru the dead, picking up a short sword... testing it, and found it worthy, sliding it into her belt...
No words were spoken between the two… and Lancelot was soon joined by his fellow knights, Tristan, Sagremor, Hoel, and Erec. All covered in blood and no wounds except minor scrapes. Erec’s eyes stayed affixed upon the female with the woad markings, and words were uttered from stiff lips, an elbow sent to Hoel’s arm.
"The She Wolf... Uriell..." one of Lancelot's men remarked; as she was supposed to be legend, or myth... the Silent Huntress... reported to track better than any dog… hunt and kill… all without a word or sound. Some said she was a witch. Some said she was the product of Roman torture. To look at her, one might think she was spit from the bowels of hell. She was tall and muscular, her long dark hair strewn and stripped with the colored clay mud of the worlds... Blue, white, and grey... her face marked similarly so that one could not tell whether she was crone or beauty... but the most stunning thing about her, besides the rage and hate that flowed off of her like molten iron, was her eyes. They were clear blue almost colorless... their centers dark as night... perhaps the rumors were right... for no mortal woman had eyes that seemed to glow and sear and see into your soul...
None had seen what occurred between Uriell and Lancelot… nor knew how she had saved his life… for they too, were busy with the battle; but all had heard the rumors of the Silent Huntress… The She Wolf… especially Tristan… for she and he had tracked and avoided one another for years… now these two opponents were on the same side. Lancelot caught Tristan’s head bow, then looked at Uriell, seeing her refocus her attention as she recognized the Sarmatian scout; one never seen but from afar. Lancelot smirks… “I see yu know the men…” sheathing his swords, then extending his right arm. “I am Lancelot, First Knight of Arthur…”
Those ice colored eyes slid back to Lancelot... when he spoke to her... leaving the countenance of Tristan with a smirk... yes she knew the falconer well... they had played games... hunting each other and now, hunt the same prey; she could not help the bit of respect for the falconer. She simply nodded when Lancelot mentioned her knowing of his men... then when he introduced himself, her lips quirked upward in a smirk.
Since she merely looked at him without shaking his arm, he lowered it slowly. “Odd sort…” he thought… “…and friendly too…” and his lips turned into that sarcastic smirk.
Behind her, one of her men stood... "Uriell, better known as the She Wolf, our commander…" he spoke introducing her to them... "You are lucky she counted you as an ally today... These men..." he spit toward one of the dead men… "They destroyed and murdered a tiny village just north of here three days ago... not one soul survived, not even babes at the tit... Today they were our enemy."
He looked past her, to the man heralding his leader and Lancelot smirked again, his eyes veering back to her once more. Tilting his head in a sort of welcome, he spoke softly… “Uriell…” She looked fierce, but he was sure she was different under the furs and woad paint. Then as the man continued to speak, his dark eyes veered to the speaker. And as the man reported, Lancelot’s mind veered to similar villages he had seen in the Saxon path… and his eyes narrowed feeling no remorse at all for the dead men, but the village… and that thought cringed his stomach. He looked back at the warrioress. “Saxon are our enemy as well…”
She never spoke a word only turned to walk away, mounting the great dappled stallion that she rode... while her men finished their carrion actions... taking what they needed from the corpses. Then with a shrill whistle, she caught their attention with a whirling motion of her fingers... and they begin to string up the corpses, from the lower limbs of the trees... a warning for any coming this way... the She Wolf would be watching.
Lancelot watched her turn from him without a word… and moved to the side when her mount snorted and pawed the ground. His hand went to the beast’s neck and patted it. “Yer a fine one… strong… you must have been a great warrior…” whispering to the horse. He looked up to the rider with his dark eyes at her motions, the glanced to the men as they obey. He smirked at male obedience, his hand absentmindedly patting the beast’s neck. When she nudged the horse’s flanks, her movement caught his eye and he moved away, canting his head in the semblance of goodbye.
The man Lancelot assumed was her second had given an offering of their camp for the evening… With a soft voice, he watched her ride off, then looked the men and then to the Pict second. “We thank you…” It would be Tristan who would mumble about Bors’ complaining should he have been here… and the men laughed as they agreed, then turned to gather their horses.