Finding My Destiny

Disclaimer-Sadly, I do not own King Arthur or his knights. Nor do I own the movie rights. Had they belonged to me, Tristan and Lancelot would have lived. One could only dream. I am not earning any money for the writing of this story.


Finding my Destiny


Chapter 1- The Bishop’s Caravan


I watched intently as the small caravan made its way slowly down the valley path. Luck had been on my side when I had spotted them from the high ridge above the glen. Knowing the Romans, I had assumed that their group would have been larger. So it had surprised me to see that the caravan had been as small as it was. Perhaps only twelve riders accompanied the yellow carriage. The high vantage point of my position had afforded me a wide view of the surrounding lands and the forest behind, and for now, all was calm. So at the moment, I felt that there was no need for me to make my presence known. My falcon Sephora had been sent to Arthur earlier with the message that I had found the bishop’s caravan, something that we had been anticipating for the last month or so. It had been almost an hour since my message had been sent out, and still there was no sign of my commander and the other knights.

My horse Pagan and I had moved along the high ridge slowly as we kept pace with the slow moving group below. The excitement that I had felt earlier upon the sight of the bishop’s party had begun to slowly ebb away a short while ago. The unease that had swept over me, made me tense with the realization that something was in the wind. I had stopped for a moment to study the area surrounding the small group and felt as Pagan shifted around in his agitation. Even my horse knew that there was something wrong. Reaching down, I stroked his neck soothingly.

“Shh Pagan.” The soft tones of my voice soothing my steed, lulling him into a sense of calm that belied the way I felt. “It is probably nothing.”

Once again I studied the forest behind the caravan. For the last fifteen minutes, I had not heard any of the usual sounds that the forest made. It had become too quiet. And it made me nervous. Perhaps it was because the leaves on the trees seemed to move with a wind that had not been there. Maybe it was the shadows that had moved unnaturally against the landscape, showing a hint of blue in the green foliage every now and then. I could not be absolutely sure of what danger lurked in the forest, and had hoped fervently that it did not. But if I were to go on instinct alone, it was there. Waiting.

Reaching a hand behind my back, I pulled my bow from its carrier, shifting the quiver of arrows over to my right shoulder as I prepared myself for the threat I felt. Curling two fingers around the string, I pulled it back as far as it could go, ensuring that it would be ready if or when I needed it. The sound of a loud shriek from above had me looking quickly at the sky. A beautiful bird circled above causing a wide smile to come to my face. If Hawk was nearby, it meant that my brothers would be close by. Once again I turned my head towards the forest, my gray eyes studying the area below. Perhaps ten minutes had passed when I heard the beginnings of a low rumbling behind me. Throwing a glance over my shoulder, I smiled when I saw the horsemen.

‘Finally!’ I thought. My relief apparent with the release of the deeply held breath that I had been holding.

Eight great horses raced towards me, the ground beneath me beginning to shake. Their colors ranged from the purest of white to the deepest of black. One had only to look at the riders to see that these were the great Sarmatian knights of legend that served under Arthur Castus. And I was one of them. Men that had come from the far eastern reaches of the Roman Empire, men that were known to be masters of horsemanship and have the fiercest of fighting skills. A great people that at one time in my life, I had been proud to call my own. But not now. My gaze returned to the forest behind the bishop’s party. The unease that had temporarily abated had now returned fully. The other horses had finally come to a stop beside me as their riders silently took in the scene below us. I could feel the excitement in the air as they glanced the yellow carriage. And if not for the overwhelming feeling that something was not right, I might have rejoiced with the others.

“Ah, as promised, the bishop's carriage.” The sound of Gawain’s jovial voice washed over me, doing nothing to ease the growing panic I felt. His long blond hair fell into his face as he leaned forward to take a better look at the valley below.

“Our freedom, Bors.” I could hear the slight catch in Galahads voice as he said this. Out of us all, he had probably missed our homeland the most. Being the youngest of our group, I remember how he had fought against going with the caravan when we had arrived at his settlement.

“Mm. I can almost taste it.” The deep rumbling sound reverberated through me. There had been a time in our lives, that I had despised the older man. The oldest of the Sarmatian boys, Bors had believed that it was his right to lord it over the rest of us. Oh how I remember the fights we had. Black eyes. Broken noses. Many hours of manual punishment being spent together because our commander thought it would be good for us. Strange at may seem, I could think back on those days fondly. Now, years later, Bors had become one of these great men that I called brother.

“And your passage to Rome, Arthur.” The sound of my voice had been quiet when I said this, my attention focusing on the forest again. This time I could swear I had seen something. Pagan’s restlessness was beginning to become noticeable and I could feel Tristans eyes staring at me, raising an eyebrow when he saw the bow in my hand. “It has been too quiet.” I began, the eyes of the others shooting towards me when they heard the strain in my voice. “It could not hurt to be prepared,” The last part of my sentence trailing off when I heard a scream from the valley below. Shaking my head sadly, I watched as one of the men on horseback fell to the ground, a woad arrow buried in his chest.

“Woads!” Tristan yelled. The dark haired scout grabbed for the short bow at his back, bringing it around quickly.

Arthur gave the signal to go. The deep baritone of his voice sending out the cry of “Rus” before spurring his horse forward and down the hill. I gave Pagan a nudge with my knees, the slight pressure from my action causing him to shoot forward as we raced towards the fray in the valley below. As I reached the bottom, I raised my bow and began sending off arrows into the oncoming woads, a smug smile crossing my lips as the blue-painted men fell to the ground. I had always prided myself on the fact that I had been the only knight to shoot accurately from a moving horse. It was something that I was able to do each and every time. There were not many who could. Even Tristan, our best archer had not been able to fully master this ability. As Pagan and I grew closer to the battle, I quickly placed the bow around the pommel of my saddle. Leaning down slightly, I urged Pagan into a faster run as we entered the melee.

My horse was a Friesian. A black coated warhorse that stood almost eighteen hands high with powerful muscles that made him a veritable weapon. For such a large horse, their breed was considered to be one of the most graceful. When I had seen him at the trading grounds, I knew that he was special. And apparently he had found me to be so too. For some reason the name Pagan had fit, and I would learn to trust him, perhaps more than I did myself. Pagan’s excitement was showing as he ran over the blue devils, crushing several beneath his large hooves, sending them to their deaths. Tossing his head around angrily, he let out a vicious snort.

I grabbed the sleek black hair of his mane and slipped from his back effortlessly. Reaching behind me, I grabbed the twin blades from their holders on my back, the soft hiss of the metal sending a shiver down my spine. My two swords flashed brilliantly in the sunlight as I made my way through the blue painted bodies. Slashing out at the nearest men with startling accuracy. To my many enemies, I must have seemed as if I would be an easy target. But in the end they always learned. The speed and agility I possessed combined with my small stature had made me a deadly opponent. What may have been perceived to be a weakness had actually become my strength. Hearing a whisper of warning, I turned quickly to see that one of my enemies had almost reached me. Twirling away from the one woad blade, I slashed out at the other that had suddenly appeared in front of me. My blade catching him in his chest and a startled cry fell from his lips. Turning swiftly, I swung my blade at the first, the steel of my sword clashing loudly against his short sword. I hissed at the feel of a sudden burning sensation at my side, knowing that I had been hit with something. Looking down quickly, I noticed that a small dagger had been thrust into my side. I shook my head in disappointment. I had not even realized that he had it. When did I become so inattentive? Watching as a smug look crossed the woad’s face, I swung my arm up, bringing the blade across his neck. Cocking my head to the side, I smirked at the look of horror that had crossed over his face. His eyes glazed over quickly as he fell to my feet, hands grabbing at the torn flesh of his throat. Without looking down, I took my sword and sent the blade through his chest, giving him the smallest amount of mercy that I could. Pulling the dagger from my side, I pushed it into a pouch on my armor, not knowing if it might come in useful later. Ignoring the pain, I once again began to fight again.

And this is how it went, for the next however many minutes. I would make my way through the blue painted bodies of the woads, every once in a while glancing quickly around to assure myself that the others were safe, before turning back to my own enemy. Listening to the wind as it blew warnings in my ear if I became too distracted. Twirling here and there in my dance of death, slashing out and slicing at my attackers, until finally, the low sound of a horn echoed loudly through the air. My last opponent had stupidly lowered his sword, something that had shown me how young he really was. None of the seasoned warriors would have done this. His eyes had swung back and forth between the forest that lay behind me, and the swords still held firmly in my hands. Watching his eyes carefully, I waited to see if he would attack or simply back off. It was only apprehension that I found in their depths, not malice. With the slightest of nods towards the forest, I let him know that I would not attack if he decided to pass. I could see the confusion in his eyes as he warily eyed my swords.

“Go!” my voice was filled with the exasperation I felt. I just wanted him gone, knowing that if he left peacefully, this would be one less death that would haunt me later. His hesitation was beginning to annoy me, so I took a step forward and raised my sword slightly. This finally caused him to move. Bolting around me, he must have caught the smug smile that graced my face, for he slowed a bit, looked at me once again, and then, was gone. His retreating body disappearing into the trees behind, as he followed his comrades to safety.

I watched for a few moments more as the remaining woads left. Satisfied that I could sense no more threat around me, I replaced my swords in their sheaths and winced at the pain in my side. Placing my hand against the wound, I applied pressure to the injury, attempting to staunch the blood flow. My eyes scanned the battlefield as I began to search for the others. Counting out seven, I breathed a sigh of relief. The danger had passed. My brothers were alive. And tonight. Tonight, would bring the end of our servitude to the Roman Empire. My side burned furiously as I walked through the bodies that littered the ground, searching for any survivors. Finding none, I made my way towards the center of the carnage where the others stood along with the carriage. I lightly laughed to myself as I took in a completely sodden Dagonet. Pagan now stood docilely beside Galahad who from his own horse handed me the reins. Reaching behind the saddle, I grabbed a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth. Opening it, I tossed one of the dry cloths inside to Dagonet and joked,

“What Dag?” I began, “you could not wait until we returned to the Wall to have a bath.”

The sounds of raucous laughter coming from the others placed a slight scowl on the face of the bigger man before he himself had to laugh. Taking another of the dry cloths, I pulled away the bottom of my armor, placing the cloth against the stinging wound, and wiped away the blood. My soft hiss of pain caught the attention of the others, and I had to wave them off, letting them know that I was fine. Seeing that the wound was not as deep as I had originally thought, I bandaged the wound as best I could until I could clean it properly. Hearing a low mumbling coming from underneath the cart, I bent over to see a young man wearing monk’s robes praying hastily.

“Gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus et Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus. Benedictus fructus ventris tui, lesus. Benedicta tu in mulieribus...” the declarations wavering greatly as he sent his prayers rushing from his thin lips.

“Save your prayers, boy. Your god doesn't live here.” The weary sound of Gawain’s voice cut though the man’s prayers as he bent low to pry his axe from the body of one of the dead woads.

Reaching out a hand, I helped the young monk up from his hiding spot. For some reason my eyes strayed to the small stream that we had first crossed over, only to see Arthur with his great sword pointing at the neck of a woad who had just tried to take him by surprise. Quickly I seated myself on Pagan, grabbing for the bow that was still attached to the pommel and rode closer to hear what was being said.

“Why did Merlin send you south of the wall?” the question was harshly asked by Arthur as the blue painted man fell to his knees, the battleaxe slipping from his hands onto the bloodied ground beside them.

“Spill my blood with Excalibur and make this ground holy.” The sentence that came from his lips was guttural and filled with defiance. The look on his face was smug.

I watched as Arthur stood there silently for a moment, his eyes scanning the forest where the enemy was. With a hard look, he turned his gaze back to the kneeling male.

“Pick it up.” The harsh sound of Arthur cut through the confidant façade that the man tried to maintain. The painted man hesitated as the defiant look fell from his face.

“Pick. It. Up.” The sentence was repeated again. This time he spoke slowly, as if he was talking to a troublesome child.

I watched as the man slowly picked up the axe from the ground. There was a slight tremble in his hand as he realized that Arthur would not make a martyr out of him for his cause. I watched as Arthur stood there another moment before turning to walk away, leaving the other man staring at the ground. The man had looked at Arthur’s retreating form, and I watched as he raised the axe up slightly. “You might want to rethink that decision. Real hard.” I growled out. The woad man shot me a look of surprise, not realizing that one had remained behind. Keeping my bow trained on the blue man, I watched as he quickly stood and raced into the forest. After he was gone, I turned towards the others, my eye falling on those of Lancelot who seemed to be looking me over. Turning away from him, I began riding towards the others once again.

“Bors?” The question asked by Arthur to the larger man. Removing the covering to the entrance of the cart, he looked inside.

“What a bloody mess.” The answer given by Bors was grave indeed.

I took a quick glance in to see the man inside. He had been an opulently dressed man, sitting upon a plush velvet cushion. Now, he was an opulently dressed dead man. The woad arrow had caught him through the neck embedding itself into the wood behind. His eyes were glazed over in death with lips slightly agape. Pulling my eyes away, I looked at the others, watching the wariness in their eyes as they realized the connotations of our failure.

“That's not the bishop.” The assurance came from Arthur as he stepped away from the carriage and the dead man. Two Roman soldiers entered the cart to remove the body as we sidled our horses out of the way. Arthur’s searching gaze scanned the bodies of both the living and the dead.

“God help us.” The voice of the young monk caught our attention. “What are they?” His question hung in the air as we looked among one another to see who would answer. The devious look that crossed Bors face set me to smiling. With a look, he turned around to have his fun.

“Blue demons that eat Christians alive.” He began gruffly. Turning away slightly, he spun back, startling the young monk into stepping back against the cart. “You're not a Christian, are you?” the question sending the man into a flurry of prayers that he thought would save him.

“Does this really work?” Bors closed his eyes and placed his hands together. Spouting some nonsensical gibberish, he opened his eyes and looked at the sky. “Nothing.” He said quietly. “Maybe I'm not doin' it right.” I smirked as he finished with his joking. My eyes again beginning to watch Arthur as he scanned the many faces on the battlefield. Our attention being caught when he stopped in front of one particular Roman soldier on horseback.

“Arthur!” the man said joviality. “Arthur Castus. Your father's image.” The gaze of this man swept over our commander, taking in the sight before him, “I haven't seen you since childhood.”

“Bishop Germanius. Welcome to Briton.” Arthur drawled as he looked at the man dressed in Roman armor. “I see your military skills are still of use to you.” He continued, shooting a glance at the yellow cart behind him, the soldiers placing the body of the dead “bishop” on the ground. “Your device worked.”

“Ancient tricks of an ancient dog.” He began. The tone of his voice was condescending. I knew right then that there was something about this man that I did not like. I watched as his beady eyes caught sight of us. “And these are the great Sarmatian knights we have heard so much of in Rome.” I could hear the derision that was barely hidden in the bishop’s voice. He looks like a rat. I thought to myself.

“I thought the Woads control the north of Hadrian's Wall.” I watched as he strode away, dismissing us with a glance. Arthur following close by as they continued their conversation.

“They do, but they occasionally venture south.” Arthur answered. “Rome's anticipated withdrawal from Briton has only increased their daring.”

“Woads?” the question was asked by the young monk. It was apparent to me that his superior never informed him of the dangers that waited in Briton. Taking pity on the boy, I answered him quietly.

“British rebels who hate Rome.”

“Men who want their country back.” Galahad’s voice cut off my explanation. His voice was terse. I knew that it was his anxiety that made him sound like this. I urged Pagan closer to Galahad, reaching out my hand and placed it lightly on his shoulder. Squeezing slightly, he looked over to me sheepishly.

“Who leads them?” the bishop asked. Reaching the wagon, he turned and looked around. Once again, I thought of how much he resembled a rat, and laughed lightly. A smirk coming to my face as I caught Lancelot shoot a glance at me. Shaking my head slightly I turned away.

“He's called Merlin.” Lancelot had answered the bishop’s question. He had ridden up beside me and lifted away the armor at my waist, giving me a warning look when I tried to slap his hands away. “A dark magician, some say.” Pulling away the cloth, he looked over the wound. His hands were methodical in their ministrations, the fingers surprisingly gentle with their probing. I shivered when his fingers stroked along the bare skin of my waist, my heart racing as I watched his hands with fascinated eyes. Raising my eyes up, I gasped at the soft look that had crossed his face. The dark eyes shot up, frowning as he looked at me. “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

“No. The woad blade did.” I quipped, hoping that he would let it go. The harsh look that crossed his face stopped my joking. “I have had worse Lancelot. I am fine.” I frowned at his anger, pushing his hands away from my body. “I have wrapped it for now and when we return to the fort I will take care of it.” My voice was short as I pulled away from him. I turned Pagan in the direction of the others.

“Tristan, ride ahead and make sure the road is clear.” At Arthur’s quietly ordered command, I watched as Tristan nodded, riding away down the path.

“Please do not worry, Bishop. We will protect you.” Arthur’s voice assured the bishop as the man climbed in the carriage.

“Oh.” The bishop said, turning slightly to look at Arthur. “I've no doubt, Commander. No doubt.” He entered the carriage and sat down quickly. Dropping the curtain before the young monk could enter.

“Dozens don't worry me, nearly so much as thousands.” The man began, his observation cut short by the dropped barrier, preventing him from entering the safer confines of the wagon.

“Thousands?” I said as I watched him look around in confusion wondering where he was to ride. Sighing softly, I reached a hand down pulling him up behind me on Pagan. When he was settled I spurred my horse forward, not noticing the dark glare sent my way.