Out of Time

Chapter 38

Arthur stood atop the wall when the alarm sounded, indicating a foreign army approached. He looked out over the fields where farmers stopped tending their crops. Complete stillness settled over the landscape, and a perfect calm settled over him. Turning away from the wall, he made a motion with his hand, and his men started to gather, collecting weapons, donning any armor they'd taken off while waiting, saddling horses.

Bertram ordered the gates raised, and men started streaming out into the outlying fields. The untrained masses files toward the gates as well, waiting to get inside once the men with their bows and their swords gave them room to get to safety. A handful of men would be left behind to protect the walls. The rest went out to meet whatever fate honor and their maker demanded of them. Hopefully, with Arthur and his men there, it would be a far kinder fate than if he hadn't come.

When most had departed, he stepped off the wall, climbed onto his behemoth of a horse, and kicked him into a gallop, racing to the front of the hoard of men—where a leader should be. They marched past the fields, men moving into the trees on either side to form flanking positions. They couldn't allow the enemy's men to get around them and to the fortress.

Time slowed, almost standing still as the battle drew near. No longer at the higher vantage point, he'd lost sight of the opposing army, but knew it awaited them. The closer they came to the battle, the calmer Arthur became. The waiting was always the worst part. Now, with the wait over, he yearned for the bloodshed to begin.

While on an intellectual level, he hated battle, hated the need for it, or even worse, battle for sport or money, he knew it had it's purposes. And to him, no purpose was higher than protecting those in need. And Lord Bertram had certainly been in need. As the other army came back into view, Arthur did a quick estimate of their numbers, and knew Bertram would have never been able to hold up against them without help, help he had received. Help Arthur had been more than happy to provide.

When the opposing army, their army gleaming bright in the sun, waited large and formidable, close enough that he could see the plumes of breath coming out of the horses' nostrils, they stopped, Arthur commanding his men to attention.

"This is King Arthur of Camelot." His voice boomed over the field, the command in it clear, that of a king.

On the other side of the expanse, nervous energy rippled through the army. After a few moments, a bark of command settled them, and Arthur just prayed that what he'd seem might mean they could avoid this conflict entirely.

"I have brought my army to defend this land, these people, my friend and ally. You are outnumbered and outmanned. You will not win this day. Turn back now and we will show you leniency. There is no need for blood to be spilled this day." Arthur cleared his throat and sat back on his mount, hoping against hope that hope that his scare tactic would work. He very much wished to return home, and he could admit without even the slightest bit of hesitation, return to Danielle.

Somehow, without him even realizing, she had become synonymous with home. He missed her warmth, her voice, her impressive mind. And, yeah, he missed the bed sport too. He'd quickly and easily become addicted to his lovely wife, and after her initial nerves, she'd become quite enthusiastic in turn. He couldn't wait for the welcome he would receive.

A single yelled word echoed across the field, and he shook the distracting thoughts from him head. They had no place in battle, and as the meaning of the single word drifted in his head, he sighed, knowing battle would not be avoided this day.

Arthur drew his sword, screamed a bloodthirsty yell and brought to mind supernatural creatures, and an answering cry rose, drowning his own out in the process. He smiled, proud of his men, and charged.

His armor weighed him down with each impact the horse's hooves made with the ground, then weightless as the beast kicked off once more, making him almost giddy with the feeling. The other army did not immediately act, as if cowed by the impressive might of the army bearing down on them. But soon, they charged too, and all but the battle loomed fled his mind.

The horse's hooves hammered the ground, seemingly in time to the hammering of his own heart. No sound seemed to reach him, his focus absolute—just an eerie silence, and the knowledge that he would kill all in his sights. He had no doubts. He would return to Danielle.

He swung his arm at a man on horseback, the first of the opponents to reach him. His sword encountered resistance, then blood splashed across him, and he absently noted the other man spilling off his horse. Arthur turned and swung again, striking a man on the other side of his body. He hit hard metal—a sword—and swung again, this time stabbing out at the man. He didn't wait to see if the man went down.

Everything accelerated. With each strike, he grew calmer. With each pound of his horse's hooves, he grew focused. With each spray of blood, he swung his blade arm that much faster, that much stronger, that much surer.

Arthur didn't remember most of the battle. He rarely did. At some point, he dismounted, and he vaguely remembered being surrounded, hacking away at enemies on all sides. A smile crept across his face.

As they always did, the battle ended. Arthur stood among a sea of bodies. Blood coated his armor and exposed skin, dripped from his sword. His brain, slow and hazy, didn't immediately accept that the battle had ended. The grip on the hilt of his blade tightened and loosened, waiting for the next enemy to present itself.

But the battle had ended, and the battle haze did disperse, and he hated himself for the things most everyone praised him on. They praised his skills in battle, but any man could kill. True skill was avoiding the battle entirely—diplomacy—which he seemed to fail at time and again.

Arthur scanned the battlefield, trying to assess his losses, but other than picking out a few key faces, he really couldn't tell. In the aftermath of the battle, the dead and the injured looked much the same on both sides.

#

Dani wondered if she should tell Lancelot her news. Merlin had seemed certain, and she trusted that he knew these things. He seemed to know everything—everything but the future. It seemed reckless to play with swords when she knew she carried Arthur's child, especially after what happened last time.

And yet, she couldn't bring herself to speak those words. And not just because she didn't want to speak of it, or jinx it. She didn't want these sessions to end. She didn't want to be abandoned to her own head. It wasn't a pretty place at the moment, and she wished she were a different person, a person who could confide in someone about it. She had Guin, and she knew Guin would listen, maybe even grace her with one of her rare moments of maturity and wisdom.

But Dani was a chicken, and so she kept her own counsel. Soon, she promised herself. Maybe when Arthur returned. She could tell him, right? She had to. It was only right.

Lancelot dropped his sword to his side, signaling the end of their training session. She groaned, not looking forward to going back to the rest of her duties, even if the dirty looks she received from the other men unnerved her a little.

"Tomorrow?"

Lancelot nodded. "Tomorrow."

Dani handed over her sword and turned her back on Lancelot, resisting the urge to pester him again about what Arthur might be doing at that very moment. Lancelot didn't know, and wasn't it silly to keep asking him as if his words would change?

Then she had a brilliant idea. Maybe Merlin would know. Now that he knew all her dirty secrets, she saw no need to avoid him, and while he couldn't see the future, maybe he would know if Arthur was okay.

She jogged into the GreatHall, but Merlin wasn't there. Sighing,she slumped into a chair at the high table, not sure what to do with herselfnow. She needed Merlin.