Chivalry ♛ King Arthur

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THE headsman's ax slipped free in an attempt to fend off the ravenous bird. Horses bucked off their riders and the King's hounds began gnashing their jaws, howling and barking. Hooded men jumped up on the rostrum, racing toward the guards and Art. Katrina, Loreena, and the others fled, but the dull ache in Frida's head was still too much. She staggered forward, trying to get to Arthur.

One of the blacklegs darted toward her. In defense, she threw up her arms, only a light gathered in her palm and sank deep within the blackleg's chest. He screamed, clawing at his dark armor and skin, burning from the inside. Frida jumped back when the body fell and saw the eyes had been burned out. Panic seized her chest and would not let go.

Mercia slowed in his haste to escort the King away, glancing between her and the corpse with smoke rising from its eyes. "Arthur!" Frida had lost sight of him in the chaos.

An arm wrapped around her waist, sweeping her toward the stairs and the river. "C'mon," Arthur said, urgent, "Let's go." One of the men who had freed him picked up Excalibur, running with them. The crowd of people had parted in the commotion. The shouts of the King's men melded with the screaming of the common-folk.

They all veered off to where the river had cut a deep canyon through the surrounding country rock and up the rickety scaffolding. The ramp and wooden platform ended at the cliff face. Ida threw her hands up in front of herself to keep from tumbling straight down into the river below.

Vortigern's men were rushing up the stairs to the platform with swords drawn and arrows flying. "Jump!" Arthur yelled. Frida did not budge. She remained frozen in place. Two of the Blacklegs rammed their swords into the of men's guts who had helped Art escape the chopping block. The Mage and two of the men had already jumped, plummeting into the river below.

Arthur gritted his teeth together and shoved Ida forward and jumped a second after she began to fall.

Water filled her mouth. She bobbed up to the surface spluttering and gasping for air with skin stinging from the impact. But something grabbed hold of her ankle and dragged her back down into the dark water as arrows pierced the surface.

Arthur hauled her back up to the surface when the arrows stopped, his hand fisted in the heavy material of her bodice. Her bottom lip was quivering.

The river carried them downstream and when the castle and cliffs were no longer visible, they swam to the banks.

Frida wrapped the wet cloak around her shoulders, hugging it against her as tightly as she could manage with shaking hands. Her piercing stare had not left Arthur since they had emerged from the river. Arthur had never really known her umber colored eyes to be cold and harsh, but they were now.

He raised one of his brows at her, expecting to get an explanation for her soured expression as the others saddled a quintet of horses. "You pushed me off a cliff," she snapped.

"You froze like a deer!" He countered, knowing that she wouldn't have made the jump herself.

"Yes!" She began, exasperated. "Because that was over a hundred foot jump!" The Mage eyed them while the other three men silently begged that the journey wouldn't involve Arthur and her constantly bickering.

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Frida didn't like riding horses. They were smelly and uncomfortable creatures. She preferred a wagon for long trips or to go on foot. But neither of those were an option given her current predicament. They hadn't bound her hands like they had done with Arthur, but she knew she wasn't free to wander either.

The realization that she had just been pulled into much bigger than her little bakery in Londinium was slowly dawning. Arthur was the Born King. The lost son of Uther Pendragon and heir to Camelot. They street-rat of a boy she had met so many years ago was nobility.

Percival stopped their small caravan when the sun sank down low in the sky. The flat forest next to the river transitioned into rolling hills, then to steeper ones with bits of rock littering the landscape. They hadn't tents, only thin bedrolls and thinner blankets.

Rubio and Percy hauled Arthur off of his horse, refusing to unbind his hands. The two men dumped a pile of sticks and twigs on the ground for a fire. The Mage's eagle ate fresh rat meat, while they ate hard jerky, stale bread, and sour jam. Nobody said much, other than fleeting glances and strange expressions.

Frida turned her back to the glowing embers of the fire. Arthur was lying on his side, still awake. Her lips pressed into a thin line, trying to think of something to say but she didn't know how to pick the right words. The backs of his fingers brushed over her swollen cheek and bloodied lip. "They hurt you," he said in a low, dangerous voice.

She pushed away his hands and looked down into the fire. "I'm fine." That was a lie and he could easily tell that it was. She had been beaten, forced to watch Lucy die, and nearly had to watch him die too. She had killed a man with her own hands. She wasn't fine, but this wasn't the time to dwell on it.

"Bruises will heal," Frida remarked with a bittersweet smile, "just like burns." Arthur marveled at her strength, knowing that it had been forged at a young age.

"How did they find you?" Vortigern told him that the brothel had been raided, but he made no mention of a bakery, or of a baker's assistant.

Frida thought back to the uneaten pie that had sat on a table, unscathed until they torched the building and took the hidden coffers. "I brought you a dewberry pie," she laughed, meeting his soft gaze. He pressed his forehead against hers and she could feel his puff of laughter tickle her cheek.

"Arthur," she mumbled, feeling panic and fear seize her heart and lungs again. "I think they know. When Mercia looked at me-"

"-Shh," he shushed her and scooted to the edge of his bedroll, "I'll protect you."

"You don't understand," she whispered, fearful that their compatriots would overhear the conversation. Her eyes slipped shut and she could see it, see the corpse at her feet with black, soulless, smoking eyes. Bile began to rise in her throat the longer she held that image. "I killed a man." Her voice trembled. Even with that admission, Arthur took her hands into his. His thumb stroked over her knuckles. "When his body hit the stone smoke rose from his eyes."

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"They have someone of great power," his advisor announced. Vortigern frowned. He knew of the Mage, with her pathetic little stunt that allowed Uther's son to slip from his grasp once again. "The Mage, yes, I know," the King snapped in return.

Bayard, Earl of Mercia, shook his head. "Someone more powerful than the Mage." The King's attention snapped toward his advisor awaiting an explanation, not only for the interruption but for the implication that there could be a sorcerer more powerful than him. "An Arcanist," Bayard revealed.

Vortigern braced his hands on the table in front of him, not having expected to hear such a thing. He had slaughtered every man, woman, and child that bore the title or the potential to become an Arcanist early in his reign. The King took a deep breath. "Who is he?"

The Earl of Mercia glanced down at the maps and ledgers on the table. "She," he started, "is a baker's assistant in Londinium."

"Find her then," Vortigern commanded, "bring her to me." He would have to do away with her before she learned of her true potential, if she had not already.