by KM Shea
“Arthur!” Merlin shouted somewhere behind her.
The image of King Urien striking Sir Ector, sending him careening from his horse, replayed in her mind again and again. Britt had to help him.
Determination wrought of iron kept Britt on Roen’s back as they burst through the front lines of her army, galloping towards the left side of Lot’s army.
In the weeks and months to come, men would describe Britt’s charge as a thing of deadly majesty. Roen exploded forward, alone, across the plains. Britt’s army swept behind her like a metallic veil, chasing after the dust of their king. The ground shook, and the flags held by Lot’s standard bearers were almost ripped off their poles from the onslaught of a great wind that rolled across the plains with Britt.
Britt didn’t shout. She was deadly quiet, her cloak twisted behind her like red wings. As she neared the front lines, she pulled Excalibur from its scabbard. The mystical sword sang as it was freed. When the sunlight struck the blade, it seemed to ignite like the hottest depths of a star, casting light across the field in a blinding wave.
Sir Kay, who was within sight of King Lot, heard the enemy monarch say, “It can’t be.”
Lot’s soldiers shouted in fear at the sight of Britt.
“It’s the red dragon!”
“Uther Pendragon is back!”
“We’re doomed!”
“All is lost!”
At the last moment, Roen twisted, running parallel to the battle, away from Lot. Soldiers and knights on both sides shouted when Roen turned again and plowed through the ranks. All eyes followed the horse’s progress, looking ahead to see Britt’s target: King Urien and Sir Ector.
The king didn’t notice Britt’s deliberate journey. His back was to her as he jabbed his sword at Sir Ector.
The older knight was wounded, the armor on his left shoulder crushed from a mace blow, his helmet gone and trampled somewhere by a horse. He favored his left leg as he backed away from the gleeful king. Urien charged after Ector, his sword flashing, and slammed blow after blow upon Sir Ector.
Britt broke through the wall of soldiers separating her from the enemy king and her foster father. She kicked King Urien between the shoulders as she passed him, making the king stumble.
Britt dismounted Roen and turned to face Urien, her hair leaking out of her helmet to mark her like a shining blonde beacon.
King Urien snarled and lunged at Britt, his face twisted and angry.
Britt, on the other hand, was emotionless and silent. Her blue eyes were intense with anger so cold and smoldering her look alone pushed Urien’s men back. She didn’t raise Excalibur to block King Urien’s swipe at her. Instead—in the prime of his arc—Britt crouched and rammed her shoulder into the King’s stomach like a defensive lineman on a football team.
King Urien was knocked backwards. His eyes popped open with shock as Britt abandoned her vision-limiting helm.
Britt twirled Excalibur. “Stand, Urien,” she commanded, her eyes a blistering blue.
King Urien staggered to his feet, still shocked, before he shook his head and roared, charging at Britt like a mad animal.
As the king raised his sword, Britt burst forward, landing a blow on King Urien’s open left side. She pushed King Urien back, striking with incredible speed rather than strength. Sir Ector later described the fight, quietly and without his usual exuberance, as a mortal man desperately fleeing an enraged Elvenking.
King Urien retreated from the onslaught but fell on a slaughtered horse. He scrambled to stand but froze when he felt the icy tip of Excalibur sliding past the chainmail on his neck, resting against his sweat-covered skin.
“Do not move,” Britt said, her voice quiet but edged in burning fury, “or I will not hesitate to kill you.”
“You’re nothing but a boy,” King Urien croaked.
“That may be, but right now my fondness for your son is the only thing that is keeping Excalibur from biting your throat,” Britt said.
“What?” King Urien said, starting to wiggle until Britt leaned against her sword and placed a foot on Urien’s chest.
“You will live, Urien, but be warned. Never let me see your face again. Leave me and those of mine alone, and never, ever strike Sir Ector again. If you do, not even Ywain will be able to save you,” Britt said, her voice growling and guttural.
She abruptly pulled back from Urien—one of her knights leapt to take her place in holding the king prisoner—and made for Roen. “Sir Ector, are you well?” Britt asked as she mounted her horse, ignoring Urien’s panicked inquires.
“But my son! Ywain, do you have him?” Urien cried.
Sir Ector slowly lifted his gaze from the king and nodded to Britt. “I’m fine, My Lord.”
Britt smiled briefly, although the gesture did nothing to warm her face. “It’s Arthur, father,” she said, directing her black horse into the battle so quickly she did not see the smile bloom on Sir Ector’s face.
Roen jumped a slain soldier, nearly tossing Britt from his back, but she grimly held on as the black horse plunged past fights and skirmishes. This time, they were not alone. A small company of knights desperately chased after Britt, protecting her flanks and occasionally zipping forward to strike down a stray knight or soldier.
Lot saw Britt and her knights coming. Rather than face the flint-faced “boy king,” Lot grabbed a horse and fled.
He didn’t get six feet before Britt popped him off his horse, nailing him square in the chest with Excalibur’s scabbard. As the King fell and scrambled to right himself, Britt dismounted Roen, her long hair whipping in the wind.
Enraged, Lot raised his sword and shouted as he rushed at Britt.
Britt followed her previous tactics and struck before Lot was ready, using a combination of speed and cunningly placed blows to push Lot back and keep him on the defense. Rather than wait for an opening, she kept up a solid line of attacks and forged her own holes in the king’s defense.
When she pushed Lot off balance, she grabbed him by his shoulder armor, peeled it back, and stabbed the king.
Lot shouted, and a small company of his soldiers rushed Britt. Her knights picked off most of them, but she was forced to abandon Lot to fight his men.
Lot dragged himself to a horse and mounted it, setting off to the deep depths of his ranks. “Kings, to me! We will circle around them and crush them!” Lot shouted.
No sooner than Lot had spoken than a horn sounded from the woods in the north. Merlin, King Ban and King Bors charged out of the woods, 10,000 soldiers on horseback following them with deafening cries.
King Pellinore pulled his horse around Lot’s. “Who is that who rides with Merlin and a great host?”
Lot cursed. “’Tis King Ban and King Bors of the south. They have brought reinforcements without our knowledge. Retreat!”
King Ban and King Bors swept across the battlefield, reinvigorating it as they chased after Lot and his remaining allies.
Britt, meanwhile, was plucked from the fray and deposited on her horse by Sir Bodwain, who managed to drive her from the fight.
He sat with her, watching the majority of Lot’s army flee while other parts of Britt’s army took captives.
“Well done. The battle has been won,” Merlin pronounced, trotting up to Britt and Sir Bodwain on his spindly horse.
“How?” Britt asked. “They only retreated. We didn’t catch King Lot, and he didn’t surrender.”
“It doesn’t take a king to surrender to force him to admit defeat. We have seen the last of King Lot’s army, although we may not have seen the last of him,” Merlin said before frowning at Britt. “You should not have rushed into battle like that.”
Britt shrugged.
“I must apologize, My Lord. I seem to have underestimated you in a multitude of ways. I did not think you would be such a good fighter given your…circumstances,” Sir Bodwain said, bowing his head. “May I seek your forgiveness?”
“There is nothing to forgive, Sir Bodwain,” Britt said, resting a hand on
the pommel of the sheathed Excalibur. “But I am glad you have corrected your opinion of me.”
“Indeed, I have.”
“So. What do we tell Urien of his son?” Britt asked, turning her horse to watch her knights tie the captured King.
“Tell him we have his son, and if he dares to stand against you again, we shall not hesitate to slaughter him,” Merlin said.
Roen snorted as Britt wheeled him to face the enchanter. “Merlin! I would never allow that! I’m shocked you’re even suggesting it.”
“I’m not saying that’s what we would really do, lass. However, sometimes a lie is a kinder thing than the truth,” Merlin said.
“You think if he knows Ywain has sided with me, it would kill him?” Britt asked.
“No, but he might do something stupid that he would later regret. For now, it is best if we keep the father and son apart. Speaking of which, there’s the lad now,” Merlin said, squinting in the sunlight as he pointed to the slight hill on which Britt’s army was previously parked. “Arthur, would you go get him and carry him back to camp? Sir Bodwain will escort you.”
“I don’t need an escort. The battle is over,” Britt said as Roen danced in place.
“Perhaps, but there are still enemy soldiers about. The fighting is not finished yet, there may be a stray soldier or two who escape capture and seek you out. You need protection,” Merlin said, gesturing to the battlefield. Lot’s army was fleeing, pouring out of the plains in a frenzy, but Britt could still hear the clang of swords and armor.
“Fine. You will tell Urien?”
“I will.”
“Let’s go, Sir Bodwain. Your babysitting duty commences.”
“My what?”
“Never mind,” Britt said before heeling Roen. The gelding lunged into a smooth canter, effortlessly carrying Britt up the sun-painted hill. Ywain was nothing but a silhouette at the top, his springy hair casting long shadows in front of him.
“You won, My Lord!” Ywain shouted, pumping his fist in the air.
“We won,” Britt corrected him as Roen slowed to a trot. “I could not have done it without King Ban and King Bors, or any of my men for that matter,” Britt said as she drew close enough to Ywain to see a smile on his shadowy face.
“But now you are the rightful King of Britain, and no one can say otherwise!” Ywain said.
“Oh, I’m sure King Lot will still say no. He’ll bellyache for months. But Merlin seems to think the worst is behind us. You don’t have a horse?” Britt asked, stopping Roen near the young man.
“No. Merlin said it would be best if I went scouting on foot.”
“Then mount up behind me. We’re returning to camp,” Britt said.
“Oh, I couldn’t, My Lord,” Ywain shook his head.
“Why not? Roen is a strong horse, and you don’t weigh much more than I do. If we only walk and trot, he’ll be fine,” Britt said.
“But, my King…you’re the King. It wouldn’t be right for someone to ride with you,” Ywain said.
Britt snorted. “That’s kind of you to say, but it isn’t like that. Merlin catches a ride as if I were a taxi service. Come on. I want to go ride past the army one last time to look nice and regal before we go back.”
Ywain look unconvinced.
“Aren’t you hungry? Wouldn’t it be nice to return to camp quickly?” Britt coaxed.
Food was the last thing on Britt’s mind. She was mostly working on not throwing up from the overwhelming, suffocating scent of blood. But she knew the sooner she got off the field, the better she would feel, and chances were Ywain—who had seen no combat—would be starving.
“As you wish, my King,” Ywain said, finally convinced as he made for Britt’s horse.
Roen side-stepped Ywain for several moments until Britt leaned over and offered her arm. Ywain eagerly climbed up, looking out from his post.
Britt directed Roen down the slight hill before trotting up and down the field in front of her army—which was reorganizing itself.
Britt’s men took a few moments to shout and raise their swords in the air as Britt rode past.
“We had best head back to camp, sire, before you start some sort of battle,” Sir Bodwain shouted above the roar of the troops.
“Very well,” Britt said before turning Roen south, in the direction of their camp. As Britt rode past, she spotted Merlin in his Gandalf-look-alike robe, standing with King Urien. The king looked utterly dismayed; his eyes were fastened on Ywain.
The youth wasn’t aware of his father, and he was grinning and whooping with the rest of Britt’s men.
Merlin spoke to King Urien, who nodded as he watched Britt ride off with Ywain, disappearing behind a thicket of trees.
8
The End of the Beginning
“Arthur, are you alright?” Merlin asked later that evening when he found Britt sitting in front of a crackling campfire.
“I can’t sleep,” Britt said with a weak smile.
“I’m not surprised at that, but that cannot be all that is wrong with you. You look terrible,” Merlin said as he plopped down next to Britt.
Britt gazed past her fire. Most of her men were still awake, celebrating the victory with ale and songs. There were still guards on duty of course, but in general, the camp was lively and exuberant.
Merlin watched Britt for a moment. “Are you missing home, lass?”
Britt shook her head as Sir Bedivere and Ywain danced past, splashing drink and laughing loudly. “No.”
“Then what is it?”
Britt pulled her knees to her chest and hid her face in her hands. “I feel awful. I bathed twice already, but I can’t get the scent of blood off me, and whenever I close my eyes, I hear the cries of the dying and the scream of swords and weaponry. And the blood, too much blood.”
“Oh, lass,” Merlin said, his voice filled with pity as he placed a hand on her shoulder. “It was your first battle, and you are not a creature meant for combat.”
“I can fight!” Britt shook her head.
“Yes,” Merlin said, squeezing her shoulder to draw Britt’s attention, “but you cannot kill.”
“You mean because of what I am? Because I’m a…” she trailed off rather than admit her gender.
Merlin shook his head. “No. It’s because you have eyes in your heart.”
Britt stared at Merlin’s deep blue eyes for a few moments before she bolted, running to the nearest bush, where she threw up. Merlin followed her, gently holding Britt as she wretched.
When she was finished, the enchanter gave her a wooden cup filled halfway with water. “Take just a sip,” he advised after Britt rinsed out her mouth. “Do you feel better?”
“A little,” Britt admitted. “Does it ever go away?”
“What?”
“The aftertaste of battles.”
“Mostly, yes. But a small part of you will always remember the devastation you witnessed,” Merlin said.
She groaned.
“It’s a good thing, actually. If no one remembered wars, the majority of our nation’s leaders would be warmongers, seeking out the destruction of everyone around them,” Merlin said.
“What did King Urien say?” Britt asked, shakily standing.
Merlin threw an arm around her waist in support. “That he would keep clear of us. He begged us not to harm Ywain, although I suspect he knows that Ywain wants to be with us.”
“Will Ywain ever be able to go home?” She asked, wincing when she sat down in front of her fire harder than she meant to.
“In due time, he will. Let him grow and become one of your knights. When he is a man Urien can respect, he will return home, and both father and son will be glad for it,” Merlin said, sitting so close to Britt that part of his robe rested on her knee.
Britt closed her eyes and slumped momentarily against Merlin. “I want to go home.”
“To your place in America?” Merlin asked, cautiously pronouncing the name of the country.
“Yes.
No,” Britt groaned.
“No?”
“Yes, I want to go back to America, but that’s not what I was talking about. I want to go back to Camelot. To see Cavall and listen to peasants squabble,” Britt said. “I want to smell the cook making that awful, heavy bread. I want to be with civilians.”
“Then let’s go.”
“What?” She opened her eyes and sat upright.
“We’ll have to leave Roen behind. He’s had a long day and deserves his rest. But we can take a fresh horse from the stables. A large, sturdy one. Perhaps one of the draft horses that pulled the supplies here,” Merlin said as he stood and brushed his robe off.
“Are you crazy?” Britt asked.
“Now what would cause you to ask such a question?”
“We can’t just leave in the middle of the night! We’ll fall and break our necks.”
“Pish posh. The moon is near full—it is bright enough to cast a shadow on you. The two of us can safely make the journey. With luck, we’ll be back to Camelot in time for late breakfast,” Merlin said.
“Just the two of us? What about a guard?”
“When did you become such a worried baby chick? You don’t need guards when you travel with me, lass. Fear not,” Merlin smiled.
Britt stared at the enchanter. Her brain shouted at her that he was clearly insane, but breakfast at Camelot with Cavall and her surprisingly soft bed (at least softer than the ground) was tempting.
“Well?” Merlin asked.
Britt sighed. “Only if we get Sir Ulfius, Sir Kay, or Sir Bedivere to promise to bring Roen back. I think all the other knights are drunk beyond reason.”
“Fantastic, we’ll be home before you know it! Soon you’ll be listening to peasants argue over land rights and chickens as you rest your feet on your beastly dog!”
“Lass. Lass wake up.”
Britt groaned in her sleep and rolled her head to the left, twitching her nose when scratchy fabric tickled it.
The ground rolled beneath her, and Britt faintly remembered her late night ride upon a gigantic draft horse with Merlin.
“Britt, wake up. We’re home.”