Clash in Burweld

MORDRED

Gal and I were quickly identified on our arrival in Burweld. Given its allegiance to Lancelot, however strained, it made sense for Galahad to handle pleasantries with her mother's vassals. Naught rattled at my hip in a direction opposite the burg's hall and I took the excuse to skip out on festivities.

Gal made no attempt at protest. I'd been moving in a daze since the morning prior, and she'd kept her distance. She was likely relieved, after Merlin's prophecy came to light my presence at court had tended to make things tense.

"Where are we headed?" I said to Naught once we were out of earshot. This was my first time in Burweld, and my tour-guide's compass only pointed toward trouble.

"Pussy," she whispered, and the word crawled up my neck in a shiver.

Zephyr bounced beneath me; this was the first I'd felt it all morning. My eyes were dry.

Did I forget to blink?

"Whose, yours or our targets?" I set a hand on her pommel, thankful for her persistence.

"That's all it takes? You're a ghost for days and I just needed to mention slick-flesh?"

"I'm sure that's not the first you've mentioned it. Ride with me," I said, and she took form at my back, her arms clattering across plate to wrap my middle.

I shifted forward in the saddle to make room, "Now truly, were you looking for a hole we can rut in, or do you have an idea where we're going?"

She leaned and I mimicked the motion, steering Zephyr onto an uphill climb.

"They don't keep prisoners in the burg hall," she said. She was right, at the top of winding stone steps was a half-toppled fortress wall, the structure behind appeared to still see some use, bearing banners of three red diagonal stipes on white, Lancelot's coat of arms.

Her fingernail traced the back of my pauldron in a winding scrape, digging into its violet paint, "Right, the hell are you drawing?"

Air hissed from her nose, and she sped up the process.

I shrugged the shoulder, "I'm going to buy a cape."

I cursed the day the court painter had shown her how to draw a cunt, she'd since created a few dozen variations and claimed them her motif.

"To hide my love?" she asked, and my teeth set. She dropped that word about as often as she did Master, and I didn't know what to make of either.

She didn't press my silence as we continued our approach. The fort looked as good a place as any to start our search for the plum-haired bandit's sister.

In the structure's yard a trio were being instructed in archery. I recognized the Dame that passed between them, critiquing form, though couldn't place a name to her. She'd visited Arthur's court and seemed to be well respected. As best I could recall she was errant, but it appeared that had changed. Unsure of how best to address her, I turned to round the fort's side.

"Betrayer," she called out in greeting as if it was my name.

I left the saddle. On instinct Naught returned to my side and I hit gravel with her gripped, "Withdraw your comment."

I knew damn well what she meant, and to let it go unchallenged was the same as admitting it truth.

"Comment? Is that not... your title," she asked, angling herself toward the nearest rack of spears.

My-

It may as well have been. It'd followed me through court in a whisper.

Is that the only name she has for me?

Her face was serene. She was either looking for a fight or dreadfully unaware of her insult, "If you don't know its meaning, withdraw it, and we can both be on our way."

She took a step toward the rack and said, "We don't accept orders from Lancelot and her get."

The hell-

Gal said they were causing problems, but this was blatant treason.

The burg hall.

If the Dame was this brazen, I could only imagine what Gal was encountering.

"You still fly her banner."

"An oversight, somebody should fetch a ladder."

And she dared to level 'Betrayer' at me.

Naught pulled from her sheath, dragging my arm to point toward a tower window. My eyes trailed and caught a flutter of plum receding behind stone.

In that lost moment the Dame had reached the rack and made to launch a spear. I pivoted and Naught reached to give the singing metal a tap as it sailed by.

I slapped gravel. She'd given me all the excuse I needed to repay her insult. In quick order I'd torn through the chest of one bowman and wheeled another into the path of her next thrown spear. I had no plans of going toe to toe with her while these three peppered my backside. Its tip stuck through the conscripts back and slid across my side. The third turned to scramble over stone from the fallen wall.

She'd taken another in hand and dropped into a stance roughly fifteen paces away. An upturned target served as a cushion for arrows at my side, I plucked one and, mimicking her form, tossed it overhand in her direction. It landed limp a few paces short, and a glower set across her face.

"That's you," I added.

"Got it."

What the hell am I doing?

My little jab and the bloodshed calmed something in me. I hadn't come to sort out Lancelot's border pursuit. There was a chance we could negotiate my prize and be on our way.

Then she alit in the fort's entry, long locks in two half-buns. She looked between me and the Dame and scrunched slender fingers into the dark green velvet of her dress. I caught her eyes, led them to Zephyr, and my co-combatant took notice.

She rounded on the girl, "Get back!" When she returned to me, I was yanking the spear from the watchman's chest. I dropped Naughty and she hit the ground in a squat, sucking on a length of pink hair.

The girl stepped slow toward Zephyr.

"Back!" the Dame shouted. Naught rushed the horse, and I ran an intercepting angle to shield them.