Post by Shhasow on Nov 17, 2010 8:04:46 GMT 10
Beating Back the Tide
Summary: Keladry and Wyldon go off on a ride, with unexpected results.
Rating: PG-13
Another big thanks and hug to Ankhiale, who is awesome
Part 7 of 10.
_________
Wyldon couldn’t remember why they had decided to ride out alone this morning.
It was a foolish idea, but they had considered themselves safe enough in the Royal Forest. No immortals had been spotted for weeks, no known bandits were using it as a hideout, no danger should have existed.
Perhaps they had wanted a time alone, away from the gossiping eyes in Corus, the rumors that sprang up whenever he and Keladry spent time outside of the training yard, especially since their dance the other night. They had supposed the ride safe, bringing no more than sheathed swords and their shields lashed to their saddles.
Best laid plans fall apart at idle suppositions.
Their peaceful ride was enjoyable. They discussed news from the north, how the drought in the south would affect grain prices in Corus, and whether Pascen of Marmist would ever recover his dignity after being unceremoniously dragged from a sleep to be challenged and beaten by a first year squire. Kel managed to make Wyldon laugh at her fervent description of Pascen’s poor showing, stumbling over the yard, falling over his feet, and waving his sword threateningly at the poor monitor. Being drunk was not conducive to proper duels.
Their reverie ended abruptly.
A sharp snap pierced the air.
Well-armored soldiers leapt from the trees armed with swords and spears, causing their startled mounts to rear.
The two knights wasted no breath; they unsheathed their swords and fought from horseback.
There were too many, even for them and their well-trained warhorses, and they had no armor other than light leather jerkins.
They were unhorsed swiftly as the men surrounded them and cut their saddle ties, only barely managing to escape getting trapped under their mounts.
On foot, they stood back to back in a defensive position, protecting the other, darting forward to deal a heavy blow, then retreating to a relative safety.
Wyldon yelled at Cavall’s Heart to run for help. The gelding snorted and aimed a kick at the head of an attacker, only to get sliced along his haunches by another.
He shouted again, urgently. They needed help, fast.
The destrier hesitated, whirling his great head around, eyes rolled back in his head, and galloped towards the palace.
Peachblossom stayed, disregarding Keladry’s pleas to flee. He danced in place as he turned on one hoof, lashing out savagely with the others, rearing and biting in a desperate attempt to maim and avoid the jabbing steel.
Cries echoed in the forest, both victorious shouts born of effort, and pain-filled yelps as red-hot lines appeared on bodies.
There were too many, they couldn’t finish them all, not when each fended off three attackers at once. It was like damming the sea, or commanding the tide to cease flowing.
Wyldon gasped as a sword scored his left arm. Numbly, he fought through the pain and returned the blow, his own tearing through a thin joint in the soldier’s armor, leaving a wound that quickly gushed red through the mail.
Another took the man’s place and jabbed at Wyldon’s middle with a sharp spear.
He blocked it awkwardly – he couldn’t step aside else it would hit Keladry – and barely managed to wrench his body around to block another blow, and another.
One got through and pierced his side, though the attacker paid for it with his life.
Another swung down in a vicious two-handed strike that Wyldon barely deflected; it glanced off his left arm instead of cutting through it.
Keladry cried suddenly as she saw a hooded man away from the battle take aim with a small bow. He could not aim for her or Wyldon because of his fellow soldiers, but her horse…
A bow twanged.
An arrow sang.
Peachblossom danced his last dance.
Keladry felt her heart crack at the defiant neigh of her companion, but she couldn’t take the time to mourn her ally, not yet. Bitter tears, though they stinged behind her eyes, would distract and blind her if they fell.
She fought on desperately.
They were getting tired and the men were getting more cautious; most of the remaining sported wounds in several places, but they still greatly out-numbered the two knights.
They had a temporary stalemate.
Keladry leaned back slightly against Wyldon, their sweat-soaked backs lightly touching, granting a small measure of comfort and safety to each.
Neither side could move. The soldiers – for that is what they were, being well-armed and well-trained – were leery of the steel whirlwinds and the cold eyes that wielded them. The knights could not attack, for the only reason they were still alive was because they could not be individually surrounded. Defending on three sides was difficult, four impossible.
None of the soldiers spoke to each other, Wyldon noticed, mind detached from the situation as his worn body gasped for air as it bled from multiple places. They communicated in signals and nods, but no speech.
Keladry fumbled behind her with her empty hand. Wyldon, without taking his eyes from the surrounding soldiers, grabbed her hand and clasped it in his own, squeezing tightly. He held their hands against his thigh and jerked it slightly towards the path to the castle before letting go.
Nothing needed to be said.
As one unit, Keladry whirled around as Wyldon sprang forward, violently swiping at the surprised men. One of them uttered a muffled oath as they backed away, taken unawares by the sudden ferocity.
They gave way before the desperate knights.
The path was open!
Wyldon and Keladry ran forward, hope granting speed to their injured bodies as they lengthened their strides, chased by the soldiers.
“Move!” they heard from behind.
Wyldon glanced back to see the soldiers ease to either side of the path, leaving an open lane for the archer.
His heart stopped.
“To the trees!” he cried, breaking for the cover of the brush, watching the aiming archer out of the corner of his eye.
The archer loosed again, the arrow headed straight for the knight. He saw it flying towards him and leapt for the trees, safety only a few feet away.
There was a muffled thump and a piercing scream as a body dropped.
No.
Wyldon turned to see what he feared.
Keladry lay on the ground half out of the brush, upturned face white, arrow sticking out of her back.
Without a conscious thought, Wyldon picked her up and slung her across his shoulders, staggering slightly as the extra weight reminded him of a leg injury he hadn’t know about. A new sharp pricking dug into his back as he stumbled through the forest, desperately seeking to break the line of sight of the soldiers chasing them.
He ignored everything but the woman on his shoulders and her light breaths tickling his ear.
Her weak gasps were music.
They meant she was still alive.
Wyldon struggled through the underbrush, moving at a speed that would have surprised him if he were aware of it, uncaring of sharp edges or branches that slapped him in the face and wounded body. He bent low, running through tightly-packed foliage, praying that he wasn’t doing more damage to the woman on his back. If anything caught the arrow and pulled…
He heard pounding footsteps and breaking branches as the soldiers followed, forced to cut through the path.
He couldn’t keep this up much longer.
Hoofbeats sounded ahead.
He glanced through a break in the tree to spy several knights galloping up the path, followed by a contingent of the palace guard.
Safety.
Wyldon staggered out of the trees, nearly tripping on hidden rocks. “Behind us,” he shouted as the guard swiftly circled the pair, their spears lowered defensively.
Movement in the forest stopped; slowly they heard the sound of retreating footsteps.
One of the knights blanched at seeing them. Wyldon recognized the horse and sighed in relief.
“Thank Mithros, Jesslaw.” He never thought he’d say that.
“Lord Wyldon, Heart appeared in the stables, foaming, bleeding, we came as soon as we could, we followed him!”
“Later, Jesslaw, Keladry needs a healer immediately.”
“Goddess, is that Kel?” Owen said in horror. “Here, I’ll take her.”
Wyldon refused to let her go. “I have her.”
“Here, then take Joy.” Owen nearly fell off his horse in his haste and then helped Wyldon to mount, still carrying Kel.
Wyldon held her tightly on his back and grasped the reins with his free hand as he kicked Joy into a gallop towards the palace.
“Steady, Keladry,” he whispered as her face screwed up with pain at each stride. “Almost there, you shall make it.”
She had to make it.
There was no alternative.
The journey seemed to last a day. In reality, it was no more than a few minutes but each second seemed precious, each breath of hers expelled a miracle, each weak cough an eternity of fear.
They arrived at the palace and Wyldon threw himself off, taking the jump in stride as he ran inside.
Duke Baird met them at the doorway and ushered them into an empty receiving antechamber.
“Keladry first,” Wyldon ordered, gently lowering the Lady Knight into a chair, careful not to jostle the arrow. He felt more burdened by the absence of her weight.
“No…” Kel whispered, one eye open a slit. “You… first.”
“Keladry, I refuse to argue,” he commanded as Duke Baird immediately stemmed the blood flow from her wound and dimmed her pain.
“This is going to hurt, Kel,” Baird warned.
She gritted her teeth as the healer chopped the arrow in half, and gasped as he pulled it through her chest.
It looked like an iron flower sprouting from her chest, she thought idly as she watched the shaft grow longer as it appeared, distantly fascinated. Did the earth hurt so much when a peony was uprooted?
She sighed when it was out and watched the blood ooze out in greater frequency, mesmerized.
“Lift your arms, Keladry,” Duke Baird commanded gently, motioning to Wyldon to assist. They succeeded in undoing her belt and lifting her slack arms over her head, then her shirt. Wyldon turned away for her privacy, which might have relieved her had she been coherent. Baird swiftly bandaged her and the two men threaded her arms through her undershirt and lay her on the coach. She slowly curled up on her side, eyes closed, breathing shallowly.
Wyldon stood at her side, studying her. He laid a weary hand on her shoulder.
“She’ll be fine, Lord Wyldon,” Baird said, watching him with a slight frown. “You, on the other hand, need to be healed."
The knight looked blankly at him. Baird repeated his words, and Wyldon scowled but nodded slowly. He turned to a chair, but his vision suddenly grayed and his legs nearly gave out. He caught himself before he fell on Keladry, arms grasping the couch.
“I think I shall sit down,” he announced to the room as he waved away Baird and fell into the chair.
The healer sighed at the stubborn knight. He gently removed the bloodied tunic and undershirt, revealing a scarred chest peppered with numerous fresh wounds. Baird talked as he worked, his magic glowing between his fingers as he touched each injury and paused. “You are nicely sliced up, my lord, cuts to the shoulder, several to your chest, side, thigh – the side being the worst – and what’s that? A puncture wound on your back?”
Keladry muttered from her place on the coach, eyes that refused to focus squinting at the pair, “I believe that’s from my arrow.”
Wyldon frowned slightly, or at least he thought he did. Exhaustion and pain clouded his mind though he fought to speak normally. He heard himself speak as though from a long tunnel. “I suppose I have some claim as well. It was supposed to be mine from the start.”
Keladry laughed weakly, then groaned as she jostled her healing flesh. “I’ve always been greedy, my lord.”
“Go to sleep, Keladry,” Wyldon muttered, clenching his teeth as the healer continued to close the wounds. In other circumstances, he would be stoic and refuse healing, but with so many injuries he did not want to fool around with blood loss or losing too much training time.
She mumbled something too low for him to hear, but closed her eyes.
“That’s enough for you both for now,” Baird announced. “You’re both staying in the ward so I can monitor your progress.”
Keladry protested incoherently. Wyldon did not dignify Baird with a response, but the pair was cajoled and bullied to a pair of beds upstairs in the infirmary, where they immediately fell asleep.
***
Wyldon awoke later to a pair of clear eyes staring in his direction. “What?” he asked irritably. He sat up gingerly, feeling his healed skin tighten and ache with the movement.
“You saved me, carried me through half of the Royal Forest.”
He turned to her and caught her gaze. “You took an arrow for me. It only seemed chivalrous to save you in return, and it wasn’t quite half.”
She shook her head slightly before she answered, wincing as pain shot through her head. “You’re my commander. I’m supposed to.”
He sighed. “Am I, Keladry?”
Her hazel eyes considered him thoughtfully. “No. You’re my friend.”
Wyldon felt an inexplicable warmth in his chest.
“And since when have you called me by my name?”
“It seemed odd to call you by your fief after the other night.”
“I suppose,” she answered slowly, her eyes closing. Healings always made her tired.
Wyldon watched her sleep for a time, letting himself ruminate over the thoughts he had been proactively avoiding.
If in the night, Duke Baird noticed a figure in the dark room sitting by the bedside of another, he never said anything.
It was none of his business if the figure at times reached out and touched the hand of the sleeping knight.
Summary: Keladry and Wyldon go off on a ride, with unexpected results.
Rating: PG-13
Another big thanks and hug to Ankhiale, who is awesome
Part 7 of 10.
_________
Wyldon couldn’t remember why they had decided to ride out alone this morning.
It was a foolish idea, but they had considered themselves safe enough in the Royal Forest. No immortals had been spotted for weeks, no known bandits were using it as a hideout, no danger should have existed.
Perhaps they had wanted a time alone, away from the gossiping eyes in Corus, the rumors that sprang up whenever he and Keladry spent time outside of the training yard, especially since their dance the other night. They had supposed the ride safe, bringing no more than sheathed swords and their shields lashed to their saddles.
Best laid plans fall apart at idle suppositions.
Their peaceful ride was enjoyable. They discussed news from the north, how the drought in the south would affect grain prices in Corus, and whether Pascen of Marmist would ever recover his dignity after being unceremoniously dragged from a sleep to be challenged and beaten by a first year squire. Kel managed to make Wyldon laugh at her fervent description of Pascen’s poor showing, stumbling over the yard, falling over his feet, and waving his sword threateningly at the poor monitor. Being drunk was not conducive to proper duels.
Their reverie ended abruptly.
A sharp snap pierced the air.
Well-armored soldiers leapt from the trees armed with swords and spears, causing their startled mounts to rear.
The two knights wasted no breath; they unsheathed their swords and fought from horseback.
There were too many, even for them and their well-trained warhorses, and they had no armor other than light leather jerkins.
They were unhorsed swiftly as the men surrounded them and cut their saddle ties, only barely managing to escape getting trapped under their mounts.
On foot, they stood back to back in a defensive position, protecting the other, darting forward to deal a heavy blow, then retreating to a relative safety.
Wyldon yelled at Cavall’s Heart to run for help. The gelding snorted and aimed a kick at the head of an attacker, only to get sliced along his haunches by another.
He shouted again, urgently. They needed help, fast.
The destrier hesitated, whirling his great head around, eyes rolled back in his head, and galloped towards the palace.
Peachblossom stayed, disregarding Keladry’s pleas to flee. He danced in place as he turned on one hoof, lashing out savagely with the others, rearing and biting in a desperate attempt to maim and avoid the jabbing steel.
Cries echoed in the forest, both victorious shouts born of effort, and pain-filled yelps as red-hot lines appeared on bodies.
There were too many, they couldn’t finish them all, not when each fended off three attackers at once. It was like damming the sea, or commanding the tide to cease flowing.
Wyldon gasped as a sword scored his left arm. Numbly, he fought through the pain and returned the blow, his own tearing through a thin joint in the soldier’s armor, leaving a wound that quickly gushed red through the mail.
Another took the man’s place and jabbed at Wyldon’s middle with a sharp spear.
He blocked it awkwardly – he couldn’t step aside else it would hit Keladry – and barely managed to wrench his body around to block another blow, and another.
One got through and pierced his side, though the attacker paid for it with his life.
Another swung down in a vicious two-handed strike that Wyldon barely deflected; it glanced off his left arm instead of cutting through it.
Keladry cried suddenly as she saw a hooded man away from the battle take aim with a small bow. He could not aim for her or Wyldon because of his fellow soldiers, but her horse…
A bow twanged.
An arrow sang.
Peachblossom danced his last dance.
Keladry felt her heart crack at the defiant neigh of her companion, but she couldn’t take the time to mourn her ally, not yet. Bitter tears, though they stinged behind her eyes, would distract and blind her if they fell.
She fought on desperately.
They were getting tired and the men were getting more cautious; most of the remaining sported wounds in several places, but they still greatly out-numbered the two knights.
They had a temporary stalemate.
Keladry leaned back slightly against Wyldon, their sweat-soaked backs lightly touching, granting a small measure of comfort and safety to each.
Neither side could move. The soldiers – for that is what they were, being well-armed and well-trained – were leery of the steel whirlwinds and the cold eyes that wielded them. The knights could not attack, for the only reason they were still alive was because they could not be individually surrounded. Defending on three sides was difficult, four impossible.
None of the soldiers spoke to each other, Wyldon noticed, mind detached from the situation as his worn body gasped for air as it bled from multiple places. They communicated in signals and nods, but no speech.
Keladry fumbled behind her with her empty hand. Wyldon, without taking his eyes from the surrounding soldiers, grabbed her hand and clasped it in his own, squeezing tightly. He held their hands against his thigh and jerked it slightly towards the path to the castle before letting go.
Nothing needed to be said.
As one unit, Keladry whirled around as Wyldon sprang forward, violently swiping at the surprised men. One of them uttered a muffled oath as they backed away, taken unawares by the sudden ferocity.
They gave way before the desperate knights.
The path was open!
Wyldon and Keladry ran forward, hope granting speed to their injured bodies as they lengthened their strides, chased by the soldiers.
“Move!” they heard from behind.
Wyldon glanced back to see the soldiers ease to either side of the path, leaving an open lane for the archer.
His heart stopped.
“To the trees!” he cried, breaking for the cover of the brush, watching the aiming archer out of the corner of his eye.
The archer loosed again, the arrow headed straight for the knight. He saw it flying towards him and leapt for the trees, safety only a few feet away.
There was a muffled thump and a piercing scream as a body dropped.
No.
Wyldon turned to see what he feared.
Keladry lay on the ground half out of the brush, upturned face white, arrow sticking out of her back.
Without a conscious thought, Wyldon picked her up and slung her across his shoulders, staggering slightly as the extra weight reminded him of a leg injury he hadn’t know about. A new sharp pricking dug into his back as he stumbled through the forest, desperately seeking to break the line of sight of the soldiers chasing them.
He ignored everything but the woman on his shoulders and her light breaths tickling his ear.
Her weak gasps were music.
They meant she was still alive.
Wyldon struggled through the underbrush, moving at a speed that would have surprised him if he were aware of it, uncaring of sharp edges or branches that slapped him in the face and wounded body. He bent low, running through tightly-packed foliage, praying that he wasn’t doing more damage to the woman on his back. If anything caught the arrow and pulled…
He heard pounding footsteps and breaking branches as the soldiers followed, forced to cut through the path.
He couldn’t keep this up much longer.
Hoofbeats sounded ahead.
He glanced through a break in the tree to spy several knights galloping up the path, followed by a contingent of the palace guard.
Safety.
Wyldon staggered out of the trees, nearly tripping on hidden rocks. “Behind us,” he shouted as the guard swiftly circled the pair, their spears lowered defensively.
Movement in the forest stopped; slowly they heard the sound of retreating footsteps.
One of the knights blanched at seeing them. Wyldon recognized the horse and sighed in relief.
“Thank Mithros, Jesslaw.” He never thought he’d say that.
“Lord Wyldon, Heart appeared in the stables, foaming, bleeding, we came as soon as we could, we followed him!”
“Later, Jesslaw, Keladry needs a healer immediately.”
“Goddess, is that Kel?” Owen said in horror. “Here, I’ll take her.”
Wyldon refused to let her go. “I have her.”
“Here, then take Joy.” Owen nearly fell off his horse in his haste and then helped Wyldon to mount, still carrying Kel.
Wyldon held her tightly on his back and grasped the reins with his free hand as he kicked Joy into a gallop towards the palace.
“Steady, Keladry,” he whispered as her face screwed up with pain at each stride. “Almost there, you shall make it.”
She had to make it.
There was no alternative.
The journey seemed to last a day. In reality, it was no more than a few minutes but each second seemed precious, each breath of hers expelled a miracle, each weak cough an eternity of fear.
They arrived at the palace and Wyldon threw himself off, taking the jump in stride as he ran inside.
Duke Baird met them at the doorway and ushered them into an empty receiving antechamber.
“Keladry first,” Wyldon ordered, gently lowering the Lady Knight into a chair, careful not to jostle the arrow. He felt more burdened by the absence of her weight.
“No…” Kel whispered, one eye open a slit. “You… first.”
“Keladry, I refuse to argue,” he commanded as Duke Baird immediately stemmed the blood flow from her wound and dimmed her pain.
“This is going to hurt, Kel,” Baird warned.
She gritted her teeth as the healer chopped the arrow in half, and gasped as he pulled it through her chest.
It looked like an iron flower sprouting from her chest, she thought idly as she watched the shaft grow longer as it appeared, distantly fascinated. Did the earth hurt so much when a peony was uprooted?
She sighed when it was out and watched the blood ooze out in greater frequency, mesmerized.
“Lift your arms, Keladry,” Duke Baird commanded gently, motioning to Wyldon to assist. They succeeded in undoing her belt and lifting her slack arms over her head, then her shirt. Wyldon turned away for her privacy, which might have relieved her had she been coherent. Baird swiftly bandaged her and the two men threaded her arms through her undershirt and lay her on the coach. She slowly curled up on her side, eyes closed, breathing shallowly.
Wyldon stood at her side, studying her. He laid a weary hand on her shoulder.
“She’ll be fine, Lord Wyldon,” Baird said, watching him with a slight frown. “You, on the other hand, need to be healed."
The knight looked blankly at him. Baird repeated his words, and Wyldon scowled but nodded slowly. He turned to a chair, but his vision suddenly grayed and his legs nearly gave out. He caught himself before he fell on Keladry, arms grasping the couch.
“I think I shall sit down,” he announced to the room as he waved away Baird and fell into the chair.
The healer sighed at the stubborn knight. He gently removed the bloodied tunic and undershirt, revealing a scarred chest peppered with numerous fresh wounds. Baird talked as he worked, his magic glowing between his fingers as he touched each injury and paused. “You are nicely sliced up, my lord, cuts to the shoulder, several to your chest, side, thigh – the side being the worst – and what’s that? A puncture wound on your back?”
Keladry muttered from her place on the coach, eyes that refused to focus squinting at the pair, “I believe that’s from my arrow.”
Wyldon frowned slightly, or at least he thought he did. Exhaustion and pain clouded his mind though he fought to speak normally. He heard himself speak as though from a long tunnel. “I suppose I have some claim as well. It was supposed to be mine from the start.”
Keladry laughed weakly, then groaned as she jostled her healing flesh. “I’ve always been greedy, my lord.”
“Go to sleep, Keladry,” Wyldon muttered, clenching his teeth as the healer continued to close the wounds. In other circumstances, he would be stoic and refuse healing, but with so many injuries he did not want to fool around with blood loss or losing too much training time.
She mumbled something too low for him to hear, but closed her eyes.
“That’s enough for you both for now,” Baird announced. “You’re both staying in the ward so I can monitor your progress.”
Keladry protested incoherently. Wyldon did not dignify Baird with a response, but the pair was cajoled and bullied to a pair of beds upstairs in the infirmary, where they immediately fell asleep.
***
Wyldon awoke later to a pair of clear eyes staring in his direction. “What?” he asked irritably. He sat up gingerly, feeling his healed skin tighten and ache with the movement.
“You saved me, carried me through half of the Royal Forest.”
He turned to her and caught her gaze. “You took an arrow for me. It only seemed chivalrous to save you in return, and it wasn’t quite half.”
She shook her head slightly before she answered, wincing as pain shot through her head. “You’re my commander. I’m supposed to.”
He sighed. “Am I, Keladry?”
Her hazel eyes considered him thoughtfully. “No. You’re my friend.”
Wyldon felt an inexplicable warmth in his chest.
“And since when have you called me by my name?”
“It seemed odd to call you by your fief after the other night.”
“I suppose,” she answered slowly, her eyes closing. Healings always made her tired.
Wyldon watched her sleep for a time, letting himself ruminate over the thoughts he had been proactively avoiding.
If in the night, Duke Baird noticed a figure in the dark room sitting by the bedside of another, he never said anything.
It was none of his business if the figure at times reached out and touched the hand of the sleeping knight.