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shadydaveAt long last, it is finished!
Defende Nos in Proelio
NaNoWriMo NaShoStoWriMo '08
~13,000 words (Yes, this took me the entire month. I write slow, ok?)
WARNING: Contains strong language, anthropophagy, blatant anachronism, research done entirely on Wikipedia, and Sir Kay.
DEFENDE NOS IN PROELIO
PART THE FIRST
The coast of Armorica was muted and bleak in the wan light of early spring, and a bitter wind flung freezing spray in the faces of the travelers on the Prydwen as she cut through the rough waves.
Her owner emerged from the hold and stretched, blinking in the faint sunlight. C. Cornelius Hector Artorianus, dux bellorum, slayer of Saxons and defender of Britain, walked over to the rail where two of his senior officers were lounging, surveyed the featureless gray seascape for a moment, then turned back to his friends and said, “All right, I give up. Where are we?”
Bedwyr sighed, and Kay whooped and punched the air triumphantly.
“What just happened?” asked Arthur.
“You lost me a week’s pay,” said Bedwyr glumly. “Is it really so hard to remember that you’ve volunteered for a diplomatic mission?”
“Apparently,” said Arthur. “I volunteered for a diplomatic mission?”
“Entertaining the Armorican ambassadors? Your feast in honor of St. Joseph? Begging the Bishop for a dispensation by promising to rebuild the chapel Kay accidentally burnt down? Does any of this sound familiar?”
“Oh,” said Arthur. “Yeah, I don’t really recall a lot of that evening. Really, Bedwyr, you should have expected this if I was drunk enough to sign up to be a diplomat.”
“I told you,” said Kay to Bedwyr, smirking.
“And as for you,” said Arthur, rounding on Kay and poking him accusatorily, “I can’t believe you bet against me.”
“A good commander gambles to win,” quoted Kay, batting away his brother’s hand.
“Just because I said it doesn’t mean it’s true!”
“Truth,” said Kay, “is drinking away Bedwyr’s hard-earned wages right in front of him.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” said Arthur, turning back to Bedwyr. “Why are we here?”
“Current thought favors fulfilling God’s will by being faithful servants of the Church,” Bedwyr said shortly.
“Aww, look,” said Kay. “You let him down, and now he’s all sad and sarcastic.”
“Unless you are asking me why we are specifically en route to Armorica,” Bedwyr continued, glaring at Kay, “in which case I would have to remind you that King Howell has agreed to renew negotiations for a naval treaty.”
“It’s the boats,” said Kay. “The Armoricans have a lot of them, see, and the Saxons, who I’m sure you’ve noticed have been invading us, also have boats, which are in fact their main transport to Britain, which you may or may not know is an island –”
"I know that it's important to gain the Armoricans’ naval support,” said Arthur, also glaring at Kay. “I’ve only been asking for it for about, oh, five years now. The part I'm confused about is why I'm the best candidate to get it.”
“You volunteered the loudest,” said Bedwyr. "However, you do possess more relevant qualifications: firstly, as Howell's kinsman, you will be accorded more respect, and thus your opinions more weight, than many of Britain’s previous ambassadors--"
"I'm related to Howell?"
“The queen is your father’s cousin’s nephew’s daughter – your second cousin once removed – and Howell is distantly related to you on your mother’s side.”
“More distantly than my cousin’s daughter’s… uncle’s… mother’s… niece?”
“I did explain it all to you the other night, when you agreed to go,” said Bedwyr reproachfully. “Although you did fall asleep right afterwards. In the middle of dinner.” He paused, and added, “Right onto your pie.”
“I was drunk!”
Kay smirked. “Yes, and you had gravy in your ears the rest of the night.”
“I had pie on my head and you didn’t tell me?”
“It was funny!”
“That’s it,” said Arthur. “I’m disowning you.”
“You can’t disown me, you’re adopted,” said Kay. “We’ve been through this before. Besides, it’s not like anyone else is going to follow you and your army around, making sure you have enough pie for everyone so that there’s second helpings for your dubious taste in haberdashery.”
“I don’t care if you’re the quartermaster, you’re going to get a second helping of me kicking your – ”
“As I was saying,” continued Bedwyr, “your familial relations –“
Kay snickered.
Arthur rolled his eyes and said, “So I’m related to Howell somehow. I think someone might have made that up, but fine. Apart from my fortuitous birth, why else am I qualified? Is it my dashing good looks?"
"The only reason your looks can be called dashing is because they make women run away," said Kay.
"Secondly," continued Bedwyr, falling back on his time-honored strategy of pretending Kay did not exist, "there is the matter of the giant."
"Wait, what?"
"Oh, really, Arthur," said Kay in exasperation. "That was the only interesting part of the conversation, up until you face-planted in your meat pie. Howell's daughter, Helena–"
"Your father’s cousin’s nephew’s granddaughter,” interjected Bedwyr.
"—Yes, her, got abducted. The Armoricans had been having problems with their ships being raided along the coast, and the sailors claimed it was a giant, but no one believed them until it smashed down the gates and grabbed the princess as she was preparing for her morning ride.”
“That would be a little hard to ignore,” said Arthur. “How long ago was this?”
“About a month,” said Bedwyr.
“So they sent for me when they couldn’t find the giant themselves? Fair enough. Looks like they heard about my little maneuver at the battle of Mount Arvaius,” Arthur said, only a little smug.
“If you can call crawling around in the mud a battle,” snorted Kay.
“We fought,” protested Arthur. “I just primarily defeated Retho with cunning and wile, that’s all.”
“Wile?” asked Bedwyr.
“He crawled around in the mud, hamstrung him, and then stabbed him when he fell down,” said Kay. “How is that a battle?”
“He hit me,” protested Arthur. “I still have a scar. Besides, we did the exact same thing at Venta Belgarum with the Saxons – well, maybe not the hamstringing part – and that definitely counted as a battle.” To Bedwyr, he added, “See what you miss when you’re on sick leave?”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I get a hand chopped off,” said Bedwyr.
“Sorry,” said Arthur sheepishly. “So, did they say where they looked for Helena? We should start tracking her and the giant as soon as possible, and it will definitely go faster if we don’t cover the same ground.”
“They haven’t,” said Bedwyr.
“What, they didn’t tell you where Helena wasn’t?” asked Arthur.
“You’ve lost me,” said Kay.
“No, they haven’t looked for her,” said Bedwyr.
“Wait,” said Arthur. “I’m confused. I thought you said she’s the king’s daughter.”
“She is,” said Bedwyr.
“If we’re going to repeat random facts, can we discuss the so-called Battle of Mount Arvaius some more?” asked Kay. “Because I still have several choice words on the subject of mud.”
“No. Either I’m missing something here,” said Arthur, “or the Armoricans kind of suck.”
“No, you’re entirely correct,” said Bedwyr, “They’ve pretty much failed in every respect at handling their giant problem, with the exception of asking you to take care of it. They can, however, muster a considerable navy.”
“Haha, ‘giant problem’,” said Kay.
“Shut up, Kay,” said Arthur. “So, I kill the giant, rescue the princess, win the Armoricans’ undying gratitude, and then they attack Saxon ships before they try to burn down all the forts on the litus Saxonicum again.”
“Exactly.”
The bustle on the ship increased as the saner members of the crew emerged from below-decks to prepare for their impending arrival. The choppy seas sent a spiteful wave splashing over the deck, soaking everyone’s boots with frigid brine.
“Of course,” said Arthur eventually, “if they really wanted me to succeed, then I would have been allowed to bring along, say, more than just the two of you.”
Bedwyr sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid it got rather political.”
“I’m revising my previous statement about the Armoricans,” said Arthur. “They really suck.”
“Howell was adamant that you come, though,” said Bedwyr. “Perhaps if we can determine exactly what happened to his daughter, we’ll receive permission to muster a force to rescue her.” There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in his voice.
“Hmmm.” Arthur stared absently at the coast. “What’s that?” He pointed to what appeared to be a small island.
“I think it’s Mons Tumba,” said Bedwyr. “We must be getting close.”
“Mount Tomb? That sounds like a fun place,” said Kay.
Arthur frowned as the ship gave the island a wide berth. “I don’t see any settlements. Why isn’t it occupied? It’s in a strategically superior position to defend the coast.”
Bedwyr shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s ever been inhabited. They say it’s haunted by the spirits of the drowned.”
“Hmmm,” said Arthur again, watching the island until it slipped out of sight. “Bedwyr, I have a very important question.”
“Yes?”
“What is Howell’s position on meat pies?”
* * *
A detachment of Howell’s guards greeted them at the docks – a surprisingly large detachment. “Greetings, commander,” said the captain. “His Majesty sent us to escort you to the fort.”
“Greetings, Captain. Expecting trouble on the road?”
“His Majesty only wishes to provide a suitable escort for his guests,” said the captain blandly.
Three horses were produced – decent mounts, for the continent, but not as good as the least of Arthur’s cavalry – and they mounted up. “More men will arrive shortly to see to your cargo, commander,” said the captain.
“Very well,” said Arthur. “Lead on.”
Ashore, it was a surprisingly temperate day for spring, and the road from the harbor to the fort was in good condition. Nevertheless, it was completely deserted. Howell’s guards were also unduly tense for what should have been a leisurely assignment, even taking into account Kay’s running negative commentary that wasn’t quite inaudible.
The air of paranoia didn’t end with the soldiers. Upon reaching the fort, it became obvious that the forest had recently been cleared back a further fifty feet from the walls, and the gates were huge, imposing, and new. Very new.
The captain halted in front of them, and waited for the guards on duty to formally recognize their party before they were let in. The bailey inside was nearly empty, with only a few silent figures scurrying from door to door.
Only after the gate was solidly closed did a small party emerge from the main hall: King Howell and Queen Helena (which wasn’t confusing at all), flanked by more guards.
“Greetings, cousin,” Howell intoned.
Arthur shot Bedwyr a look that almost certainly said, “What do you mean, he’s my cousin?” but bowed and replied, “Greetings, your Majesty. Your hospitality is most generous.”
“Indeed, Lord Arthur,” said Howell. “It is our desire to show that though Armorica and the kingdoms of Britain have been at odds in more peaceful times, we are not indifferent to each other in times of need. There will be a feast tonight, in your honor. We hope until then that you will make yourselves comfortable in our home.”
With that, he swept out of the courtyard, guards bristling alongside. The queen paused to nod towards Arthur, who bowed back, and then the entire party was gone, save for some servants who began bustling them towards their quarters.
Arthur blinked. “Did he just walk out on me? Is that allowed?”
“What the hell was that?” Kay said angrily. “Who does he think you are?”
“Roman,” said Bedwyr. “Howell hates them.”
“Rome’s ignored Britain for most of the century, and Arthur’s no more Roman than Howell’s wife is,” said Kay. “What does he want us to do, sack and burn the Seven Hills to show our disdain?”
“I’ll add it to my list of things to do,” said Arthur. “Although at this point, I think we’re going to have to stand in line.”
“Howell’s playing a dangerous game,” said Bedwyr. “He can’t afford to directly insult an ambassador!”
“He is having a feast,” said Arthur.
“Food does not excuse rudeness,” said Bedwyr.
“See, this is why I’m not a diplomat,” said Arthur. “Except when I am. Let’s go inside.”
* * *
Howell’s feast was free of meat pies, which did not bode well for British-Armorican relations.
The king refused to discuss why he had sent for Arthur, and seemed determined that everyone eat in increasingly awkward silence. Kay, however, ploughed ahead with his usual indifference to social cues and was soon relating the epic tale of the Battle of Mount Arvaius. Howell stared grimly at his meal, while the rest of the high table looked relieved, in a surreptitious way. Arthur, meanwhile, was conversing quietly with the queen.
“ – and then we put his head on a pike, right outside the gates!” Kay finished proudly. There was a smattering of enthusiastic applause.
“A remarkable tale,” said Howell dryly. “We have heard rumors of Lord Arthur’s exploits, but I did not think they would prove so… incredible, in truth.”
Kay’s eyes narrowed, but remarkably he managed to remain almost civil as he replied, “Incredible things happen to the commander all the time, your Majesty. We are most fortunate that he has been blessed with the fortitude to overcome them.”
“Indeed,” said Howell. “Sir Bedwyr,” he said suddenly, “I thought that as one of Lord Arthur’s most trusted knights, surely you would have accompanied him on such a… dangerous mission.”
“Unfortunately, the commander has a strict policy regarding combat and recently severed limbs,” said Bedwyr, spearing a dinner roll with his hook.
Howell’s eyes followed the motion, and then he said, “Ah.”
“Retho’s attacks came at a most inopportune time, following the incursion of the Saxons as they did,” Bedwyr continued, adopting the lecturing tone of voice he used when annoying Kay. “A distressingly large proportion of the army was out of commission with some kind of disability. It was most providential that the commander was able to defeat Retho almost single-handedly – as it were – with so many of our troops unfit to fight.”
“I see,” said Howell quickly, and turned to Arthur. Kay smirked behind his back.
“Well, Lord Arthur,” Howell said, “your knights have certainly earned their pay in spreading your fame.”
“Fortunately, mine comes free of charge,” replied Arthur. “Which is good, because then I really wouldn’t be able to afford paying the legions.”
Howell only stared at him stonily, the joke not so much falling flat as plummeting to its doom and leaving nothing behind but a smoking crater of failure.
Arthur gamely tried to get to the point. “We’ve heard similar reports from your own country, your Majesty, of a much more unhappy nature. Tell me, is there any aid I might give you, in the spirit of maintaining good will between Armorica and the kingdoms of Britain?”
“Yes,” snapped Howell. “You might do me the courtesy of allowing me to eat in peace in my own house.”
Arthur glanced at the queen, then continued, “I only wish to assist you in the safe return of your daughter, your Majesty. Have you discovered any information about her or the giant that could aid in her swift recovery?”
Howell stood up suddenly, his chair toppling over, and the hall fell silent.
“That thing could be ravishing my daughter even as we speak,” he hissed, “What information do you want, Lord Arthur? What, exactly, would let this qualify as being worthy of your fame? Would you know how tall the giant is, so you may throw it back in if it’s not as impressive as Retho?”
“Well, if you’re that worried about your daughter’s virtue, I’d think that the bigger the giant, the better,” said Kay, in a tone that ominously suggested he was trying to be helpful.
“What?” asked Howell, momentarily distracted from his ire. “Why?”
“Well,” said Kay reasonably, “once you reach a certain size you’re only going to have to worry about blunt trauma, because it would be physically impossible to actually—“
“Sir Kay,” interrupted Arthur loudly, as horrified comprehension dawned on Howell’s face, “I need you to go get that thing. From my ship. Right now.”
“What—“
“I’ll go with you,” said Bedwyr, dragging Kay behind him as he beat a strategic retreat towards the door as Howell started shouting at Arthur.
Outside the hall, Kay angrily wrestled free. “Get off me! What are you doing?”
“Kay,” hissed Bedwyr, “Do you remember our discussion about how some of the things you say show a blatant and callous disregard for humanity, decency, and good taste?”
“Yes?”
“Comforting the father of a kidnapped maiden by telling him that she doesn’t have to worry about getting raped because she’s only going to be bludgeoned by a giant dick IS DEFINITELY ONE OF THOSE STATEMENTS.”
“I was just trying to help! People value virginity very highly! Also, you should talk, you’re the one making tasteless puns!”
“Wait, what?”
Arthur burst through the door and hurriedly slammed it shut behind him. There was a loud clang as something heavy thumped off the closed door, and Queen Helena’s voice joined the tumult behind, raised in argument with the king’s.
“Well,” Arthur said, “that could have gone better.”
“I’ll say,” said Kay. “That gravy boat looked expensive, Howell’s going to regret throwing it.”
“Gravy boats are not the vessels at issue,” said Arthur. “Unless we do manage to invade Rome by ourselves, we’re practically going to need a miracle if we want to get back into the Armoricans’ good graces. And I’m worried about Helena – I was talking to the Queen earlier, and she said there’s been no ransom demanded. There’s no reason for the giant to keep her unharmed, and the rumors aren’t good: the countryside’s been terrified for nearly a year now. How could they just leave her? For a month?” He punched the door. There was an answering thud and the sound of crockery shattering.
Arthur glared at the door. “And that’s not even mentioning the projectile dinnerware! He’s a terrible host! He didn’t even offer us any pie!”
“Do you think Howell’s right?” Bedwyr asked Arthur.
“Of course he doesn’t,” said Kay. “Arthur loves pie.”
“About the giant,” said Bedwyr.
“I don’t know,” said Arthur, flexing his fingers and wincing. “Retho wasn’t really interested in girls like that, so she might be all right, but…”
“Wait, I thought you said Retho went around kidnapping young women all the time,” said Bedwyr.
“He did,” said Kay. “He collected them. Like seashells.”
“Of course, Retho also ate them when he got bored,” said Arthur grimly. “But we might have a little time left. We’ll have to start as soon as possible.”
“Do we have a plan?” asked Bedwyr,
“Of course I have a plan. I always have a plan,” said Arthur.
“Technically, yes,” said Bedwyr. “But it seems that for an unsettlingly large proportion of the time, your plans consist mainly of ‘I’ll make it up as we go along.’”
Arthur scowled. “I’ll be sure to keep you updated,” he said, and strode off purposefully, still shaking his fingers.
* * *
Bedwyr was rudely jolted awake from a fitful sleep (haunted by dreams of tiny women sitting in seashells, staring at him accusingly as meat-pie-hurling giants chased him around Caerleon) when his armor landed on his chest.
“—the hell?” he wheezed.
“Get up,” snapped Kay. “He’s trying to sneak away without us. I got a servant to distract him with breakfast but it won’t keep him very long.”
Bedwyr stared at him blearily as his sleep-fogged brain floundered to adjust to a reality free of pie but full of giants while overcoming the additional burden of oxygen deprivation. “Arthur?” he finally managed.
“No, the Bishop of Hippo. Of course it’s Arthur, who else do you know that would willingly go fight a giant on his own?”
Bedwyr struggled into his armor and stumbled after Kay, following him outside into the bailey. They ran over to the stables.
“Arthur!”
The defender of Britain spun around and blurted out what was probably “Oh, it’s you,” around a mouth full of meat pie. He swallowed and replied “Salvete, tribuni,” then turned back to his horse and took another bite of his breakfast before checking on his tack.
“Up rather early this morning, aren’t we?” asked Kay pointedly.
Arthur shrugged. “It’s not that early.”
A cock crowed.
“It’s a little early,” conceded Arthur. “I thought I’d go for a ride.”
“A ride in full armor?” asked Bedwyr skeptically.
“You two put on full armor to accost me in the middle of breakfast. Speaking of which, did you know that they had these down in the kitchen the whole time?” he said, brandishing his pie. “I can’t believe Howell was going to hoard them all for himself.”
“You’re going to look for Helena,” said Kay.
“The thought did occur,” admitted Arthur, shoving the last bite in his mouth. “Well? Are you coming or not?”
Bedwyr sighed, and ordered their horses.
* * *
“So,” said Kay. They had been riding along the coast, just inside the tree line, for about an hour. “Dare I ask where we’re going?”
“Three guesses,” said Arthur.
Bedwyr groaned. “Mount Tomb? We’re going to Mount Tomb?”
“It’s deserted and has a bad reputation,” said Arthur. “That’s where I’d go.”
“Yes, but there’s something wrong with you,” said Kay. “I’ve detected a small flaw in your plan, Arthur. Mount Tomb is an island.”
“I know,” said Arthur. “I’ve been asking around.”
“I don’t know about you, but swimming halfway to an island, freezing, and then drowning seems like an epically terrible rescue plan to me,” said Kay.
Arthur smirked.
“Did you get a boat?” asked Bedwyr.
“Nope,” said Arthur.
“So how do you plan on getting us to the island?” shouted Kay.
“It’s a surprise,” said Arthur. “Kay, keep your voice down. You don’t want it to hear us coming.”
Kay muttered something mutinous under his breath, but they continued to follow in relative silence.
After another hour, Arthur suddenly reined in his horse. “All right, dismount.”
“What are we doing with the horses?” demanded Kay.
“Leaving them here,” said Arthur.
“Why?”
“So they don’t get eaten. Also, they’re too conspicuous.”
“Conspicuous?”
“They attract too much attention. That’s so we don’t get eaten.” He hobbled his horse and let it graze. “Hurry up if you’re going to come, we don’t have much time.” He set off through the trees towards the shore.
“Arthur, what are we doing?” asked Bedwyr, crashing through the thinning underbrush. The sound of the waves intensified.
“Arthur, this is ridiculous,” snapped Kay. “Just because they call you the savior of Britain doesn’t make you the second coming of Christ. You can’t actually walk on water—“
Bedwyr and Kay stopped cold as they emerged from the trees onto the shore. Directly ahead of them was Mount Tomb – no longer an island, but connected to the shore by a thin land-bridge.
“I can do a pretty killer Moses impression, though,” said Arthur.
“What – I – Arthur, you broke the ocean!” Kay sputtered.
“I did not. I told you, I’ve been asking around. It does this every low tide. Now come on, we don’t want to get stuck halfway across when the tide comes in.”
“It does that?” asked Bedwyr, alarmed.
“Not for a while. Probably,” said Arthur, quite unhelpfully. “And make sure you watch out for quicksand.”
“I hate you,” said Kay.
* * *
“Please explain to me how a boat was not the obvious solution here,” said Bedwyr as they finally made it to dry land. All three were soaked to the armpits after an unfortunate encounter with a sinkhole filled with, yes, quicksand, which only aggravated the “sand-in-uncomfortable-locations” problem tenfold.
“Bedwyr, this is a stealthy reconnaissance mission of the utmost importance to the safety of my poor cousin, or possibly niece. We can’t just go messing around in boats,” began Arthur sternly.
Kay snorted. “Yes, because flailing around in a sinkhole for twenty minutes is so much more stealthy.”
“The sinkhole was an unexpected setback,” Arthur admitted. “However, walking gave us the advantage of increased maneuverability on firm ground – well, mostly – in the event of discovery, which I deemed more tactically advantageous then getting dumped out of a boat in deep water and drowning when the giant stood on our heads.”
“You would,” muttered Kay. Arthur kicked sand at him.
“What’s that?” said Bedwyr suddenly, pointing down the beach. Arthur turned, squinted at the trees, and gestured for them to follow as he set off to investigate.
Beyond the reach of the tides, they found the remainder of a camp, sheltered by the trees and some large rocks. Half-burnt wood, some still stacked haphazardly, marked where there had been a bonfire in the center of the alcove. The rest of the clearing was almost completely covered in bones, picked clean by the elements only – no scavengers appeared to have ventured near. Nor any other wildlife: apart from the crashing of the waves, the forest was almost completely silent.
“Hey,” said Kay suddenly, crunching a skeleton beneath his foot as he leaned forward to investigate the remains closely. “Is that a bear?” He picked up a claw and examined it closely. “Excellent.”
Bedwyr shot him an incredulous look. Kay shrugged and tossed the claw aside, where it bounced off a deer femur.
“It’s been abandoned for several months at least,” said Arthur, toeing a pile of discarded ribs, “probably since before the winter.”
“Not a very clean fellow, is he?” said Kay. “This place looks like a garbage heap.”
“It is a garbage heap,” said Bedwyr.
“He’s done some cleaning,” said Arthur grimly, pointing at the fire. Skulls, charred and blackened, peaked out from between the wood. Some of them looked uncomfortably familiar.
“Right,” said Arthur. “We are going to proceed with the reconnaissance mission. I’ll cover the east end of the island. Bedwyr, take the west, and Kay, the north. We have a princess to rescue. We’ll meet back here at noon. Remember, this is strictly scouting only. Do not engage the enemy.” He turned and disappeared into the trees.
“You know,” said Bedwyr, stepping over the rest of the bear’s bones with a grimace, “when he puts it like that, it sounds almost normal that we’re searching a haunted desert isle for a giant.”
“Normal?” said Kay, “I gave up on normal when he rallied the troops with the great ‘Cildric the Saxon is an evil marsh crane!’ speech, and it worked.”
“I know I felt very inspired,” said Bedwyr. “Although I felt it couldn’t match his ‘I am a wolf, and Colgrim is a goat’ speech at Aquae Sulis in terms of sheer panache.”
“So very few things can,” said Kay. “Come on, let’s go find a giant.”
* * *
Bedwyr slunk through the forest like a particularly large one-handed squirrel. Wearing armor. Who couldn’t climb trees. It was, he reflected, moments like these where Arthur’s oratical genius became truly apparent, since he could take unlikely similes (or possibly metaphors, Bedwyr’s memories of rhetoric class were a bit fuzzy) and run with them, whereas Bedwyr soon bogged down when he realized he didn’t have a bushy tail, and wondered how that reflected on his stealth comparative to that of a woodland creature. It was then he found the trail.
It looked like it had once been a game trail running to the southeast, but there were definite signs that a larger creature had started using it as well. A much larger creature. Who wore shoes that were almost two feet long.
Bedwyr followed the trail, but kept barely in sight of it through the trees. It wound steadily uphill, and he was beginning to grow uncomfortably warm in the mid-morning sun as he strained to silently creep through the bushes. However, he redoubled his efforts when he caught a faint whiff of wood smoke.
Something moved on the periphery of his vision. He froze. Barely breathing, he inched closer as soon as it became apparent that nothing was going to burst through the foliage and eat him. Well, not immediately, anyway. By crawling underneath a thorn bush and wedging himself between two large rocks, he was able to command a relatively unimpeded view of the forest clearing filled with… stuff.
There was a pile of driftwood, mixed in with the remains of shattered longboats, snapped oars, and small fishing craft, that was apparently feeding the small bonfire now burning in the middle of the clearing. Cracked chests and caskets with their lids hanging off were piled haphazardly next to several stacks of barrels; most of them seemed to have once held food and were now empty, but a few retained a promising glint of coinage, and one, incredibly, was labeled “VINVM” and looked untouched. Next to the fire, there was another pile of bones, though not as large as the one by the beach. Before Bedwyr could maneuver to get a better look, the large lean-to pieced together from canvas sails shuddered, and the giant came out.
It was huge.
Aside from the incredible height, it was differently-proportioned from a normal-sized man, with long, dangling arms and (relatively) short legs. Its head seemed tiny on the broad shoulders. The most shocking thing about its appearance, however, was that it was clothed entirely in fine linen and bright colors, stitched together inexpertly but serviceably from smaller garments. Bedwyr had barely managed to process this unexpected sartorial development when the giant yawned, stretched, and ducked back into its tent.
It emerged after a moment carrying a barrel and a squirming bag, and Bedwyr’s stomach lurched unpleasantly in apprehension. The giant breeched the barrel by the simple expedient of punching through the top, and he slurped several of its contents down with great relish. He then shook the bag empty into the dust, and, ignoring his prey’s mewling cries, began his grisly feast.
As carefully as he could, unable to look away from the horrible spectacle, Bedwyr backed away from the campsite and crept back down alongside the trail until he was far enough away, whereupon he broke down and ran and ran through the woods.
END OF PART THE FIRST
PART THE SECOND
Defende Nos in Proelio
~13,000 words (Yes, this took me the entire month. I write slow, ok?)
WARNING: Contains strong language, anthropophagy, blatant anachronism, research done entirely on Wikipedia, and Sir Kay.
DEFENDE NOS IN PROELIO
PART THE FIRST
The coast of Armorica was muted and bleak in the wan light of early spring, and a bitter wind flung freezing spray in the faces of the travelers on the Prydwen as she cut through the rough waves.
Her owner emerged from the hold and stretched, blinking in the faint sunlight. C. Cornelius Hector Artorianus, dux bellorum, slayer of Saxons and defender of Britain, walked over to the rail where two of his senior officers were lounging, surveyed the featureless gray seascape for a moment, then turned back to his friends and said, “All right, I give up. Where are we?”
Bedwyr sighed, and Kay whooped and punched the air triumphantly.
“What just happened?” asked Arthur.
“You lost me a week’s pay,” said Bedwyr glumly. “Is it really so hard to remember that you’ve volunteered for a diplomatic mission?”
“Apparently,” said Arthur. “I volunteered for a diplomatic mission?”
“Entertaining the Armorican ambassadors? Your feast in honor of St. Joseph? Begging the Bishop for a dispensation by promising to rebuild the chapel Kay accidentally burnt down? Does any of this sound familiar?”
“Oh,” said Arthur. “Yeah, I don’t really recall a lot of that evening. Really, Bedwyr, you should have expected this if I was drunk enough to sign up to be a diplomat.”
“I told you,” said Kay to Bedwyr, smirking.
“And as for you,” said Arthur, rounding on Kay and poking him accusatorily, “I can’t believe you bet against me.”
“A good commander gambles to win,” quoted Kay, batting away his brother’s hand.
“Just because I said it doesn’t mean it’s true!”
“Truth,” said Kay, “is drinking away Bedwyr’s hard-earned wages right in front of him.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” said Arthur, turning back to Bedwyr. “Why are we here?”
“Current thought favors fulfilling God’s will by being faithful servants of the Church,” Bedwyr said shortly.
“Aww, look,” said Kay. “You let him down, and now he’s all sad and sarcastic.”
“Unless you are asking me why we are specifically en route to Armorica,” Bedwyr continued, glaring at Kay, “in which case I would have to remind you that King Howell has agreed to renew negotiations for a naval treaty.”
“It’s the boats,” said Kay. “The Armoricans have a lot of them, see, and the Saxons, who I’m sure you’ve noticed have been invading us, also have boats, which are in fact their main transport to Britain, which you may or may not know is an island –”
"I know that it's important to gain the Armoricans’ naval support,” said Arthur, also glaring at Kay. “I’ve only been asking for it for about, oh, five years now. The part I'm confused about is why I'm the best candidate to get it.”
“You volunteered the loudest,” said Bedwyr. "However, you do possess more relevant qualifications: firstly, as Howell's kinsman, you will be accorded more respect, and thus your opinions more weight, than many of Britain’s previous ambassadors--"
"I'm related to Howell?"
“The queen is your father’s cousin’s nephew’s daughter – your second cousin once removed – and Howell is distantly related to you on your mother’s side.”
“More distantly than my cousin’s daughter’s… uncle’s… mother’s… niece?”
“I did explain it all to you the other night, when you agreed to go,” said Bedwyr reproachfully. “Although you did fall asleep right afterwards. In the middle of dinner.” He paused, and added, “Right onto your pie.”
“I was drunk!”
Kay smirked. “Yes, and you had gravy in your ears the rest of the night.”
“I had pie on my head and you didn’t tell me?”
“It was funny!”
“That’s it,” said Arthur. “I’m disowning you.”
“You can’t disown me, you’re adopted,” said Kay. “We’ve been through this before. Besides, it’s not like anyone else is going to follow you and your army around, making sure you have enough pie for everyone so that there’s second helpings for your dubious taste in haberdashery.”
“I don’t care if you’re the quartermaster, you’re going to get a second helping of me kicking your – ”
“As I was saying,” continued Bedwyr, “your familial relations –“
Kay snickered.
Arthur rolled his eyes and said, “So I’m related to Howell somehow. I think someone might have made that up, but fine. Apart from my fortuitous birth, why else am I qualified? Is it my dashing good looks?"
"The only reason your looks can be called dashing is because they make women run away," said Kay.
"Secondly," continued Bedwyr, falling back on his time-honored strategy of pretending Kay did not exist, "there is the matter of the giant."
"Wait, what?"
"Oh, really, Arthur," said Kay in exasperation. "That was the only interesting part of the conversation, up until you face-planted in your meat pie. Howell's daughter, Helena–"
"Your father’s cousin’s nephew’s granddaughter,” interjected Bedwyr.
"—Yes, her, got abducted. The Armoricans had been having problems with their ships being raided along the coast, and the sailors claimed it was a giant, but no one believed them until it smashed down the gates and grabbed the princess as she was preparing for her morning ride.”
“That would be a little hard to ignore,” said Arthur. “How long ago was this?”
“About a month,” said Bedwyr.
“So they sent for me when they couldn’t find the giant themselves? Fair enough. Looks like they heard about my little maneuver at the battle of Mount Arvaius,” Arthur said, only a little smug.
“If you can call crawling around in the mud a battle,” snorted Kay.
“We fought,” protested Arthur. “I just primarily defeated Retho with cunning and wile, that’s all.”
“Wile?” asked Bedwyr.
“He crawled around in the mud, hamstrung him, and then stabbed him when he fell down,” said Kay. “How is that a battle?”
“He hit me,” protested Arthur. “I still have a scar. Besides, we did the exact same thing at Venta Belgarum with the Saxons – well, maybe not the hamstringing part – and that definitely counted as a battle.” To Bedwyr, he added, “See what you miss when you’re on sick leave?”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I get a hand chopped off,” said Bedwyr.
“Sorry,” said Arthur sheepishly. “So, did they say where they looked for Helena? We should start tracking her and the giant as soon as possible, and it will definitely go faster if we don’t cover the same ground.”
“They haven’t,” said Bedwyr.
“What, they didn’t tell you where Helena wasn’t?” asked Arthur.
“You’ve lost me,” said Kay.
“No, they haven’t looked for her,” said Bedwyr.
“Wait,” said Arthur. “I’m confused. I thought you said she’s the king’s daughter.”
“She is,” said Bedwyr.
“If we’re going to repeat random facts, can we discuss the so-called Battle of Mount Arvaius some more?” asked Kay. “Because I still have several choice words on the subject of mud.”
“No. Either I’m missing something here,” said Arthur, “or the Armoricans kind of suck.”
“No, you’re entirely correct,” said Bedwyr, “They’ve pretty much failed in every respect at handling their giant problem, with the exception of asking you to take care of it. They can, however, muster a considerable navy.”
“Haha, ‘giant problem’,” said Kay.
“Shut up, Kay,” said Arthur. “So, I kill the giant, rescue the princess, win the Armoricans’ undying gratitude, and then they attack Saxon ships before they try to burn down all the forts on the litus Saxonicum again.”
“Exactly.”
The bustle on the ship increased as the saner members of the crew emerged from below-decks to prepare for their impending arrival. The choppy seas sent a spiteful wave splashing over the deck, soaking everyone’s boots with frigid brine.
“Of course,” said Arthur eventually, “if they really wanted me to succeed, then I would have been allowed to bring along, say, more than just the two of you.”
Bedwyr sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid it got rather political.”
“I’m revising my previous statement about the Armoricans,” said Arthur. “They really suck.”
“Howell was adamant that you come, though,” said Bedwyr. “Perhaps if we can determine exactly what happened to his daughter, we’ll receive permission to muster a force to rescue her.” There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in his voice.
“Hmmm.” Arthur stared absently at the coast. “What’s that?” He pointed to what appeared to be a small island.
“I think it’s Mons Tumba,” said Bedwyr. “We must be getting close.”
“Mount Tomb? That sounds like a fun place,” said Kay.
Arthur frowned as the ship gave the island a wide berth. “I don’t see any settlements. Why isn’t it occupied? It’s in a strategically superior position to defend the coast.”
Bedwyr shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s ever been inhabited. They say it’s haunted by the spirits of the drowned.”
“Hmmm,” said Arthur again, watching the island until it slipped out of sight. “Bedwyr, I have a very important question.”
“Yes?”
“What is Howell’s position on meat pies?”
* * *
A detachment of Howell’s guards greeted them at the docks – a surprisingly large detachment. “Greetings, commander,” said the captain. “His Majesty sent us to escort you to the fort.”
“Greetings, Captain. Expecting trouble on the road?”
“His Majesty only wishes to provide a suitable escort for his guests,” said the captain blandly.
Three horses were produced – decent mounts, for the continent, but not as good as the least of Arthur’s cavalry – and they mounted up. “More men will arrive shortly to see to your cargo, commander,” said the captain.
“Very well,” said Arthur. “Lead on.”
Ashore, it was a surprisingly temperate day for spring, and the road from the harbor to the fort was in good condition. Nevertheless, it was completely deserted. Howell’s guards were also unduly tense for what should have been a leisurely assignment, even taking into account Kay’s running negative commentary that wasn’t quite inaudible.
The air of paranoia didn’t end with the soldiers. Upon reaching the fort, it became obvious that the forest had recently been cleared back a further fifty feet from the walls, and the gates were huge, imposing, and new. Very new.
The captain halted in front of them, and waited for the guards on duty to formally recognize their party before they were let in. The bailey inside was nearly empty, with only a few silent figures scurrying from door to door.
Only after the gate was solidly closed did a small party emerge from the main hall: King Howell and Queen Helena (which wasn’t confusing at all), flanked by more guards.
“Greetings, cousin,” Howell intoned.
Arthur shot Bedwyr a look that almost certainly said, “What do you mean, he’s my cousin?” but bowed and replied, “Greetings, your Majesty. Your hospitality is most generous.”
“Indeed, Lord Arthur,” said Howell. “It is our desire to show that though Armorica and the kingdoms of Britain have been at odds in more peaceful times, we are not indifferent to each other in times of need. There will be a feast tonight, in your honor. We hope until then that you will make yourselves comfortable in our home.”
With that, he swept out of the courtyard, guards bristling alongside. The queen paused to nod towards Arthur, who bowed back, and then the entire party was gone, save for some servants who began bustling them towards their quarters.
Arthur blinked. “Did he just walk out on me? Is that allowed?”
“What the hell was that?” Kay said angrily. “Who does he think you are?”
“Roman,” said Bedwyr. “Howell hates them.”
“Rome’s ignored Britain for most of the century, and Arthur’s no more Roman than Howell’s wife is,” said Kay. “What does he want us to do, sack and burn the Seven Hills to show our disdain?”
“I’ll add it to my list of things to do,” said Arthur. “Although at this point, I think we’re going to have to stand in line.”
“Howell’s playing a dangerous game,” said Bedwyr. “He can’t afford to directly insult an ambassador!”
“He is having a feast,” said Arthur.
“Food does not excuse rudeness,” said Bedwyr.
“See, this is why I’m not a diplomat,” said Arthur. “Except when I am. Let’s go inside.”
* * *
Howell’s feast was free of meat pies, which did not bode well for British-Armorican relations.
The king refused to discuss why he had sent for Arthur, and seemed determined that everyone eat in increasingly awkward silence. Kay, however, ploughed ahead with his usual indifference to social cues and was soon relating the epic tale of the Battle of Mount Arvaius. Howell stared grimly at his meal, while the rest of the high table looked relieved, in a surreptitious way. Arthur, meanwhile, was conversing quietly with the queen.
“ – and then we put his head on a pike, right outside the gates!” Kay finished proudly. There was a smattering of enthusiastic applause.
“A remarkable tale,” said Howell dryly. “We have heard rumors of Lord Arthur’s exploits, but I did not think they would prove so… incredible, in truth.”
Kay’s eyes narrowed, but remarkably he managed to remain almost civil as he replied, “Incredible things happen to the commander all the time, your Majesty. We are most fortunate that he has been blessed with the fortitude to overcome them.”
“Indeed,” said Howell. “Sir Bedwyr,” he said suddenly, “I thought that as one of Lord Arthur’s most trusted knights, surely you would have accompanied him on such a… dangerous mission.”
“Unfortunately, the commander has a strict policy regarding combat and recently severed limbs,” said Bedwyr, spearing a dinner roll with his hook.
Howell’s eyes followed the motion, and then he said, “Ah.”
“Retho’s attacks came at a most inopportune time, following the incursion of the Saxons as they did,” Bedwyr continued, adopting the lecturing tone of voice he used when annoying Kay. “A distressingly large proportion of the army was out of commission with some kind of disability. It was most providential that the commander was able to defeat Retho almost single-handedly – as it were – with so many of our troops unfit to fight.”
“I see,” said Howell quickly, and turned to Arthur. Kay smirked behind his back.
“Well, Lord Arthur,” Howell said, “your knights have certainly earned their pay in spreading your fame.”
“Fortunately, mine comes free of charge,” replied Arthur. “Which is good, because then I really wouldn’t be able to afford paying the legions.”
Howell only stared at him stonily, the joke not so much falling flat as plummeting to its doom and leaving nothing behind but a smoking crater of failure.
Arthur gamely tried to get to the point. “We’ve heard similar reports from your own country, your Majesty, of a much more unhappy nature. Tell me, is there any aid I might give you, in the spirit of maintaining good will between Armorica and the kingdoms of Britain?”
“Yes,” snapped Howell. “You might do me the courtesy of allowing me to eat in peace in my own house.”
Arthur glanced at the queen, then continued, “I only wish to assist you in the safe return of your daughter, your Majesty. Have you discovered any information about her or the giant that could aid in her swift recovery?”
Howell stood up suddenly, his chair toppling over, and the hall fell silent.
“That thing could be ravishing my daughter even as we speak,” he hissed, “What information do you want, Lord Arthur? What, exactly, would let this qualify as being worthy of your fame? Would you know how tall the giant is, so you may throw it back in if it’s not as impressive as Retho?”
“Well, if you’re that worried about your daughter’s virtue, I’d think that the bigger the giant, the better,” said Kay, in a tone that ominously suggested he was trying to be helpful.
“What?” asked Howell, momentarily distracted from his ire. “Why?”
“Well,” said Kay reasonably, “once you reach a certain size you’re only going to have to worry about blunt trauma, because it would be physically impossible to actually—“
“Sir Kay,” interrupted Arthur loudly, as horrified comprehension dawned on Howell’s face, “I need you to go get that thing. From my ship. Right now.”
“What—“
“I’ll go with you,” said Bedwyr, dragging Kay behind him as he beat a strategic retreat towards the door as Howell started shouting at Arthur.
Outside the hall, Kay angrily wrestled free. “Get off me! What are you doing?”
“Kay,” hissed Bedwyr, “Do you remember our discussion about how some of the things you say show a blatant and callous disregard for humanity, decency, and good taste?”
“Yes?”
“Comforting the father of a kidnapped maiden by telling him that she doesn’t have to worry about getting raped because she’s only going to be bludgeoned by a giant dick IS DEFINITELY ONE OF THOSE STATEMENTS.”
“I was just trying to help! People value virginity very highly! Also, you should talk, you’re the one making tasteless puns!”
“Wait, what?”
Arthur burst through the door and hurriedly slammed it shut behind him. There was a loud clang as something heavy thumped off the closed door, and Queen Helena’s voice joined the tumult behind, raised in argument with the king’s.
“Well,” Arthur said, “that could have gone better.”
“I’ll say,” said Kay. “That gravy boat looked expensive, Howell’s going to regret throwing it.”
“Gravy boats are not the vessels at issue,” said Arthur. “Unless we do manage to invade Rome by ourselves, we’re practically going to need a miracle if we want to get back into the Armoricans’ good graces. And I’m worried about Helena – I was talking to the Queen earlier, and she said there’s been no ransom demanded. There’s no reason for the giant to keep her unharmed, and the rumors aren’t good: the countryside’s been terrified for nearly a year now. How could they just leave her? For a month?” He punched the door. There was an answering thud and the sound of crockery shattering.
Arthur glared at the door. “And that’s not even mentioning the projectile dinnerware! He’s a terrible host! He didn’t even offer us any pie!”
“Do you think Howell’s right?” Bedwyr asked Arthur.
“Of course he doesn’t,” said Kay. “Arthur loves pie.”
“About the giant,” said Bedwyr.
“I don’t know,” said Arthur, flexing his fingers and wincing. “Retho wasn’t really interested in girls like that, so she might be all right, but…”
“Wait, I thought you said Retho went around kidnapping young women all the time,” said Bedwyr.
“He did,” said Kay. “He collected them. Like seashells.”
“Of course, Retho also ate them when he got bored,” said Arthur grimly. “But we might have a little time left. We’ll have to start as soon as possible.”
“Do we have a plan?” asked Bedwyr,
“Of course I have a plan. I always have a plan,” said Arthur.
“Technically, yes,” said Bedwyr. “But it seems that for an unsettlingly large proportion of the time, your plans consist mainly of ‘I’ll make it up as we go along.’”
Arthur scowled. “I’ll be sure to keep you updated,” he said, and strode off purposefully, still shaking his fingers.
* * *
Bedwyr was rudely jolted awake from a fitful sleep (haunted by dreams of tiny women sitting in seashells, staring at him accusingly as meat-pie-hurling giants chased him around Caerleon) when his armor landed on his chest.
“—the hell?” he wheezed.
“Get up,” snapped Kay. “He’s trying to sneak away without us. I got a servant to distract him with breakfast but it won’t keep him very long.”
Bedwyr stared at him blearily as his sleep-fogged brain floundered to adjust to a reality free of pie but full of giants while overcoming the additional burden of oxygen deprivation. “Arthur?” he finally managed.
“No, the Bishop of Hippo. Of course it’s Arthur, who else do you know that would willingly go fight a giant on his own?”
Bedwyr struggled into his armor and stumbled after Kay, following him outside into the bailey. They ran over to the stables.
“Arthur!”
The defender of Britain spun around and blurted out what was probably “Oh, it’s you,” around a mouth full of meat pie. He swallowed and replied “Salvete, tribuni,” then turned back to his horse and took another bite of his breakfast before checking on his tack.
“Up rather early this morning, aren’t we?” asked Kay pointedly.
Arthur shrugged. “It’s not that early.”
A cock crowed.
“It’s a little early,” conceded Arthur. “I thought I’d go for a ride.”
“A ride in full armor?” asked Bedwyr skeptically.
“You two put on full armor to accost me in the middle of breakfast. Speaking of which, did you know that they had these down in the kitchen the whole time?” he said, brandishing his pie. “I can’t believe Howell was going to hoard them all for himself.”
“You’re going to look for Helena,” said Kay.
“The thought did occur,” admitted Arthur, shoving the last bite in his mouth. “Well? Are you coming or not?”
Bedwyr sighed, and ordered their horses.
* * *
“So,” said Kay. They had been riding along the coast, just inside the tree line, for about an hour. “Dare I ask where we’re going?”
“Three guesses,” said Arthur.
Bedwyr groaned. “Mount Tomb? We’re going to Mount Tomb?”
“It’s deserted and has a bad reputation,” said Arthur. “That’s where I’d go.”
“Yes, but there’s something wrong with you,” said Kay. “I’ve detected a small flaw in your plan, Arthur. Mount Tomb is an island.”
“I know,” said Arthur. “I’ve been asking around.”
“I don’t know about you, but swimming halfway to an island, freezing, and then drowning seems like an epically terrible rescue plan to me,” said Kay.
Arthur smirked.
“Did you get a boat?” asked Bedwyr.
“Nope,” said Arthur.
“So how do you plan on getting us to the island?” shouted Kay.
“It’s a surprise,” said Arthur. “Kay, keep your voice down. You don’t want it to hear us coming.”
Kay muttered something mutinous under his breath, but they continued to follow in relative silence.
After another hour, Arthur suddenly reined in his horse. “All right, dismount.”
“What are we doing with the horses?” demanded Kay.
“Leaving them here,” said Arthur.
“Why?”
“So they don’t get eaten. Also, they’re too conspicuous.”
“Conspicuous?”
“They attract too much attention. That’s so we don’t get eaten.” He hobbled his horse and let it graze. “Hurry up if you’re going to come, we don’t have much time.” He set off through the trees towards the shore.
“Arthur, what are we doing?” asked Bedwyr, crashing through the thinning underbrush. The sound of the waves intensified.
“Arthur, this is ridiculous,” snapped Kay. “Just because they call you the savior of Britain doesn’t make you the second coming of Christ. You can’t actually walk on water—“
Bedwyr and Kay stopped cold as they emerged from the trees onto the shore. Directly ahead of them was Mount Tomb – no longer an island, but connected to the shore by a thin land-bridge.
“I can do a pretty killer Moses impression, though,” said Arthur.
“What – I – Arthur, you broke the ocean!” Kay sputtered.
“I did not. I told you, I’ve been asking around. It does this every low tide. Now come on, we don’t want to get stuck halfway across when the tide comes in.”
“It does that?” asked Bedwyr, alarmed.
“Not for a while. Probably,” said Arthur, quite unhelpfully. “And make sure you watch out for quicksand.”
“I hate you,” said Kay.
* * *
“Please explain to me how a boat was not the obvious solution here,” said Bedwyr as they finally made it to dry land. All three were soaked to the armpits after an unfortunate encounter with a sinkhole filled with, yes, quicksand, which only aggravated the “sand-in-uncomfortable-locations” problem tenfold.
“Bedwyr, this is a stealthy reconnaissance mission of the utmost importance to the safety of my poor cousin, or possibly niece. We can’t just go messing around in boats,” began Arthur sternly.
Kay snorted. “Yes, because flailing around in a sinkhole for twenty minutes is so much more stealthy.”
“The sinkhole was an unexpected setback,” Arthur admitted. “However, walking gave us the advantage of increased maneuverability on firm ground – well, mostly – in the event of discovery, which I deemed more tactically advantageous then getting dumped out of a boat in deep water and drowning when the giant stood on our heads.”
“You would,” muttered Kay. Arthur kicked sand at him.
“What’s that?” said Bedwyr suddenly, pointing down the beach. Arthur turned, squinted at the trees, and gestured for them to follow as he set off to investigate.
Beyond the reach of the tides, they found the remainder of a camp, sheltered by the trees and some large rocks. Half-burnt wood, some still stacked haphazardly, marked where there had been a bonfire in the center of the alcove. The rest of the clearing was almost completely covered in bones, picked clean by the elements only – no scavengers appeared to have ventured near. Nor any other wildlife: apart from the crashing of the waves, the forest was almost completely silent.
“Hey,” said Kay suddenly, crunching a skeleton beneath his foot as he leaned forward to investigate the remains closely. “Is that a bear?” He picked up a claw and examined it closely. “Excellent.”
Bedwyr shot him an incredulous look. Kay shrugged and tossed the claw aside, where it bounced off a deer femur.
“It’s been abandoned for several months at least,” said Arthur, toeing a pile of discarded ribs, “probably since before the winter.”
“Not a very clean fellow, is he?” said Kay. “This place looks like a garbage heap.”
“It is a garbage heap,” said Bedwyr.
“He’s done some cleaning,” said Arthur grimly, pointing at the fire. Skulls, charred and blackened, peaked out from between the wood. Some of them looked uncomfortably familiar.
“Right,” said Arthur. “We are going to proceed with the reconnaissance mission. I’ll cover the east end of the island. Bedwyr, take the west, and Kay, the north. We have a princess to rescue. We’ll meet back here at noon. Remember, this is strictly scouting only. Do not engage the enemy.” He turned and disappeared into the trees.
“You know,” said Bedwyr, stepping over the rest of the bear’s bones with a grimace, “when he puts it like that, it sounds almost normal that we’re searching a haunted desert isle for a giant.”
“Normal?” said Kay, “I gave up on normal when he rallied the troops with the great ‘Cildric the Saxon is an evil marsh crane!’ speech, and it worked.”
“I know I felt very inspired,” said Bedwyr. “Although I felt it couldn’t match his ‘I am a wolf, and Colgrim is a goat’ speech at Aquae Sulis in terms of sheer panache.”
“So very few things can,” said Kay. “Come on, let’s go find a giant.”
* * *
Bedwyr slunk through the forest like a particularly large one-handed squirrel. Wearing armor. Who couldn’t climb trees. It was, he reflected, moments like these where Arthur’s oratical genius became truly apparent, since he could take unlikely similes (or possibly metaphors, Bedwyr’s memories of rhetoric class were a bit fuzzy) and run with them, whereas Bedwyr soon bogged down when he realized he didn’t have a bushy tail, and wondered how that reflected on his stealth comparative to that of a woodland creature. It was then he found the trail.
It looked like it had once been a game trail running to the southeast, but there were definite signs that a larger creature had started using it as well. A much larger creature. Who wore shoes that were almost two feet long.
Bedwyr followed the trail, but kept barely in sight of it through the trees. It wound steadily uphill, and he was beginning to grow uncomfortably warm in the mid-morning sun as he strained to silently creep through the bushes. However, he redoubled his efforts when he caught a faint whiff of wood smoke.
Something moved on the periphery of his vision. He froze. Barely breathing, he inched closer as soon as it became apparent that nothing was going to burst through the foliage and eat him. Well, not immediately, anyway. By crawling underneath a thorn bush and wedging himself between two large rocks, he was able to command a relatively unimpeded view of the forest clearing filled with… stuff.
There was a pile of driftwood, mixed in with the remains of shattered longboats, snapped oars, and small fishing craft, that was apparently feeding the small bonfire now burning in the middle of the clearing. Cracked chests and caskets with their lids hanging off were piled haphazardly next to several stacks of barrels; most of them seemed to have once held food and were now empty, but a few retained a promising glint of coinage, and one, incredibly, was labeled “VINVM” and looked untouched. Next to the fire, there was another pile of bones, though not as large as the one by the beach. Before Bedwyr could maneuver to get a better look, the large lean-to pieced together from canvas sails shuddered, and the giant came out.
It was huge.
Aside from the incredible height, it was differently-proportioned from a normal-sized man, with long, dangling arms and (relatively) short legs. Its head seemed tiny on the broad shoulders. The most shocking thing about its appearance, however, was that it was clothed entirely in fine linen and bright colors, stitched together inexpertly but serviceably from smaller garments. Bedwyr had barely managed to process this unexpected sartorial development when the giant yawned, stretched, and ducked back into its tent.
It emerged after a moment carrying a barrel and a squirming bag, and Bedwyr’s stomach lurched unpleasantly in apprehension. The giant breeched the barrel by the simple expedient of punching through the top, and he slurped several of its contents down with great relish. He then shook the bag empty into the dust, and, ignoring his prey’s mewling cries, began his grisly feast.
As carefully as he could, unable to look away from the horrible spectacle, Bedwyr backed away from the campsite and crept back down alongside the trail until he was far enough away, whereupon he broke down and ran and ran through the woods.
END OF PART THE FIRST
PART THE SECOND