Tristan was revolted. His heart hammered in his chest. His sister, Talwyn…she’d been only ten years old. And the bloody Vikings had dragged her behind the wall… He could still hear her blood curdling screams, tearing out his heart.
He’d been too young to fight. To protect her. To stop the bastards. But Tristan would stop Indulf. Even if he had to kill him.
Like a raging bull, Tristan charged across the room, tore Indulf’s arm away from Mirren, and raised the girl to her feet. He spoke into her ear, his lethal eyes never leaving the repulsive swine. Mirren dashed into the kitchen as Tristan, his breath heaving, turned to face a snickering Indulf, pompously relaxed at the table, one side of his face drawn up in a sneer.
The flames of rage engulfed him. Tristan unleashed his fury, swinging his fist in a powerful arc that connected with Indulf’s jaw, knocked him backwards over his chair, crashing down upon the hard wooden floor.
Vaughan launched himself at Tristan, wrapping a solid arm around his shoulder and across his bulging neck. Tristan, straining against Vaughan’s choke hold, was shaken back to his senses by his brother’s strength as he was pulled away from Indulf, who lay ignominiously on the floor, spitting blood from his ruined lip.
“Tristan,” Vaughan shouted, his voice straining with exertion. “We can’t have the Blue Knight of Cornwall thrown out on his arse for brawling before we even get to Camelot! C’mon, man—save it for Sir Lancelot’s training field! Let’s go have another ale, shall we?”
Tristan, still roaring with adrenaline, glowered at Indulf, whose legs were splayed awkwardly across his overturned chair. Vaughan, his arm still around Tristan’s neck, was pattinghis back, soothing the savage beast, reminding him of the paramount trek to Camelot.
It was all he could do to restrain himself from pummeling Indulf’s porcine face.
The blond knight spat out another mouthful of blood and glared daggers at Tristan. Indulf put his hand to his jaw, wincing as he moved it side to side. Tristan filled his lungs with calming air, exhaling forcefully as Vaughan released his grip and stepped back. Tristan rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, then glanced around the room as his simmering fury abated.
The inn keeper and several other patrons were watching, as if waiting for the two combatants to draw swords. Indulf was still laying on the floor, sizing him up, taking in Tristan’s superior height and weight. Apparently deciding it would be in his best interest to feign humor, Indulf rose to his feet and brushed himself off. He set his chair to right and reached for his mug of ale.
Raising his goblet, he guffawed, “Aw hell, Tristan, I was just havin’ a bit o’ fun. No harm done, eh?” The swine gulped his frothy brew, wincing as the mug thumped against his swollen lip.
Tristan allowed Vaughan to drag him back to the table and buy him another tankard of ale. With the brawl narrowly averted, the raucous revelry of his companions resumed in full force. Indulf glowered at him across the room.
Just as Tristan and Vaughan were preparing to leave the large hall to retire to their room, one of the well-dressed patrons and his cadre of armed personal guards stood up from a table and headed for the exit.
The obviously wealthy lord, surprisingly short in stature, had a dark and withered face, misshapen and contorted. The baron, followed by his armed guards, stopped at Indulf’s table to speak with the blond knight.
The lord’s personal guards bore gleaming swords at their hips, a surcoat with the image of a wild boar over their chain mail armor. The diminutive baron and Indulf conferred, glancing repeatedly in his direction. Tristan realized that he was obviously the topic of their conversation; he could feel their watchful, predatory eyes assessing him. Plotting. Conspiring. His warrior instincts told him to beware.
A barmaid was wiping off a nearby table, and Tristan motioned for her to approach. He asked the woman if she recognized the baron who was speaking to Indulf. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and turned abruptly back to Tristan, her eyes widened in fear.
“The dwarf? Aye, m’lord. That’s Frocin, a shipping merchant. He owns a fortress just east of here, in the Forest of Morois. He’s very wealthy, ‘cause he’s the one they hire when there’s money owed, or property to be seized, or vengeance to be had. Some say he’s an assassin; others, that he delves in the dark arts. Best to stay clear of him, m’lord. Frocin’s dangerous and deadly, that he is.”
The mercenary, having finished his intense discussion with Indulf, headed towards the exit with his entourage of heavily armed knights. The dwarf’s malevolent stare made the hairs on the back of Tristan’s neck rise. A chill rippled through him as Frocin grinned wickedly, sauntering past Tristan’s table.
He watched the dwarf slither from the inn, a dozen guards in his wake. He wondered what the hell Indulf had said to put that bloody smirk on Frocin’s gnarled face. Something sinister. About him. He finished his ale and went upstairs with Vaughan to their room.
“Thanks for saving me, brother. I wanted to kill the bastard.” Tristan unbuckled his sword and placed it beside his bed. He glanced over at Vaughan, sitting on his own bed, removing his boots.
“I know, Tristan. I know.” Vaughan’s eyes reflected empathy. And stern reprimand.
Tristan’s temper often got the best of him. And tonight, he’d nearly lost everything.
He would have killed Indulf. To stop him from hurting her.
Because he had not been able to stop the Vikings from ravaging his beautiful sister.
The guilt and rage consumed him. Thank the Goddess Vaughan had saved his ass tonight. Because he would have killed Indulf.
And been hanged for murder.
It was a long time before sleep finally found him.
****
The next morning, the ten knights broke their fast and loaded up the warhorses to complete the last leg of the journey to Camelot. As they headed northeast, the incline of the forested terrain became increasingly steeper as they crossed the foothills through the dense woodlands of southern Britain. Finally, as the sun approached its zenith, the travelers glimpsed the magnificent white stone castle and the treacherous bridge across a precipice which provided the only access.
Built atop a mountain, Camelot was an impenetrable fortress, surrounded at its base by an immense stone outer curtain wall with a drawbridge protected by a metal gated portcullis. On either side of the gated entrance stood enormous defense towers, with battlements and ramparts extending around the outer perimeter of the castle. Multiple levels of its glistening stone towers and turrets rose high above the mountain, reaching up into the heavens, proudly displaying the red pendragon of King Arthur’s heraldry on the many golden banners that rippled in the crisp spring winds.
