TW/CW: Battle mayhem and violence/death

Orbiting plots and plans hindered Melora's rest. The look on King Ashur's face haunted her. She kept imagining her father with that same bleak look, the light in his eyes extinguished by yet another loss. So before first light, she planned to address the king once more. 

The servitors outside shrugged at each other in confusion at her attempts to communicate. Melora tried Latin, and then Greek, before pantomiming a circlet and walking up and down the hall at what she hoped was a stately manner.

"King Ashur," Melora repeated, as they continued to give her blank looks. "King. Rex. Archon."

Finally, the leftmost man nodded, indicating that she follow him. Melora feared they were taking her to the gates in frustration, but in a few minutes, she found herself back outside the same room she'd been brought to the night before.

Melora bowed and gestured to the servant, hoping to convey her gratitude, and the man nearly tripped over himself trying to bow even lower. Thankfully, their increasing awkwardness was interrupted by the door opening, and the door guards announcing Melora.

Inside, the king was right where Melora had left him. He was still leaning over the table, his maps spread out at angles, and his eyes glazed over with fatigue. "You come to trouble me again, boy knight?"

"My lord." Melora cleared her throat. "While you linger, your enemy draws forces and supplies. Your stores cannot last forever. Is it better to starve than to fall by the sword, or if you survive, to be made slaves to your foes? And what of the women, children, and wounded, when you are gone? Omid, my guide, showed me a hidden path. Send strong, brave warriors to harass your enemies' lines, that they might not perceive your true weakness. A party could leave this very evening and return to the citadel by night's watch."

"Those are the words of a boy and a soldier," said Ashur. "But also of courage. Truly, my heart rots within me. Awaiting death like ancient men, we totter in our chairs with terror." He sighed. "We can only lose our lives, which as you say, are already lost to starvation or slavery." 

The king cast his maps aside. "So be it." He gave Melora a sharp glance. "But as it's your scheme, you must ride with the leaders."

Melora started, then rearranged her face into indifference. "Yes, my lord."

The king's eyes flashed. "Two companies will be armed, and I shall accompany you. There is nothing left for me if my son is dead. But I will ride in disguise."

Melora smiled, though her body quivered with fear. "Avenging ghosts shall harry them in the night, punish them for their crimes."

Ashur's dry lips twitched into a smile. "Break your fast, and then to practicing, my foolish boy. And perhaps heaven will sympathize with us."

By evening, two companies were organized and equipped. Reminded of the terror of Britain's Pict warriors' painted skin, Melora had the men dust their faces white and stain their eyes and mouths red. Seeding fear could only help her plan succeed. 

When all was ready, she mounted Pégasos and rode to the front of the companies. Melora's own fear tangled with a thrill of anticipation at the sheer idiocy of it all. Who would suspect such a move of Arthur's only daughter.

As if he shared her feelings, Pégasos pranced beneath her, making her stomach churn. "Hush," she murmured, "We need to surprise them."

Melora let Pégasos pick the smoothest route, her eyes fixed on the camp ahead. The squadron captains rode close beside her. The solemn company swept down the ridge like a bird of prey, only pulling up when they faced the still-slumbering enemy hosts. 

At the head of the company, Melora raised a fist, moonlight splaying across her metal-covered knuckles. When she lowered her arm, they would charge.

A shout went up, but Melora rode on. Pégasos entered the circle of enemy lights, and Melora lowered her fist. Around her, King Ashur's company forked and swept into the camp, snatching torches with free hands. They set tents and wagons alight, cutting down soldiers as they rode on. 

Melora clung to Pégasos as he plunged around, dodging through the chaos. Just as she fumbled her sword out of its scabbard, Melora saw a man hurtling toward her on horseback. She hacked at him with her sharp blade and recoiled as the man tumbled from the saddle. 

His blood dripped from her sword, and her head spun. The battle din engulfed her: screams of fear or anger, blades clashing, crackling flames.

Melora clenched Pégasos' reins, but the horse was surefooted and able, experienced. Horrible, horrible madness, she thought as she retched over the side of the horse. Faith, how do they stand it? 

She grit her teeth and thought of Orlando. Has he wet his hands with men's blood? Melora felt tears burn her cheeks. Orlando would defend the weak without hesitation.

Melora clenched her sword and focused on its familiar weight. She was surrounded by strangers' faces, terrified, handsome, young, old. Friends and foes crumpled in anguish. If not for their painted faces, Melora might have turned on her own men in the confusion. 

Ahead, a man's hand went flying in a fountain of blood, and he sagged in the saddle like a bag of grain. Blood was everywhere, and Melora's stomach writhed with a combination of nausea and fear, but she had nothing more to spill. God forgive us.

Melora drove Pégasos into clumps of turmoil, holding gaps and protecting them with all her skill. This mad venture was her idea, and she felt responsible for these few, brave men. Melora paused once, wiping sweat from her brow and blood from her blade. She glanced over the torchlit, moon-glazed host, her eyes seeking King Ashur. He was dressed the same as his men but for a golden breastplate, and he should have been easier to spot.

She urged Pégasos' into a trot, panicking as she failed to sight the king. A flash of gold caught her eye, and Melora watched in horror as Ashur tumbled from his horse. "Run, Pégasos!" she screamed. Her eyes blurred with fear and her limbs blazed, a sudden clarity in her head. She knew what she must do, how to act. 

They thundered down like the Furies, skidding between king and foe.

Melora leapt from Pégasos with no thought but defending Ashur. She swept her blade in a blazing arc above the fallen king. Pégasos whinnied and pranced behind her, daring the men to near Melora. 

The first man lunged, and Melora thrust his clumsy swing aside, ducking to sever head from neck. She met the second blade on the back swing. The third and forth charged and Pégasos reared, startling Melora. She fell back, gasping as the mighty charger trampled the nearest attacker, missing the fallen king by inches. Melora reentered the fray, slicing through the guard of her stunned opponents.

Pégasos at her back, Melora carved a swath around Ashur, catching his loose horse on the way round. Melora grabbed the reins with bloodied hands and crouched by the king. "My lord?"

The King's heavy lids flickered, and he raised his head. "I'm not dead, then?"

Melora managed a weak smile, "Nay, my lord. Here is your horse."

Ashur mounted, watching with vague mirth as Melora struggled back onto Pégasos. "Come, Knight of the Blue Surcoat, we ride together!"

Stray warriors turned in to flank them as Melora and the king thrust further into the flaming camp. Melora thundered ahead, carried by Pégasos' momentum into a ring of foes. Pégasos plunged and snorted; Melora screamed. Enemy soldiers laughed and slashed at them. 

Melora parried blades, ducked, clutched Pégasos with one hand, and charged toward the biggest, most pompous warrior. His gold plume waved over his companions, and Melora sliced it from his helmet.

The man laughed and swung his enormous blade. Melora danced Pégasos out of the way, imagining the horse was her legs. She ducked the blade, timing how long it took her opponent to strike. Between swings, Melora leaned over and sliced the man's wrist, cleaving muscle and bone. The man howled and grabbed for Melora with his other arm. Melora slashed wildly,  watching him tumble from his saddle and disappearing beneath the fray.

Her thoughts swirled. The chaos, the screams, and the monstrous horses plunging about like wicked waves on an angry sea.

Amhar. What have I done?

King Ashur thundered to Melora's side, catching her arm as she swayed in the saddle. "Boy! Keep your wits about you. You've slain the king's own nephew, the leader of this host."

Melora shivered, her mind full of blood and howls. She came back to herself to find Pégasos managing well enough on his own. The King of Babylon watched her, his eyes dark.

"What," sputtered Melora. "Did you speak, my lord?" She wiped her brow on her dirty sleeve.

Ashur sighed, turning from the fallen warrior. "They are in disarray. Shall we depart?"

"Aye," breathed Melora, a harsh gasp. Her mind was drifting in the sea of confusion, like something had broken in her mind the minute that man had fallen to the ground, disappearing beneath the merciless hooves. She registered what the king was saying, but distantly, as if she were only a puppet, jerked about on invisible strings.

King Ashur raised a horn to his lips, blowing the signal to fall back. Too confused to pursue, the enemy host floundered in their wake. Without Melora's guidance, Pégasos joined the mad dash for the hills. Led by the king, the survivors clattered into the tunnel just as light spilled over the horizon.

Safely back in the quiet city, Melora relinquished Pégasos to a stable lad, her stomach revolting at the thought of touching the horse any longer than possible. She knew that the horse had saved her life. His experience making up for her lack. But that knowledge couldn't erase the screams, or the blood. There was so much blood. Her clothes were damp with it. She saw red when she closed her eyes. And she wondered if she would ever be able to wash all the blood from her hands.