**TW/CW: Death and destruction, moderate description

Melora left Strasburg at dawn, exiting the Black Forest by nightfall. Wolves howled in the distance, and she was glad to be in the open. By noon the next day, she had reached the blue-green river Danubius. Two days riding perpendicular to the river brought her to Lentia, where a crystalline sky rippled over the smoky blue of the water. Melora dozed on the banks, watching the stars flash in the river like scattered diamonds.

From Lentia, Melora arced to Singidunum, one-hundred twenty leagues of hills and valleys, rivers and forests: a six-day's ride. Another six days of hilly terrain on good roads brought Melora within sight of Constantinople, capital of Christendom on earth and heir to Rome. Melora gaped in wonder as she joined the thronging people headed for the impregnable stone walls. Languages babbled confusion, melding in a warm palette of faces and colors. Melora saw dark Æthiopians, bronzed Persians, golden Romans, and countless other peoples she didn't recognize.

Swept into the city, Melora spoke to Pégasos over the murmur. "Roman church, Arabic buildings, Grecian traders." Falling in behind a party of Persian merchants, Melora and Pégasos safely crossed crowded streets. At the eastern gates, they took the Roman roads, toward Ancyra. The weather was mild; Melora had ridden out of winter and back into spring. Wildflowers danced on grassy plains around her, pink roses, vibrant yellow honeysuckle, and other unfamiliar flowers. She slept in hollows near water, and but for the occasional shepherd or merchant on the roads, saw no one.

From Ancyra, Melora's route dipped south to the walled city of Aleppo, a bustling trade port. Now the sights were not so strange, and the smells of fruit and spices mingled with the unpleasant scent of dirty horse and dirty rider. Melora begged shelter in a church house, and bucketed out water to give Pégasos a much-needed bath.

Afterwards, Melora went inside to eat with the friars, hearty, sunburned fellows, who spoke mixed Latin and Greek. They teased her about her beardlessness while inquiring after her route. The beard banter seemed required. Melora withdrew her maps and spread them on the table. "I head to Babylon." She traced a grimy nail along the well-creased line. "Across the desert."

The friars exchanged looks. "'Tis a hard road and the desert is cruel. Nights are frigid and days sheer purgatory. You'd best buy two weeks' stores, and travel by evening. You won't freeze or suffocate that way. Running southeast of the Euphrates, 'tis a straight road, one hundred sixty-two Roman leagues."

A second friar nodded. "Aye, though your horse looks too good for the miles you've ridden him. He has the strength of an Arab stallion. Of what parentage is the steed?"

Melora shrugged. "'Tis said he is of Bucephalus' lineage."

The friar laughed and slapped his leg. "A Thessalian legend! No wonder you made it so far. That horse is worth more than a city, so keep watch on him.  There are always thieves on the road, and perilous wilderness beyond it."

Melora recalled her terror on first mounting Pégasos, Orlando's fearless feats performed with the charger, and Orlando's words about the horse's loyalty. "I wouldn't sell him for my life," she said at last. "He was a gift from a dear friend." Her voice caught.

The friars murmured amongst themselves. "A kingly gift, lad."

The next morning, Melora shuffled through Aleppo's marketplaces, walking out the kinks in her legs and hips from all the time spent horseback. She fingered silks and admired Damascene blades, but forced herself to only purchase food, and food that would last. Wrinkled, dried figs, sweet and soft, hard bread, and viscous camel's milk, along with bags of water, were the bulk of her purchases. A lightweight eastern tent, conical in shape, was a curiosity Melora found useful, and she parted with several brooches for it.

After prayer and afternoon meal with the good-natured friars, Melora continued east as the sun headed west. Ahead lay a darkening plateau of gravel and dust. The air was dry and hot, so Melora kept Pégasos at a steady pace. The temperature changed within minutes, becoming bitterly cold as soon as the sunlight disappeared. Melora shivered and patted Pégasos neck. "Whoa. No need to rush in the dark." Nevertheless, the horse's step was sure.

She quivered in her blanket, but kept riding until sunrise. She didn't think she could sleep in the desert heat, but fatigue overcame her. She pitched the rounded tent from Aleppo, and tied Pégasos to a pole. Melora watched the shadows play on the walls and drifted into troubled sleep. She awakened to tend to Pégasos, and then slept again until afternoon.

Four identical days passed, and Melora despaired of ever seeing a hill or tree again. The stunted desert brush was as tedious as the open blue sky and dusty plateau stretching miles out of sight. The fifth evening, however, Melora saw smoke spiraling grey against the blue sky. She nudged Pégasos into a canter, eager for a settlement or camp to share.

Cresting the ridge, Melora saw timbers and tents smashed across the rocks, smoldering and sparking from a recent fire. The corpses of camels and goats were strewn across the ground, flies buzzing over bloody gashes in the dirty hides. Melora slowed Pégasos to a walk and stared in horror at the destruction. "What's happened here?" she murmured aloud, glancing around for danger.

Melora had no desire to be caught by the perpetrators, so after a quick check for survivors, she headed on at a gallop. Several miles later, she spied two more razed enclosures. The earth round them was trampled, the scant brush flattened as if by a great wind. Melora felt a chill in her limbs, though the sun was not set.

She led Pégasos through streets filled with slashed carpets and smashed pottery, the buildings and stalls smoking. As in the camps, half-rotten animal corpses were everywhere. Melora gagged at the stench of burning and carrion, but a knight did not flee danger.

In the shadow of a ruined hut, Melora saw limp bundles swathed in vibrant fabric, and she dismounted. Creeping close, Melora rolled one over to reveal the maggot-infested corpse of a woman. Long hair still clung to the swarming cheeks, though the eyes were pools of mush in the sockets. Melora gagged and turned away, dizzy with revulsion and questions. God, who would do this?

Back on Pégasos, Melora rode as hard as she dared, unable to bear another trip through a smoking camp or village. She hardly noticed the changing terrain. The sun set, and Melora's pounding head was soothed by the cold. They rode on until midnight, stopping only to give Pégasos water.

Melora searched her bags under cover of darkness, finding her tent and water bag. After tending the horse, she assembled the tent by touch. I've become quite the desert dweller, she thought as she wrapped her blanket round her like a cocoon. She'd light no torch tonight, thanks to the destruction she'd seen. Was it the work of marauders or something bigger?

Melora was awakened by thundering hooves. The thin walls of her tent were just lighting with morning sun. Melora catapulted up, yanking on clothing and armor. Lurching out of her tent, she dismantled it and packed it away.

Pégasos' ears flicked forward and he stamped his foot as she clambered onto his back, just as unsettled as she was. Sweet Jesu preserve me. She gripped her sword, spurred Pégasos into a canter, and tried to remember that she was a man. Within minutes, Melora glimpsed a bobbing figure at hard gallop some distance behind her. He was heading parallel to her course, his loose desert garments billowing like wings. "There's only one of them," she said to Pégasos' attentive ears. "That's good, right?"

The rider continued parallel, never veering toward Melora, but keeping pace. His face was set ahead, due east. Melora rode Pégasos at a canter for two hours, slowing as the heat intensified. Miraculously, the desert plateaus receded to grass, and Melora glimpsed a tree line ahead. Beyond that threaded a slim blue thread she assumed was the Euphrates of Genesis. Melora nudged Pégasos back into full gallop, hoping to lose their 'companion' in the trees. The horseman fell behind, and as Melora gained the trees, disappeared from sight.

She gasped in relief and gave Pégasos his head, slowing to pick through the sharper terrain. The ground sloped steeply toward the river, the trees and foliage becoming thicker and greener farther down. Pégasos halted at the edge of the silky ribbon of water, and Melora dismounted. She fell to her knees on the bank, tossing her helm aside so she could dunk her entire face into the water. Pégasos dipped his head and drank in a more dignified manner.

Melora staggered to her feet and sagged against Pégasos' sweaty side. A twig snapped. Melora whirled in fright. A tall, ragged youth lurched out of the brush, dragging the reins of an equally dilapidated horse. They were sweat and dirt-streaked, and the young man bore a filthy bandage on his brown neck. 

He gaped at Melora in terror, his hand flying to his curved sword. "Speak, stranger knight," he gasped in thickly accented Latin, "or I kill you."

Melora's placed her own sword on the ground, her hands shaking. "I am a questing knight of Arthur's  court, far north and west from here, and at war with no man."

The lad drew his sword halfway. "Why ride so far from home?" His hand trembled on the hilt, and his eyes were bleary with fatigue.

Melora spread her hands to show they were empty. "I know little of war craft and thus I quest the world. I am called the Knight of the Blue Surcoat, and I mean you no harm. You are hurt. I have some healer's skill. Might I tend your wound?" Melora's thoughts raced. "Perhaps you know of lodging where a lone knight might find rest."

The boy sheathed his sword. "I care not for my life. I will do as you say, but there's no rest in this unhappy place. We do not lack for war." His lips twisted in bitterness.

Melora thought of the decimated camps and shivered. "What is this land, and why all the death and burning?"

The youth's laugh was caustic. "Surely Britain is a far country for you to be ignorant of our terrible deeds. I am Omid, messenger of Ashur, ruler of a place your people still call Babylon. There has been sore conflict and combat between my lord and an invader, a self-proclaimed 'King of Africa, and Second Alexander.' This so-called 'king' burns and defiles my lord's cities and people, slaughters his subjects and livestock, and now he has captured my lord's only son and heir."

Omid's voice cracked. "My lord and his few followers have fled to our last citadel. There they hide like foxes in a den. The enemy stands outside with a mighty host, railing at my lord to give over his kingdom, his men, his treasures, and his life for that of his son. My lord is eaten by despair."

Melora hissed in anger, thinking of Orlando trapped as well. The spear of Longinus was presumably with the King of Babylon, surrounded by a murderous host. If only there were a way to get in. "Still, you seek to return?"

"Yes." Omid knelt to drink. "My mother and sisters are in the citadel." He stripped off his bandage. "I fear we will never meet again outside of heaven."

"Lead me to this sad city," said Melora, "for here is a sure study in war craft." That seemed like something a knight would say. 

After he finished drinking, she wet the edge of her spare tunic and went to his side to wipe the crusted gore and dirt from his neck. "I have heard of your liege lord, that he holds the mighty spear of Longinus. Surely he could use it against the enemy?"

Omid snorted. "It's not a weapon for warfare, but a dusty relic enshrined in the citadel, as useless now as the men within."

Melora sighed. She had to gain the spear, and if she could help the assailed king, even better. "Do not lose heart, but take me with you."

Omid shrugged. "We're better off fleeing, but I cannot leave my family, so I'll lead you to a fool's death if that's what you are chasing."

"Perhaps," murmured Melora. "Perhaps not."

**********************************

They approached the citadel under cover of darkness, leading their horses behind the towering ruins of an ancient city. Melora glanced through gaps to see enemy lights flickering like stars in the great host. "How are we to manage?" she whispered, sure they would be discovered.

Omid shook his head, motioning for silence. "We are not without devices. A secret tunnel leads to the city. It's but a few paces. I we are swift they won't notice our passage."

Melora chewed her lip and focused on leading Pégasos through the rubble. Minutes later, Omid rolled aside a mossy stone and pointed at a dark hole. Melora watched him lead his horse down before turning to Pégasos. She palmed an apple and backed into the hole. Pégasos didn't shy or swerve, following the apple, and as they reached the end of the slope, Melora saw light growing round the edges of her eyes. She glanced back to see Omid conversing with two armed men. All wore the same wary, battle-hard expressions.

Melora waited, unable to understand the musical, soft words flying about her. She stroked Pégasos' nose, trying to look confident. She had to make the king trust her, or resign Orlando to some nameless hell. 

"Take me to the king," she said, in Latin, when they finally looked her way. "I wish to speak to him."

The youth who had brought her cleared his throat. "Remove your helm, sir, and prove to my friends you are not of the enemy host."

Melora pulled off her helmet, shaking out her shaggy red locks. "I am of Cymru, in far Britain. I seek to aid those in distress and give succor to the needy; such is the creed of my king and his knights."

"Worthy indeed," scoffed a guard, his Latin broken but understandable. "But one boy cannot heal a dead nation."

"True," said Melora, holding her head high. "But I still wish to speak to your king."

Omid shrugged. "It will do no harm. I will take him there."

"As you will," replied the guard who had spoken. The other remained silent, watching Melora with skeptical eyes.

Melora followed Omid another hundred paces until their path climbed upward. They reached the surface and found themselves in a square courtyard. Bluebells twined with tough brown shrubs between the cracked paving stones. Omid led them into the street, where elegantly featured people in muddy robes rushed about like ants. The swarms stilled around Melora, eyes wide with fear and suspicion, trained on her obviously foreign face.

She felt the familiar closing of her throat, felt fear ripple her veins as they pressed in closer, but she hadn't ridden this far to be afraid. Melora stood against Pégasos and stuck out her hands. "Please, let me be. I come to see the king."

At Omid's reprimands, the crowd thinned. They still watched as Melora led Pégasos up a path to the walled center, and Melora felt many eyes pricking her back until the gate closed behind her. Her guide surrendered their horses to a servant, and took Melora's arm. "This way. King Ashur is usually at his plans."

Inside the citadel, torches burned in ornate sconces. Wooden tables bore graceful glass vases filled with flowers, and metal urns propped open carved cedar doors. Tapestries brought rich colors to stone walls, and silken carpets silenced Melora's footsteps as she trod down the hall. "Beautiful," she said aloud, marveling at the curving arches and vivid colors.

"Aye," agreed Omid, stopping before a massive cedar door with strange carvings of men and beasts. "All will be devoured by that dog."

Melora rested a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for your aid, friend. Some things are worth protecting, and even in failure, worth dying for."

"Brave words," said Omid, smiling at last. "I wish you well with the king. Go in peace."

"And you as well." Melora opened the door, and wished she were as brave as her words. The room was simpler than the rest of the citadel, bearing few furnishings and a few scattered silk pillows. A man stood by a map of sheepskin, stroking his grey-streaked black beard with fevered energy. He had the same fine edged features of Omid and the people outside, defined cheekbones, arched brows, a strong nose. Unlike them, he wore a golden turban and a fine silk caftan.

Seeing no one else, Melora bowed low. "My lord King."

The man looked up, his dark eyes snapping. "Boy knight, they warned me of your coming. What news have you heard, who are you, where are you from, and what brings you to this troubled land?" His face was lined and shadowed in the faint torchlight, aged with weariness and sorrow.

Melora cleared her throat and removed her helmet, hoping her face wasn't too dirty. "I am from the borders of Britain, Highness. I am son to a noble prince, and am new to the knightly order. I travel the wide world seeking challenges to increase my martial skills."

King Ashur shook his head, his deep-set eyes tracing Melora's face with a hawkish interest. "So like Levander, my own son. Full of fire, spirit, and skill, and look what has become of him." The last words trembled, and the king hid his face.

Melora's heart lurched, wondering if her father or Orlando's suffered from similar violent grief. "I wish to help you sir, if I may. If one small as I could assist so great a king as you."

"Wonders indeed," scoffed Ashur. "You avoid my enemies to come here, though they are far more powerful and three times our number. A man seeking glory, prizes, and wealth would go begging to their ranks, not mine." He leaned over his desk again. "There is nothing but death for you here, boy." The king's bitter tone softened. He glanced up, eyes filled with tears. "Or do you seek the same fate as my son?"

Melora felt her eyes burn with answering tears, but she straightened and adopted what she thought was a manly pose. "'Tis neither fair nor fitting to join the stronger party. We're sworn to defend the defenseless and the broken, putting injustice to flight. I know I am young, and only one man, but even one man might make a difference."

Melora paused, considering her quest. If she died, Orlando would be no worse off. If she succeeded, she might win the spear. "Your enemies are now my enemies. I saw the horrors wrought among your people. I will fight with you, if you'll have me, or without you, and then see if I be friend or foe, weak or strong." She strode to the desk and knelt before the king, drawing her sword and laying it at his feet. "I offer my sword, as if you were my own father, and your son my own brother."

Ashur gave a shuddering sigh. "Rise. Sheathe your blade. 'Tis your life to spend and an extra sword is welcome. I will have a room ready for your rest tonight, and you shall conference with us on the morrow. I warn you again, little can be done. Fear of the enemy has kept my men inside the gates, and we have no hope tempting us to leave."

Melora bowed low. "Thank you for your kindness."

"Your parents will not thank me for your grave," was the king's soft reply as he closed the door on her.

Melora waited in silence, watching runners travel the citadel's circuitous paths. Her thoughts were jumbled fear, grief, and anticipation. Should she fight as a knight of Arthur? This was a noble cause, and any knight craven to refuse it. Gawain would have plunged in at once. I'll have that spear yet, she resolved as she saw two retainers in stained satin livery approaching, even if I have to spill blood in exchange.

Melora was shown to a room haunted by former luxury. There were tattered canopies of patterned silk, crimson with sinuous bronze phoenixes and cobalt lions. Threadbare cushions of gold satin and pillows of blue linen speckled a mahogany couch, and a glazed black pitcher graced the ebony table. However, the wood on the furnishings was scraped and old, loose threads wisped like cobwebs from the fabric. Still, it was clean.

She discarded her armor and sank onto the couch, dropping her head in her hands. If she died here, no one would discover her fate, or Orlando's. There's nothing else to be done: I simply cannot fail.

*********************************

**Author's Note: The historical "Babylon," of course, fell to the Achaemenid Empire in 539 BCE, so there was no "Babylon" anywhere near the time this story is "set." Of course, it is a fantasy novel, but most of the places, details, and names are inspired by the Early Middle Ages (better known as the "Dark Ages" in a lot of Western history books). This period coincided with what is now known as the Islamic Golden Age. Many Islamic scholars knew multiple languages, including Greek and Latin, and could have conceivably conversed with someone from mainland Britain. Of course, the story I based this book on took more liberties with history than Doctor Who or steampunk novels ever dreamed, and while I tried to stay true to the source, I also tried to add in some more authentic elements of the post-Persian Empire world. Also, the idea that anyone would try to call themselves the King of Africa is hilarious to me, since we're talking about an entire diverse continent, but I based my portrayal of this character (from the original story) on Alexander the Great, who wanted to conquer the world and did manage to conquer much of ancient Egypt and Persia (among other places), in the 300s (BC).