Pounding on the door ripped Melora from dark dreams. She raised her groggy head and stumbled out, the cobwebs of fear still clouding her mind. Outside, a messenger in threadbare livery bowed low. He was the one from yesterday, the one with the best Latin. She remembered his narrow face and wide eyes.

The man bowed again. "My lord knight, the king requests your presence at once."

Melora yawned and smoothed her tunic. It was better to appear before a king rumpled and sleepy than late. She raked her fingers through her hair before nodding to the man. "Lead on."

Ashur's meeting chamber buzzed with men and aides, an energy completely different from the first time. The king's eyes seemed to spark as he conversed with his men, and even his posture was more confident.

He spotted Melora as she walked in and reverted to Latin. "Your plans stirred a wasp nest, but rekindled the hopes of my people." He brandished a scroll. "A missive from the enemy. He was enraged by the slaughter of his men and the death of his nephew. I will translate the meat of it." Ashur unrolled the parchment, and several nearby aides paused, their attention fixed on the king and the foreigner.

"We, mighty Osar, Conqueror of the Desert, King of Africa, and Lord of the South, require blood payment for that timorous feat of arms performed yesternight upon the field. This tiresome war will be finished forthwith on one condition: King Ashur of Babylon or the chosen knight of his people shall engage Ourself in single combat. If We prevail, Babylon's right, crown, royal dignity, and people will be given up forthwith. In the unlikely event of failure, We will consider this campaign finished, return to Our lands and release the noble son of Babylon."

Ashur faltered over the word 'son' and he looked to Melora. "It seems too good to be real, not considering how hale and young our enemy is, or how grief and famine have aged me beyond my rightly years."

Melora shifted from foot to foot. "It does seem rather fair for such a pompous windbag. But then again, he's also overconfident to call himself the 'King of Africa.' Think you his victory assured, or is there some chance my lord might conquer him?"

Ashur shook his head. "My heart says I should. But my councilors and wise men have agreed; we must seek a champion. Accompany us, lad, as we prepare to address my nation. Be he boy or man, peasant or prince, I will not refuse his offer if he be stronger than I."

"You are a noble king," murmured Melora, struck by Ashur's humility-especially contrasted with their opponent, or even many lords of the Red Hall. "It would be an honor to do battle in your stead."

Ashur shook his head, a small smile quirking his mouth. "We shall see."

Melora soon found herself on a balcony behind the king, with a good view of the crowds. The people's faces glowed earthy gold in the light, their eyes fixed on Ashur. And as the king had said, more faces held some hope or life than before, as they waited for him to speak.

Ashur raised his hands for silence, and brandished the scroll with its tempting challenge. "My people. You have heard of this foreign knight's bravery, this blue surcoated lad who has aided us." He spoke in his native tongue, but one of his councilors quietly translated for Melora.

"Today, the self-styled "King of Africa" issued a challenge. He proposes we send a champion or myself to him on the field of combat, and if we are victorious, he will make restitution for his crimes. To the man who performed this brave deed, I would give the fourth part of my land, treasure, gems, and every blessing that is my right."

The king surveyed his people. "Who would dare face our mighty foe alone? Be you poor, slave, or rich, I will not discriminate. You have your life to live, but everything to gain. Will you go?"

The assembly was funeral still. No lip moved, no foot twitched. Fear swept through the gathering in a cold, silent wave, and no one answered the king. Ashur waited for what seemed like hours.

Melora felt a pang of fear herself, picturing her own father looking hopeless and helpless as his only son was ripped away. That was the loss Ashur feared, more than his crown or his dignity or his kingdom.

As she watched, the king staggered back. "No one?" he breathed, for only the ears of those close to him. "I must go, leaving them all fatherless when I fall. Cruel fate." Ashur raised his voice again, a lion's roar in the deadly silence. "Is there no one who would avenge kin and king?"

"Many that would," called a soldier at last. "But none that can. We know that rampaging conqueror, what fearsome bravery and great strength he has. We cannot face him, even if we would." Nods and murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.

Melora felt her heart drumming in her ears. The Knights of the Round Table would fight amongst themselves for the honor of this charge. She watched Ashur's shoulders fall, the despair returning. She imagined her cousin, Sir Gawain, standing in her place. He would already have thrown himself at Ashur's feet for just the chance to fight and die so bravely. Even cousin Aggie might have already been kneeling there as well. Didn't the same Fae blood run in her veins? Hadn't even Myrddin himself assured her of this? What was the point of uncanny blood if you didn't attempt an uncanny feat?

More importantly, Melora knew that were she to offer herself as a champion, if she won against the odds, the king couldn't deny her the Spear of Longinus. It was too much to risk, and yet, an incredible chance. She'd practiced with the Babylonian soldiers; she was as able as they were. Her skill was no less. It seemed like fate. Like her destiny had led her here to stand behind this man and be given this chance.

Melora could die, and Orlando would die as well. She could surrender the quest and leave him to his fate. Or by some great chance of heaven, she might win the duel and ride on to free him. If everything happened for a reason, then her being here had a purpose too. That is what a true knight of the Red Hall would believe.

Melora clenched her fists and cleared her throat. "My lord."

The king and his councilors turned to gape at her. "Yes lad?"

Melora took a deep breath. How would Gawain do this? She bowed once to the translator, then spoke in her best Gawain-imitation. "No knight or warrior dares to battle in your stead. Were I certain you would do for me as you swore, grant me such a reward, I'd gladly fight in place of you. I could hardly hold my head upright as a knight of Arthur, if I returned to tell that I had not undertaken such a rare adventure. It will be a glorious fate, to win or die; there is no shame in it."

"Gracious, foolish boy," exclaimed the king, his tone soft and his eyes bright. "This is no fair fight; a boy young and untried against such a warrior. On your defeat I'd lose all my kingdom as well as your life, and you are not my subject."

"I'm not untried. I have blood on my hands, as you well know." Melora felt her gut lurch in revulsion, and she tried to ignore the ghostly screams that still seemed so loud in her ears. "I was the one that slew Osar's nephew. There's poetry in it, a symmetry, if I am the one to face him now." Melora clenched her fists, focusing only on the shining eyes of the king. "If you fight, and you lose or are injured, all of your people are at risk. It's a fool's game to let me fight the man, I know, but it is better to risk my life than that of my lord the king. Besides, there is a precedent. You must know the tale of shepherd boy David, who slew Goliath with a single stone? My life is in God's hands, and regardless of my fate, you shan't bear the blame."

Ashur's expression was dark, and for a moment Melora thought she might have offended him. The councilors were murmuring in their own tongue, and nothing sounded flattering or positive about it. However, Ashur bowed his head. "If we don't fight, we lose our honor. If I fight, I risk my kingdom's future and legacy. If you fight, we rest all of our lives and our hopes on your childish shoulders. It's a devil's choice. But I will forgo sense and pride and pledge before the Giver of Life, that I will fulfill all I swore; furthermore, you will be as a son and heir to me if you do this thing. We are doomed fools, but as no man is brave enough, this beardless boy shall be our champion."

Ashur held her gaze, his eyes glistening dark and threatening tears. His voice was hoarse, and soft enough for only those close to hear, when he added, "My own son could do no better."

Melora sighed. "Proclaim the contest to the enemy for tomorrow morning." They might as well be done with it. While she didn't want to enter a battlefield ever again, a duel-even a doomed duel-seemed preferable to waiting around to die.

After a small breakfast, Melora took Pégasos straight to the training fields, avoiding curious eyes as she avoided her own thoughts. She mounted Pégasos and winced at the pain in her rear. "Sorry boy," she muttered to the charger. "You can blame Orlando." Melora sighed and rubbed her head. Was she trying to prove something to herself, or was she too far in to get out? Or was she really just an idiot? How in the world could she think she could defeat a grown man-a mighty conqueror-in battle? It was outrageous. Idiocy. If she had half a brain she'd half snuck out and turned Pégasos back toward home so that she wouldn't leave her own parents bereft and childless.

It doesn't matter, she thought as she charged the battered target post, it's too late. Melora slammed her blade into the post and noted how the strength of her arms had grown. Days filled with only knightly traveling and practice had refined her years of battle and sword training. If she weren't careful, her arms wouldn't fit her gown sleeves. Melora frowned and shifted in her saddle. She brushed that useless concern aside and charged the post again. After all, she wasn't likely to survive long enough to worry about gown sleeves ever again.

Melora spent the hours before dawn in prayer and fasting. She left her room at sunrise. Dark eyes and worried faces trailed her; some curious, most indifferent. What was the life or death of a foreign fool when they'd all perish in the end? Armed as heavily as she could bear, Melora practiced everything her father and brother had taught her. For God. For Orlando. For Amhar. For Father. For Ashur. For Britain. She chanted it in her head like a prayer, or a promise, and the only thing keeping her own terror at bay.

King Osar was young, mighty, and cruel. But he was also completely assured of his own victory. And he was mortal, made from the same dirt as she was, which meant he could be defeated. Melora raised her head with pride as she left for the gates. She was the daughter of kings: human and something more. She had Fae in her blood and Justice on her side. For God, Orlando, Amhar, Arthur, Ashur, Britain.

Melora pulled Pégasos up beside a company of Ashur's folk, designated to escort her. They were surcoated in drab tan sackcloth. It was an ominous lack of color. Melora lowered her helm and nodded to the leader, the army's commander. "Lead the way," she croaked; her voice sounded strange. The commander saluted and sent up the signal to open the gates. They thundered through the citadel, people scattering ahead and closing in their wake.

On the plain, Melora turned back to view the silent mass of Asher's people. A lone rider was amongst them: the king himself, dressed in mourning but bearing a scarlet standard. It depicted the flaming griffin-like Huma bird, symbol of victory and fortune. Melora prayed that the wings of the Huma bird would be hers, and all of its blessings as well.

"My lord knight," said the army captain. "We must ride."

Melora nodded, understanding his broken, thick Greek well enough. "Yes."

Near the middle of the field, they spotted a company riding to meet them. Osar's folk were dressed in royal purple, their standards fluttering like golden birds overhead. A rider on a soot-dark horse broke away, even as Melora left her own comrades behind.

The horse was giant, larger than Pégasos and barrel-chested. The rider himself was strong and tall as Gawain, with a red-gold breastplate that glowed like fire. As he came closer, Melora glimpsed a broad-bladed sword hung at his left, a keen, glittering spear in his hand. This was the self-proclaimed King of Africa.

King Osar pulled up three feet from Melora, his horse stamping and rolling its eyes with impatience. Like his steed, Osar was tense and ready, sitting proud in his saddle as if it were his throne. "So, you are the wormy lad who dares challenge me?" His Latin was excellent, his voice cold. His eyes were pale candles, his lips a slash of disappointment as he surveyed Melora from the scuffed tip of her boots to the freshly washed blue of her surcoat.

Melora ignored the insult and inclined her head. "That I am." Pégasos snarled at the other stallion. He shook his glossy head, the blue ribbons braided in his silver mane whipping like snakes. The other horse snarled back, and Osar pulled at its reins.

Scorn twisted Osar's lips. "A lizard dares to strike at a lion? Who has heard of such a thing." He spat on the earth, just missing Pégasos' left hoof.

Melora remained silent, lest her voice betray her terror. This was it. This was how she died.

Some distance back, the two companies waited. Ashur's folk in mourning sackcloth. Osar's folk in king's purple. The line could not have been more clear. Both companies had formed a circle, and Melora realized that there was to be no more preparation than this.

A shout went up behind them, and then the horns blew, once to warn them to be ready. And then silence fell, and Melora remembered what Ashur had said. They will wait for your signal to start. Raise your hand, and then get as far from Osar as you can. He will come in fast and try to take you down in a single blow. Do not let him get too close.

If not for the strength of Melora's will, the ferocity of her pride, and the thought of Orlando, she would have fled in terror. But she took a deep breath, then signaled her men. Here we go. Horns blew twice, and Melora kneed Pégasos into motion.

Osar swooped like a hawk, his spear glinting like the sun. Melora clutched her lance with desperation, and wheeled Pégasos at the last moment, in an attempt to divert the king's spear like she might a jouster's lance.

Osar's spear thrashed into Melora's shield, her lance glanced off his shoulder plating. Melora clung to Pégasos with her legs, her arm smarting from the hard knock. She wheeled the horse for another pass. I wish I were as strong as Orlando. This is harder than it looks. She leaned as far off of the horse as she dared, her lance facing down.

In the next pass, Osar's spear shattered on Melora's shield, shooting bits toward her face. Her lance cracked and she tossed it aside. Melora whipped her sword out before the king, hers being much lighter and shorter. She shook her head to clear the sweat from her eyes as King Osar flew toward them, waving his blade with fervor.

Melora slid her sword along the king's blade, deflecting most of its force. Beneath her, Pégasos flowed like a wave, teased like a dancer who never met their partner, keeping her just far enough from Osar to divert the strength of his heavy blows.

Osar snarled. "Take your blows like a man!" He hacked at her, but Melora was already out of range.

Melora clung to Pégasos with her free hand, Amhar's sword raised. On the next charge, she wheeled at the last moment, curving away from the king's blade. Ducking under his return blow, she made a neat thrust to his side and smacked his gaudy breastplate.

The king roared, ripping away before Melora could do any damage. He turned his horse and slashed Melora across her shield. She nearly screamed as the pain shot through her left arm. Merciless blows rained down, from Osar's thundering arm, but Pégasos carried Melora away. Melora gasped as the scenery whirled. What was she thinking to challenge such a warrior?

Osar was back for another blow, and Melora feebly raised her sword. The king's blade beat down again. She blocked it, but the shock made her teeth click. "Give in, boy?"

Melora glimpsed the flaming eyes, hawk nose, malicious triumph, and thought of Mador. "No," she gasped. "Never." Melora swung her sword as if to strike, yanked it back, and sliced under the King's sword as he raised his blade in defense.

Her sword clanged against his breastplate again and he growled, "Tricks, tricks. Can you actually fight?"

Melora replied with a desperate flurry of blows. Surprised, Osar pulled back his horse. He howled in frustration as he slashed at her again and again, but never managed to get his blade close enough.

If not for Pégasos, the battle would have been over in moments. But the relentless fury of Osar's mighty blows had every muscle in Melora's body screaming for relief. Osar wheeled back at her, swinging his blade in a way that would have broken Melora's wrist with the weight, had she tried it. Melora pulled back Pégasos, but too late. Osar's stallion was close enough to bite, to sink its teeth into Pégasos neck. The stallions jerked and screamed, and Osar's swirling blade flashed through the air.

Melora spread the blow between her shield and sword, throwing both in front of her in a desperate attempt to block him, but the force still sent her hurtling from her saddle. Her sword tumbled end over end, and she saw Pégasos' silver-shod hooves flash over her head.

Melora slammed into the ground, her scream silenced by the impact. King Osar spun before her eyes, charging down on her with his blade raised. Pégasos wheeled, and Melora lay frozen in horror and pain. She couldn't breathe or think, and the horse was going to trample her. She was going to die, just like Amhar. She could only watch.

A gust of air passed as Pégasos jumped over Melora's body and charged Osar, lashing out with his front hooves. Melora gaped, wondering why she wasn't dead.

Air returned to her lungs at last, accompanied by throbbing pain. Melora moaned and squeezed her eyes against the tears. Father, I'm sorry. A horse's scream broke through Melora's fuzzy terror, and she rolled over. Pégasos was dodging Osar's angry thrusts. Crimson blood spattered the horse's silvery sides. Rage filled Melora with a burst of strength, and she pushed herself to her feet, heedless of the pain. He's fighting for me!

Melora stumbled to her sword and shield, grasping them with sore fingers. She stood straight and tall, sword held firm. She would make Amhar proud of this last stand.

Osar's horse reared and plunged, harried by the raging Pégasos. As the king flailed and struck at Pégasos, he was thrown by his own horse. Pégasos turned on the enemy stallion, screaming in rage. He chased the horse a few feet away, his hooves reddened with blood.

Melora stalked over to the fallen king. "Shall we recommence?" Her voice was a dry croak.

Osar leapt to his feet, shaking off the fall as if it were a fly. "At once, dog." He thrust his sword at Melora, who hopped out of the way. "Face me!" he roared, veins popping out red and strong in his forehead.

Melora couldn't let his words touch her. This was her strength, battle on foot. Battle by wearing men down. Melora forced the screaming stallions out as well. It wouldn't do to be distracted.

Osar became wary after a few charges, seeing that Melora wouldn't extend herself. Melora kept her battle with Orlando in mind, determined to learn from her mistakes. She scanned the terrain between blows, trying to use it to her advantage.

A lucky swipe of Melora's blade sliced the king's cheek. He growled in anger. "You'll pay for this prancing, boy. I will no longer be patient with your child's play." Osar leapt at Melora and slashed her blade instead of aiming at her body.

Melora's sword guard hammered into her gauntlets and smashed her hands. She hung on, ducking when the king's backstroke whirled past. Melora staggered back, but the next blow smashed her shield to pieces and sliced through her bracer. Melora wailed in anguish, then clamped her teeth over her lip. She couldn't let him see her pain.

Osar laughed, his eyes wide with anticipation as he blazed in for the kill.

Melora took a breath and braced herself. God help me. She raised her sword, feinted right, and spun with her blade. The king's heavy stroke had slowed, as he had far more armor and much larger sword, and Melora's sword sliced his helm from his head, exposing him and slashing the tip of his nose.

Incensed, the king hammered down furious blows that Melora could hardly block. Her sword bent from the impact, and as she met another blow, it snapped in two. Melora jumped back, staring in horror at the jagged wreck in her hands. Amhar's blade . . .

"Well, it is time then," jeered the king, wiping blood from his face. "I shall enjoy this."

Melora felt her eyes fill with tears as she surveyed the damage: Amhar's sword, Pégasos' bloody coat, her battered body, and that terrible man leering down at her. She raised her head and gazed back. "Then God keep my soul."

Osar swung his blade to decapitate her, but by now Melora knew how long the swing would take. At the last moment she ducked and kicked him full force in the chest. Startled, he toppled back.

"No one said I had to die," she growled, driving her broken blade through the gap in Osar's armor. He fell with a cry, Melora on top of him. He raised his sword and Melora stabbed his hand with her broken weapon. Osar yelled and dropped his sword.

Melora grabbed his sword with both hands and swung it to the king's neck. Gasping with pain and the weapon's weight she managed to speak. "What say you now, my lord?"

Her knee in his chest, a blade to his neck, Osar gaped at Melora. "What?"

"It's not knightly to prolong death," said Melora. She didn't want to kill a man this way, not even this man. His wide, confused eyes rolled with fear and shock and humanity, his gasps hit her face. Such a killing was far too intimate.

"Please, lad," he moaned. "Isn't it enough for you to triumph over me, though I had it in reach, without slaying me as well."

Melora heard her company riding up behind her, trumpeting the sound of victory. "You would have killed me where I stood, weaponless. In the sight of all here."

"I know." Osar stared into her eyes. His eyes were so pale, glittering sand gold in the heat of the afternoon sun. "But I am a King. Make a prisoner of me, and I will keep my promises to the lord of Babylon." His expression faded back to the hard, cruel mask, the sneer she had seen before. "I am a man of honor, and I will not go back on my word. May the gods strike me down if I fail."

Melora pressed the sword down, drawing a line of blood against his ruddy, sweat-soaked skin. "I saw your work; wanton slaughter of man and beast. Your gods may be as cruel, as bloody: I do not know them."

"By sun and water, sky and earth, by all that is and ever was sacred." The king scowled, his face reddening with shame and fury. "By my father's house, I swear I will do as promised. I have never broken my word."

Melora sighed in relief and stepped back. Her legs were shaking so badly, she didn't think she'd ever get up again if she fell. "Agreed." She heard footsteps and felt movement at her side. Ashur's captain stood behind her, bonds and fetters in his hands.

King Osar rose to his feet, regarding the Babylonian in haughty disdain. "So brave are we now? Courageous to truss the defeated lion. Bah," he spat on the captain's feet. "You may bind me, but yon beardless boy owns every one of your pathetic lives."

The captain bowed to Melora. "I acknowledge it." He beckoned to his men and together they chained the proud king. "We owe this child more than we could ever repay."

Melora heard them as in a dream, staring at the men and their horses. Horses. "Pégasos?" she croaked.

An officer walked forward. "He will be taken back to the city for care. Come. You need to see a physician as well."

Melora turned back to the field. Every muscle ached. She stooped to pick up the pieces of Amhar's sword and fell to her knees. Tears blurred her eyes and her head felt thick.

"Good sir," the captain's voice. She heard it from far away, too far from his hand gripping her shoulder. "You are hurt. I will bear you on my horse to the king."

Melora nodded, thrusting the sword pieces into her belt. She mounted with the soldiers' help, then sagged behind the captain on the short ride to the city. Cheers and songs filled the air, and flower petals rained down like soft snow. Melora tried to smile, but her heart was too heavy.

Melora waited at the citadel gates while the captain cleared the way. Her head was pounding, and the crowd's jubilation didn't help. Someone motioned for her to come, and she staggered forward. As soldiers jumped in to support her, Melora collapsed in their arms. The last thing she heard was the sound of women singing, and then everything was black.

SURCOAT IS FINALLY BACK! Melora has had her first battle, and her first one-on-one duel, and she's still alive. But she's hurt and she just passed out, so things aren't looking quite so good for our brave knight errant. Because uh, to quote Mushu, "there's a couple of things they're bound to notice . . ."

Again, I am so grateful to anyone who decided to give this old-fashioned little epic a chance, and I hope to get my chapters out of edits and up much sooner so I can finish this piece. <3