Camelot’s Shadow. Sarah Zettel

      The Saxon with his sword drawn stood near the treeline. She shifted a little to get a clear line of sight.

       It is just like a deer. It is just like a quail. Breathe slowly.

       It is a deer. It is not a man. I am not about to kill a man.

      Rhian drew the string back to her ear. She sighted along the shaft. Thetis, answering Gringolet’s distress, backed and swung her head, trying to free her reins from the branch where she was tethered. The palfrey whickered, the men shouted at one another. Gringolet reared again. In the woods, Gawain’s voice rang out.

      The Saxon turned broad towards her, and Rhian loosed her arrow. It flew straight and true, without a sound, and plunged into the Saxon’s belly. He looked down, surprised to see this unnatural limb that had somehow sprouted from his body. Rhian, breathing now as if she had run a mile, drew another arrow. The Saxon she had shot toppled to the ground, screaming as the pain took him. Rhian nocked the fresh arrow. One of the remaining Saxons shouted to the other. Abandoning the harried and harrying Gringolet, he sprinted to his comrade’s side. Rhian drew back her bowstring and waited. The Saxon’s sword was in his hand and he turned his back to the trees, just for an instant, to shout to the other to leave the maddened horse and come to see. Rhian took her aim again, and again let go the string. She had meant the shot to take him between the shoulder blades, but as the arrow flew, he turned, and it was only luck that he was just a little too slow. The arrow drove itself through his arm and into his side. He dropped instantly, rolling and clawing at the wooden shaft. The third man saw his companion fall and stared at the woods. Gringolet reared again, pawing the air. The Saxon had wit enough to jump back. Rhian fitted a third arrow to the string.

      She did not have a chance to fire. The man fled into the trees on the opposite side of the road, not even bothering to draw his sword. With the last Saxon gone, Gringolet calmed down, stamping and whickering but no longer so wide-eyed. His ears tipped forward again, alert, not laid back in fury. His calm eased Thetis and the palfrey and they quieted, easing their stamping and their calls.

      At their feet, the men Rhian had shot screamed, their cries growing hoarse and choked with tears.

      Rhian lowered her bow, letting the unshot arrow drop from the string. Her hands shook and despite the heat of the day, she felt cold. It was not until then that she realized the noise of the fight behind her had ceased, and footsteps now rustled leaves and undergrowth as they approached.

      Rhian flattened herself against the ground again. She could not see clearly into the depth of the wood, she could not take aim, even if she could steady her hands again. The screams of the wounded men confused her mind. She could only huddle in the mud and pray for steadiness and silence. It would be Gawain, it must be Gawain, because if it wasn’t Gawain, she was lost.

      The footsteps broke through the bracken and settled into the mud. Rhian dared at last to lift her head. In front of her, Gawain stepped from the woods to the track, his sword in his hand. He looked down at her handiwork, and with two swift strokes, brought the silence Rhian had craved but a moment before.

      Rhian pressed her face against her sleeve, shuddering, until she could remember that what Gawain had just done was merciful. Those men were already dead; now they were out of pain.