Chapter 1, Blood of Kings (novel)

Flooded with marsh water, the cave stank of decay, and the young woman wished her companion would finish packing so they could leave. Prying a sickle-sized claw out of her rent armor, she aimed a last painful kick at the dragon she had just slain. "That's what you get for killing my horse, you stupid worm! It cost me a month's earnings to buy that overpriced donkey, and I didn't even get to ride him for a week before you came along!"

Her teenage squire Ares, late of Sparta though not much of a warrior considering his pedigree, walked to her side with two large sacks stuffed to the rim. "You did use him as bait, Milady. It's not much of a surprise that he's dead."

Mildred Pendragon, illegitimate daughter of King Arthur and outcast knight--Mildy to her friends, Dread Lady to her enemies, and Milady to Ares--brushed back her thick brown hair and sighed. "I suppose I'd be less annoyed if that had actually worked. Stupid fire breath!"

She'd underestimated the reach of the drake's flame, and it'd simply roasted her horse from five paces away. The well-trained mount had gotten no chance to lead the monster anywhere near the sharpened log trap she'd painstakingly set outside, and she herself had barely avoided being cooked by the infernal flame. "This is a total disaster!" she said, spreading her hands. "I've got no horse, no shield"--smashed into useless splinters early on during the fight--"no lance"--broken in the dragon's death throes after being plunged into its eye--"and I'm wounded besides. And what do we have to show for it?!"

"We have the treasure horde, and you're only scratched, right?" She could tell he'd heard that term far too often in recent times.

"Do you see a train of servants to carry all this treasure out? And while I may use the word 'scratch' a lot, it's only when I'm trying to brag. Besides, this isn't a scratch by anyone's reckoning." Her armor had saved her a gutting, but her wound was still pretty ugly. The huge claw had pushed part of her undershirt into the gash, and she could only hope she didn't get a serious infection.

Ares was scratching himself at his hair, the color of straw and full of lice. "But we're still rich." When she'd first met the tall Greek youth, he'd arrived on the south coast of Britannia groomed as if ready to model for the heroic sculptures popular in his own land. Now he was every bit as dirty and unkempt as Mildy herself, and had even grown something of a beard. But despite the harsh conditions he'd endured at her side, he had never stopped seeing life from a hopeful viewpoint. His optimism was a welcome bright spot in Mildy's difficult quest for respect and fame.

Well, they would probably be able to sell what they could carry out of the barrow for a good amount of coin. But all the items she'd lost to get it would cost a considerable sum to replace. "Not rich enough," she muttered.

"You did keep the dragon from eating any more farmers' daughters. Maybe you could get one of those maidens as a reward."

"That's a great point!" She glowered. "Except that I'm a woman, and not attracted to the same."

Ares gulped and sputtered, "Sorry, Milady! I-I was only joking . . ."

"I know. I was just playing with you." But his jape had hit fairly close to home. After all, while her solid figure was not devoid of feminine curves, they hardly showed through her skull-themed black plate armor. Too, her attractive heart-shaped face was masked by a coat of grime which she could never rid herself of for long--a byproduct of constant travel and battle, she supposed. "Now let's get a fire started so we can sear my wound."

Now outside, they gathered a small heap of dead brush and sticks with which to fuel a flame. Mildy hissed as Ares removed her armor, cleaned her wound, and put his heated dagger to her side. He winced as he got a good look at the tear in her flesh. "That looks bad."

As if she didn't know that herself; her undershirt was soaked with blood. But at least the wound hadn't hit any vital organs. "I'm fine, I just need to sleep it off. You think we can make it to Tintagel if we leave tomorrow morning?"

"What's happening in Tintagel?"

"Tournament, remember?" She groaned as she remembered, "It'll be hell to get there without a horse, and I'm likely to end up riding another throwaway mount during the joust. Some great knight I'm turning out to be."

"You just slew a thirty-foot enemy of God." Ares indicated the fallen beast, which resembled a giant lizard with the posture of a great cat. "That's got to mean something, doesn't it?"

"The feat counts for little--even if I bring the thing's very head back as proof, they'll say I cut it off a corpse." The more respectable members of society took every chance to try and discredit Mildy. Even her defeat of Gawain in the last great tournament had largely been dismissed as a fluke, and shortly thereafter her bargain mare had died on her. Forced to drop out of the competition prematurely, she had lost a valuable chance to prove herself against the kingdom's elite. She might've had a better chance this time, if her prize steed hadn't gone up in flames.

"Do you have to go to the tournament? You're hurt."

"Of course I have to go. You know how tough it is for me to maintain my hard-earned reputation." What little she had of one, anyway. She had traveled and fought for years to uphold the ideals of chivalry, and still few treated her with more than reluctant tolerance, or at most grudging respect. Even that might easily be lost, if anyone thought she'd gone soft. "Besides, like you said it's only a scratch."

"All right. Don't worry, Milady, I'm sure you'll do great. Whatever they say about you, they can't take away the fact that you're a great knight!"

She smiled, happy to know somebody believed in her. "I try. Let's go prove those snobs wrong, then!"

#

Ares shook Mildy's shoulder, feeling somewhat guilty about disturbing her sleep. She had lost a lot of blood, and still looked paler than usual. He hoped he wouldn't do her harm by denying her the extra rest--but then, she'd asked him to wake her early. Leaving the marsh had taken as long as expected, and she of course wanted to make up for the delay. "Milady, wake up. We have to get going."

"Did you just call me Mildy?" she asked groggily as she opened her eyes. "You never do that."

"No, Milady, you must have misheard!"

She looked away and seemed to sigh. "I guess I was just dreaming . . ."

"Are you all right? You look a bit unwell."

"It's a bothersome wound, I'll admit. But it'll hardly kill me. How many more miles to Tintagel?"

"Sixty . . ."

She sighed, obviously wishing she had a horse, but assured him, "We can make it in time. We just have to push really hard for the next couple days, and we'll get there before the festivities begin."

"We barely made fifteen miles yesterday."

"We'll have to do better, then."

The two of them continued their journey, Ares admiring Mildy's determination though he doubted she could come close to winning the tournament in her wounded state. But she never backed down from anything, and had an impressive tolerance for pain. Admittedly, it seemed crazy to him for her to insist on competing with her injury--though hardly surprising, as she never showed any qualms about pushing her body to its limits.

Though considerably more reserved than his fearless mentor, Ares was similarly something of an outcast. He had been the black sheep of his family back home, excelling in nothing and regarded as worthless by his parents and older siblings. So he had decided to come to Britannia to prove his worth and win honor as a knight, only to find himself ill-prepared both physically and mentally even to begin learning that trade. But where every other knight had declined to take him under his wing, Mildy had agreed to train him. Though he still often felt weak and useless, he was grateful for the opportunity she'd given him.

In all honesty, the apparent futility of pursuing her personal ambitions had begun to wear on him. But he continued to encourage and support her as much as he could, even when it grew difficult to maintain a cheerful face. He owed her everything.

Late in the afternoon, they spotted a mounted traveler slowly making his way down the road. Ares noted the young man's bright, gaudy silks and wondered if he was a minstrel or performer of some kind, but it was what he led behind him which uplifted his spirit. "Look, Milady, he's got an extra horse! Maybe you could persuade him to sell it to you."

Taking his advice, Mildy approached the stranger. "May I purchase your spare mount? I'm in quite a hurry to get to Tintagel, and I've lost my own."

"How much money do you have?"

Not having anything substantial in the way of coin, Mildy showed him the sack she'd filled from the slain dragon's horde. "Would one of these do?"

"That gold armband looks like it would fetch a good price."

"No! It must be worth at least five of your horse. How about this necklace?"

"Bah, those gems are nothing but cheap quartz. But that circlet looks fine."

They negotiated for several minutes before coming to an impasse. The traveler demanded to at least be paid the silver-rimmed goblet Mildy held, and it was obvious that the half-starved gelding he offered for it was no even trade. So Mildy declined and walked on. "Milady," Ares said, "you needed that horse! Why didn't you take it?"

"That horse wasn't worth my goblet, and I wasn't about to get ripped off."

"Why didn't you just take it by force, then?" Despite the glamorous image knights loved to attribute to themselves, Ares had seen that many of them certainly weren't above robbing common folk. Sometimes, it seemed to him that chivalric honor was more about pride than actual morality, and he knew how much the tourney mattered to his master. Though he generally saw Mildy as a good person, the two of them had rarely engaged in deep talks over ethics, and he was curious as to her reasoning.

"No, that would be cruel. What if he needs the money to feed his family?"

"But if you're concerned about that, why didn't you buy the horse?"

"I won't stop him from making a living, but I won't be the sucker he robs, either. I'm poor enough, myself."

#

They didn't make distance as quickly Mildy had hoped, in part due to the heavy rain. The downpour began to turn the roads into rivers of mud early in the evening, and continued throughout what would have been the last day of the journey. Though they walked on, Mildy's wound throbbing like a stake in her side, it was impossible to avoid being slowed by the elements, and they found themselves traveling for a fourth day. She guessed now that she'd be the laughingstock of the field, if she even arrived in time to take part in the games. Maybe she should have bought that horse, unfair trade or not.

But her gloom fled when she saw the glint of an extremely well-polished suit of armor, and immediately recognized its brilliant silver coating. "Lance!" she yelled hoarsely, then cleared her throat and repeated herself loud enough to be heard.

Lancelot du Lac, or Lance as Mildy knew him, groaned in mock exasperation as he spotted her. "You're predictably late. And I thought you wanted to be respectable?"

Mildy ran to catch up to his horse, then waited for him to dismount and wrapped him in a friendly hug, both of them laughing at his faux animosity. Lance was nearly two decades older than Mildy, but he was her closest friend, as close as siblings. They didn't get to see each other nearly enough. "And you call me late?" she retorted cheerfully. "You're not even at the tourney ground yet, and you have a horse! Though I can tell you've been too busy shining up your armor, to think of punctuality."

A bit over forty years of age, golden-haired Lance looked no less than ten years younger, and with his dashing persona and immaculate appearance was the object of many a noble lady's affections. Somewhat oddly, he never responded to their advances in more than a courteous way. Mildy, for one, didn't share their desires; though they were best friends, she couldn't help suspecting there might be something queer about his attitude towards women--suspicions which had been heightened after hearing Ares' tales of certain behaviors among the nobility of his land.

"You can never underestimate the important of grooming," Lance said. He noticed the bloody rent in Mildy's armor. "You're wounded."

"Just a scratch. It was only a dragon's claw. Think we could share a ride, though?"

"A dragon's claw! So did you slay it?"

"I have the treasure to prove it."

He patted the back of his aged bay gelding, the dignified animal not quite bearing the weight of years as well as his rider. "Anyway, get on. Old Fleetfoot here can handle you, you little thing."

She didn't consider one hundred sixty pounds to be that little, as she weighed almost as much as Lance himself. But Sir Lamorak rode a horse, and he was as big as both of them put together. Of course, his mount was gigantic as well. Still, tall Fleetfoot should be able to hold out for a short ride. Climbing up behind Lance, she beamed, "We're going to make it!"

"We can't all fit up there," Ares reminded her, "so we're not getting there any faster like this."

"Sure we can, if we leave you behind."

He stared. "Milady?"

"You can catch up. We're only, what, fifteen miles away?"

"But what about bandits and the like?"

Mildy trusted that Ares would be able to take care of himself after all she'd taught him. She smiled and patted him on the head. "You'll be fine. I have to go, alright?"

"You believe in yourself, lad," Lance added.

"Err . . . okay."

Ares sounded none too confident, and Mildy tried to boost his morale. She teased with a grin, "Who did you say you were named after again?"

"The Greek god of war. But that doesn't mean-"

"Well, I trained you, and I say you have his spirit. So do me proud, and show me you're made of the stuff knights are."

"But Ares is a cowardly god . . ."

That certainly wasn't the attitude an aspiring knight should have. Mildy urged Lance to go on, leaving him behind. Hopefully, a few hours on the road alone would force a bit more courage into his spine. A short while later, Lance said, "That wasn't very nice."

She shrugged. "Tough love, right?"

"Tough love gets squires killed, when their knights bring them into battle before they're ready."

"He's not in a battle, he's on a road."

"You know what I mean."

Mildy scowled behind his back. "I hear the Green Knight will be at Tintagel."

Lance grunted. "That devil never falls off his horse. I bet he's going to win the whole thing."

"There's always a first time."

Elbowing her lightly on her uninjured side, he laughed. "Silly girl. You're far too ambitious for your own good."

"I beat Gawain, and no one thought I could. Not to mention Meleagant . . ." She patted her fearsome armor, taken from the dark warrior after beating him in a roadside challenge and most unexpectedly ridding the kingdom of one of its greatest menaces.

It was that deed which had won her a reluctantly granted baronial title from King Arthur, who now seemed to regret it as she used it and a forceful demeanor to get herself onto the lists at every knightly competition she could. If only it had been fatherly concern, and not fear for his knights' reputations, which inspired that regret . . .

"Well, you're damn lucky," Lance said.

Mildy playfully raised her chin, taking on a haughty air. "No, I'm King Arthur's daughter. He had a great destiny and so did his father--why not me?"

"Because you're not his real daughter, maybe?" Even her best friend didn't believe that one.

She had been found abandoned as an infant, and raised in an orphanage with no knowledge of her parentage. But on the night of shedding her first womanly blood, God had revealed to her in a dream that she was a princess of Camelot. She had left the nunnery determined to prove her vision true, but wherever she searched, she could find no concrete evidence for her claim. Almost a decade ago, she had settled upon convincing the world of her truth by building herself a legend worthy of her blood.

Of course, all her deeds thus far had not been enough to bring her acceptance by society's upper echelon, and she knew that even if it was acknowledged Arthur was her father, she would still be a bastard. But it would be a start, and perhaps he would then take her under his wing, seeing as he had no heirs. Besides, she would have no purpose if she abandoned her goal.

"Like I care what you say. I am Arthur's daughter!"

Lance looked back at her. "And just who do you say is your mother, then?"

Unable to answer, Mildy sat there in silence. At last, she figured out what she should say. "A faerie!" she joked.

#

They arrived together to mixed cheers (for Lance) and jeers (for Mildy) at the tourney grounds, the next event already close to beginning as they hurried to the waiting area. They'd already missed the archery, spear-throwing, ring-spearing, boxing, and wrestling competitions, and Mildy still didn't have a horse. But procuring one could wait, as the joust was the final event.

Mildy looked up at the roaring mass of the audience and felt a mix of disappointment and relief that her father was absent. Arthur was away on diplomatic matters, and Mildy would not have to face the turmoil his presence caused inside her. Still, the stands were packed with nobility from all over the isles, and she would have plenty of opportunity to impress today.

She gnashed her teeth in scorn as she noticed the tightly corseted gowns and oversized headdresses the fashionable ladies wore. She saw no appeal in such cumbersome attire, and imagined that men only liked them for the physical helplessness they imposed upon women. One could hardly do anything in those prisons of heavy fabric! Among these shackled women was Arthur's wife Guinevere, who Mildy noticed flashing a coy smile at Lance as he rode by. The blonde queen was small, soft-spoken, and frail, the very ideal of feminine gentility and grace. Lance gave no response beyond a polite nod, for which Mildy was glad. What was there to admire in someone content in being weak?

Tall and imposing in his golden armor, her cousin Gawain gazed down at her as she passed him. "Crazy wench."

She stopped and turned, looking up to stare him dead in the eye. "That you lost to," she said cooly before walking on. The jab displaced a bit of the commentary at her expense to her cousin, and Mildy smiled as she took her spot to await the melee. But despite her confident demeanor, she felt uneasy beneath the stares of participants and audience alike and worried that she might do poorly in the few remaining contests. She was a good fighter, but anyone could have a bad day--and for her, a bad showing might do more damage than to most.

Next to her, Lance flashed her a grin. "That shut him up."

"It was nice. Not as nice as when I beat him again."

"I bet they'd all love you if you were a man." It sounded almost paradoxical in her ears. "Stupid brutes, can't they recognize a wonderfully special thing when they see it?"

"They look at Ares like he's a damn faerie, too. Guess that's why I have to try so hard to prove myself all the time, and yet whatever respect I earn never really sticks . . ."

Though she knew he loved her company during events like this, Lance asked unselfishly, "If you're so dissatisfied with being a knight, why don't you give it up and reinvent yourself as a proper lady? I'm sure plenty of knights would still find you comely, all scars aside."

"No, I like being a knight, even if no one but you and Ares respects what I do. The sense of accomplishment after every victory I achieve, I'd give up for nothing. Besides, I'll win them over someday."

Looking at them over all the other knights' heads, the black-bearded giant Lamorak said, "I respect you. You gave that Meleagant the thrashing he deserved, and I'm glad for it. He needed some putting in his place."

Mildy chuckled. Lamorak would have respected a rat if it could fight. As she heard his name called, she wondered bemusedly who would be his first opponent--victim--and hoped it would be Gawain. The arrogant favorite of her father did need another beating. Unfortunately for her, the next name called was her own.

"Damn, Lance, looks like my luck's cursed as always. Pray for me?" It was only half jape; Lamorak had inadvertently killed five opponents in tourney over the years and crippled more than a handful more. With his immense strength and preference for large axes, getting hit by him could easily prove catastrophic. He wasn't known for holding back.

"Good luck, Mildy!" Lance said with a smile. Mildy walked out into the bright sun, hoping that God heard her silent prayer. She was in trouble already!

#

Ares was lost. Stupid! He'd heard what he took for the screams of a maiden in distress, and had tried to live up to Mildy's high expectations by attempting to follow them. But not only hadn't he been able to locate the source of the now stopped sounds, he couldn't even find his way back to the road. The shadows played over the forest floor, in his mind like hungry wraiths dancing between worlds. Yet more fearsome still were the real dangers Ares knew might lurk too nearby.

He felt like a joke for having screwed up so quickly. Fifteen miles, and he couldn't make it without getting in trouble. Had his family been right in doubting the wisdom of his journey abroad? He hoped he wouldn't starve to death or get eaten out here. Suddenly, he heard movement and bristled, drawing his trusty shortsword. Though Mildy had instructed him in the use of weapons supposedly more suited to a knight, he couldn't bring himself to give up the one he'd first been trained with.

"Come here, laddie," called a soft, lyrical voice.

He knew not what was speaking to him, but thought it might be something dangerous and tried to run away. In his haste, his ability to determine the sound's direction failed him, and he almost tripped over the body of a ravishing young lady with oddly pointed ears in the brush below. The scent of sweet flowers floated up into his nostrils.

Crying out in surprise as he noticed her, he saw a red line along the top of her small breasts, and concern overrode his fear as he knelt to look at the wound. It wasn't deep at all, and had only bled slightly before clotting sealed it. "Can you walk?"

Looking up with unfocused eyes, she said, "No, can't . . . move," and shuddered. Realizing how pale she was even for a fair woman, he touched her forehead and found her hot with fever. What? Did she have another wound? But he didn't see any.

"What happened to you?"

"Cut . . . fire inside . . ."

Poison? It seemed unlikely that someone would resort to poison to murder such a delicate looking woman, especially poison delivered on a blade. But this was no time for questions; he had to concentrate on helping her. He lifted her in his strong though slim arms, and found her quite light compared to the loads Mildy made him lift. Now, he just had to find his way back to the road . . .

It was only as he made to leave that he noticed the blackened skeletons partially hidden in the brush. With a yelp he sped away, his burden nearly forgotten in his arms.

#

Covered in sweat after three minutes of intense combat, Mildy shouldered Lamorak back and braced for his next charge. She grunted as his axe grazed her new shield and wedged for a moment inside the good oak face, then struck back with her three-headed flail just as he jerked his blade free. The heavy balls caught his axe below the head, tearing it from his hand.

"Yield!" she demanded as he flexed sore fingers. She smiled with anticipation as victory seemed to float closer to her grasp . . . then Lamorak's massive iron gauntlet blasted into her face, knocking her sprawling to the ground. The knight known for his ability to lift an iron portcullis held back none of his strength, and though Mildy was glad for the respect that showed, she was less happy about her split lips.

Snatching his axe back up, Lamorak advanced on her as she stumbled to her feet. But despite her pain Mildy grinned, more confident than at the beginning of the fight. He was stronger than her, certainly, but not unmanageably so; she was quicker and more agile, and very strong for her size. Plus, her unusual fighting style seemed to confound him, and his main defense against it consisted of backpedaling out of reach.

She loved her flail; while it wasn't as good for parrying or blocking as many other weapons, neither was it easy to defend against. Furthermore, her left-handedness only made defense even harder for most of her opponents, seeing as right-handed fighters were far more common and thus familiar. For Mildy, it was all about offense. Strike fast, strike hard, and win.

Lamorak was hardly ready to quit, and rushed her again with an unexpectedly rapid flurry of slices. He landed a graze from his unsharpened axe which nonetheless put a small dent in her armor, then dropped into a crouch to lash out at her legs. Too dangerous . . . she leapt over the sweeping slash and spun into a roundhouse kick to Lamorak's head. Amazingly, it failed to knock him down, and with a bellow he rose and threw an uppercut like an exploding volcano, catching Mildy solidly on her chin.

A collective ooh came from the crowd at the blow which could have felled a bull, but though Mildy stumbled back and windmilled her arms weakly as if about to fall, it was mostly a feint. As Lamorak swung his axe once more, she smacked it aside with her flail. She followed up with an elbow and then a hard shield blow to his head, staggering him, then hooked her leg behind his calf and tripped him to the ground. Planting her foot on his chest, she raised her flail high. "I yield," he said, his eyes wide.

Mildy replaced her flail in her belt, then bent to help her opponent up and felt the ground seem to undulate beneath her feet. He'd hit her really hard, but she tried not to show it, blinking in an attempt to clear her head. "Well fought, Lady Mildred," he said as he shook her hand. He frowned at her limp grip, and realizing she was hurt let her be. She made herself disappear, limping from the audience's sight. If she fainted, it wouldn't do for them to see.

Making it to Lance's side, she fell-sat next to him. "Are you well, Mildy?"

She nodded, swaying unsteadily. "I will be once my head clears. Don't mind me, concentrate on your fight. You do want to face me in the finals, right?"

"Too bad Ares missed that bout. You were great. Never thought you could beat Lamorak."

She gave his legs a weak shove and asked in an insulted tone, "You didn't think so?! He may be big and strong, but I've beaten much bigger. Dragonslayer, remember?"

Lance shrugged. "You looked like a wolf fighting a bear out there. I really didn't expect your punches to affect him as much as they did. What are you made of?"

"Fey blood. I'm a magical being, remember? I could beat or seduce any man whenever I want . . . Seriously, though, he'd surely beat me if we were to arm wrestle. Though maybe not too quickly."

"Still amazing."

"Yeah, yeah. It's not so amazing when you think of all the crap I've been through, of course I had to toughen up to survive. So did you see any good horses not ridden by one of the knights, who its owner might lend out for a fee?" There were plenty of nobles around who'd brought their mounts, and she hoped to rent one that had been trained for combat for the joust. Hopefully, this one wouldn't die on her.

"The Duke of Gence is here. He broke his arm last month in a sparring accident and can't compete, but came as a spectator on his prize warhorse Wraith. If you could land him, there wouldn't be a knight in the tourney with a better steed."

Not bad at all. Duke Rofin was hardly a supporter of hers, but she expected to be able to goad him. He would want to see her humbled by the true knights, but she would have to fight for that to happen. "I'll go talk to him after the melee."

The announcer's shout brought them back to the present. "For the last time, will Lancelot du Lac come to the arena?"

His eyes widening, Lance rose hurriedly and darted outside. Mildy giggled, and knights stared at the unrestrainedly girly sound. But she hardly noticed, curling around the sudden pang in her side.

#

"And the champion of the melee, Mildred . . . Pendragon!"

"Nobody buys it," Lance whispered into her ear as she accepted her trophy.

"Shut up!" Mildy raised her heavy golden chalice high into the air with one arm, ignoring the sting in her flank. "I don't know how I'll ever beat that Green Knight in the joust. He doesn't go down!" Well, he had in the melee, but only after five consecutive flail hits to his armored body. Even then, he'd yielded on his knees.

Lance nodded. "He is certainly a freak. What about you? You drew a pretty bad set of opponents, and you came through all right."

That was true. Lamorak, Ywain, Bors, and the Green Knight had been among her opponents, and she'd beaten them all. She only wished she could've fought Lance as well--he'd lost to the Green Knight in the semifinals. "And you still doubt my lineage," she chided him with a smile.

"It looked to me like you won because you're strong, skilled, fast, have an odd style, and don't know when to stay down. You're so bruised you can barely move, aren't you?"

"Yes," she admitted, "and my side's killing me, but it was more than worth it. But where the hell is Ares?!" She was getting worried, and a little annoyed he hadn't been here to see her victory. "He better not be lying on the roadside with his throat slit by bandits . . ."

"I'd say I told you so, except it's a bit too serious of a situation for mockery."

She cupped her hands over her face and groaned. "Oh God, Lance, what have I done? I promised him I'd teach him to be a knight, not a corpse!"

Lance patted her shoulder. "Relax, he's probably not dead. Bet he's just lost."

"Milady!" Ares yelled from a ways off, running onto the field. "Milady, help!"

"Hold this," she said, shoving her trophy into Lance's arms, and limped to meet her squire. He was carrying a tiny woman in a nearly transparent white gown, who smelled faintly of flowers. "You brought a faerie out of the forest?!"

"Is that what she is?"

Mildy sighed and reminded herself that Ares was foreign, not stupid. Ignoring the muttering of the knights and audience, she examined the limp woman. The poor thing was so delicate, the little cut on her chest seemed to have her struggling for life. Not that it made sense; the wound had barely cut the skin let alone into flesh, literally a scratch. "Let's set up the tent, and get a better look at her inside."

#

Mildy really didn't get it. Why wasn't the woman waking up, and why was she so pale? She carefully examined the tiny body from head to toe, checking for any other injuries that might be the cause of her unresponsiveness, but found nothing. "Ares, do you have any idea what's wrong with her?"

"Maybe she's sick. She said something about fire inside . . ."

"Poison?" Not that it was likely, but . . .

"That's what I thought too, but why would anybody poison her?"

Who would? Mildy could probably snap her neck--or back for that matter--like a twig, even if the woman was conscious and able to defend herself. She doubted too many people would be unable to overpower her if they intended to kill her, unless . . . "Maybe she has dangerous magical powers, or the person who tried to kill her was another weak faerie."

"That could be. So what are we going to do?"

"I don't know." She had no idea what really ailed the woman, and for now could only let her rest and hope she would recover on her own. "You stay here and take care of her, and I'll go and finish the tourney. Maybe you can find her a healer, if she doesn't start getting better."

"Who's going to hand you your lances?"

"Don't worry. I'm sure the queen of the melee can find some enthusiastic boy willing to render his services."

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Without too much difficulty, Mildy was able to talk Duke Rofin into lending her his great black charger for the joust, and to her surprise his squire volunteered to attend her. She defeated Sir Bolide and Sir Arant, two relatively unknown knights from southern Britannia, and then faced off as she hoped against Lance. Her friend lived up to his name and gave her a great contest, but though neither of them managed to unseat the other, Mildy won on points and advanced.

She made it to the semifinal round where she faced Lamorak once again, but this time she eventually lost, her weary body at last unable to hold its seat against the titanic force of his charge. Borne straight out of her saddle by his lance in her midsection, Mildy was almost knocked out by the impact and spent close to a minute on her back in the dust, catching her breath. From the wetness on her side, she knew the blow had reopened the gash in her flank.

But she wasn't too disappointed; at least she'd won one event, and seen defeat at the hands of one of the best. In the end, Lamorak gained ultimate victory, hitting the Green Knight so hard it tore his saddle off his horse and dumped the invincible warrior to the ground in spite of his uncanny resilience.

In truth, she felt strangely comforted by her defeat at Lamorak's hands. She didn't enjoy losing or the pain that had come with it, but did appreciate the respect he had shown her. He had held back none of his strength in either of their fights, as if he understood what she needed. She wanted no man to show her deference for any perceived feminine weakness. Warrior that she was, she had little desire for that kind of advantage.

Mildy returned the Duke's warhorse and dragged herself back to her tent, a curious Lance following behind as she went to check on her guest. She found Ares waiting with a smile. "She woke up!" he exclaimed. "She's still a little weak, but I think she'll be okay. Lady Adene, this is my Lady Mildred and her friend Sir Lancelot du Lac."

Adene looked up--at Lance. Mildy noticed the flowery smell was almost completely gone. "I've heard of you, and I'm thankful to be in the care of such a fine knight." Mildy frowned at the faerie's attention towards her friend. Seeing her expression, Adene added, "I never knew there were female knights, considering how women are unsuited to combat. Are you any good?"

She almost showed her skills in painful manner, but Lance quickly answered, "She's very good. Mildred is one of the most accomplished young knights in Europe, and just won the melee against the kingdom's best."

"Maybe the two of you could help me, then."

"With what?" Mildy asked quickly. She was eager for a new quest.

"I come from a hidden glen nestled in the forest, where we all thought we would be safe from the outside world. But then a man came, a huge marauder clad in iron who delighted in bringing us suffering and death. Our charms had no effect on the evil one, and as we are peaceful creatures, we were no match in battle for his blade.

"So we tried to run, but he hunted us down, and I believe I am the last survivor of my family. I sought refuge in another village of my relatives, but the terror came there as well and slaughtered them. You have to stop him, before he takes more innocent lives!"

Mildy's teeth clenched in anger at the thought of a man who dared to massacre women and children, but she was also a bit confused. "How did one man kill everyone in your villages?"

"We do not live in large settlements like you humans. Our villages often consist of one extended family each; due to our magic, we are not normally vulnerable to outside attack. But somehow . . ."

So someone had overcome their wards. But a warrior who specialized in killing faeries? Mildy wondered what motivation such a man would have for choosing his targets. "I'll help you deal with this villain. Where do you think he'll strike next?"

Adene took a deep breath, her ribs showing through her thin skin. "I don't know. There are many glens, and I know not his destination. But I'm glad a warrior as mighty as you is willing to help our cause. Goodbye, and thank you, Lady Mildred."

The woman closed her eyes then, shuddering slightly, and took her last breath. A profound stillness settled over her form, and to everyone's shock her skin and flesh began to melt away. First the muscles were exposed, then the vital organs, and then there was nothing left but bone, which turned swiftly black. Frightened by the change which had come to the faerie in death, Mildy hesitantly reached out and touched the skeleton. At the brush of her fingertips it crumbled into dust, which blew away into the air despite the lack of wind inside the tent and disappeared as if it had never existed.