"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."

THIS NOTE AND DISCLAIMER APPLY TO EVERY CHAPTER!

Note: Any historic or cultural references that you may find in this story, particularly of the Sarmatian people, have been carefully researched and bear as much truth as I could divine through my efforts. If, for any reason, such references are false and I did not disclaim them at the end of that chapter, feel free to inform me and provide me with the correct information, with a reference if possible. No knowledge is ever useless.

Disclaimer: Copyright of King Arthur belongs only to Touchstone and Jerry Bruckheimer. No plagiarism or copyright infringement is intended. I own all rights to Isolde except for her name, and that includes the plotline for this story. I do not own the myth of Tristan and Isolde. All unfamiliar knights and other characters belong to me, and are not to be borrowed or used in any way without my consent.


Peace of Mind

MUSE…

The grass rippled in waves that shimmered gold in the afternoon sunlight. Isolde stood in the middle of the rolling plains, the steppes that her clan called home. A white mare eyed her suspiciously from its place in front of her, defiantly fierce-tempered.

Suddenly the sky darkened with heavy clouds. Lightning flashed, striking the ground between girl and horse, and Isolde was blinded. When her vision cleared, the mare had turned black, surrounded by fire.

Isolde cried out to the horse to jump, but the roar of thunder drowned out her voice as the gods warred. The dying, maddened beast let out a whinny, full of wrenching pain. The lightening struck again, and she lay still.

"No!" Isolde shouted, the wind carrying her anguish to the heavens as she realized she was alone in this sudden hell.

"Batraz!"

Isolde Beleri sat up on her pallet, wakened by her shout. She touched her fingers to eyes wet with tears. Her body was drenched in cold sweat, she realized as she calmed her rapid breathing.

"Izzy?" her younger brother blinked sleepily at her from the pallet next to hers.

"It's alright Arshak, it was just a night terror. Go back to sleep." He put his head back down and was soon slumbering peacefully.

Isolde had no such luck and was left to ponder the dream. Could it have been a message? She'd never had a horse named Batraz. The name had history, if it referred to the great warrior who rode with the Nart brothers. It had all started out so serene, so beautiful, but it had all faded away to an ugliness too evil to comprehend.

She worried the dream until sleep claimed her, but she lay restless all night long. She would do well to find happiness in her peace, for a time would soon come when it would shatter to reveal the horror within.


Two weeks later…

ISOLDE…

I leaned down to pluck a flower from its resting place. The first of spring, I thought. It wasn't the loveliest time of year to be a nomad on the plains, but winter's thaws had left the ground fertile and full of potential. That potential began to show in the small green sprouts that burst forth from the earth and flourished with the nourishment that the sun and rain provided.

Gathering flowers, while enjoyable, was not a practical use of my time. I was sent to patrol, but there hadn't been a problem since the time I was only four years, when rebels attacked Roxolani clans across our territory, which spanned the area between the Dniepr and the Don. So I wandered, picking blossoms and decapitating unseen enemies with an invisible sword.

Battle was a glorious mystery to me, in a way that very little else is to a fifteen-year-old Sarmatian woman. My theories of romance and idealisms were figments of my innocence, for I was at the age where young girls become young women, and discover themselves and their place in life.

But it wasn't killing people that appeals to me. The art that is killing was something to perfect, a challenge. Frankly, bloodshed fascinated me.

I twirled a lock ofgolden hair 'round my finger, thinking. The day before, Gatalas, son of Ariantes, had stolen a kiss from me. At sixteen, he was handsome, and still retained the arrogant immortality of youth.

Dazed by his forwardness, I hadn't known whether to kiss him back or berate him for taking the liberty in the first place. Of course I declined when he offered me a place in his bed; among our people, I am still a girl until I have killed a man in battle, and must be untouched and whole until the deed has been carried out. But when he asked permission to court me, I could and did accept.

I could be happy, sharing his bed and being his wife, I thought. My family certainly welcomed the match when we told them that night. This was partly because his father owned several well-bred warhorses, a tribute to his skill in battle and something he passed on to his son. But it was also because he, of the few young men left in the area, was the one I chose, and my family promised that they want most for me to find happiness.

Gatalas and I were playmates since we were in swaddling, and we were close, even closer than family. I had fancied him for years; first as the shy fondness of babes, and later as a girl looks at a boy, with a future in sight. I might even say I loved him, in my way.

A wild cry pulled me out of my fantasies, and I looked back toward my village. Thick, black smoke rose from behind the hill, where we settled a month before. I barely registered what it is I saw before I took off at a sprint. My legs pumped wildly, feet slapping the ground and heart hammering at my ribcage as I ran. Behind me, petals drifted lazily to the ground, carried by the sweet spring breeze.


No.

I saw many tracks, those of horses and of men, and their slim, deadly arrows in the ground, leading back toward the Hunnish territories. They must have come past me, through the area that I should have been patrolling, while I was daydreaming about my first kiss. Stupid fool, I thought. I should have been alert. I shouldn't have left my post.

Khors protect my family, and strike me down should I be unable to save them, for it is my doing that they are in danger…

The destruction was profound. I ghosted through the wreckage of my clan, my life. There was Ariantes, Gatalas' father. And there a body was sprawled on the ground, burned to a blackened husk and hardly recognizable, but I saw Gatalas' prized knives clutched in the shriveled, bloody hands.

Ah, Gatalas, my sweetheart, my betrothed. We would have been happy together. Now you will be happy in Sad's domain, without me.

My fault.

There was my mother, Amage, her throat cut and gaping, her eyes wide, unseeing. My father, too, lay before me, felled by an arrow as he tried to protect my mother. My older sister, Alathea, raped and murdered. Every hut was burning, smouldering into nothingness. Even the half-wild dogs that frequented our territory lay on the ground to rot. Everything dead. Everyone slaughtered.

My fault.

A head once full of golden hair, now red and bloody. The bastards scalped my little brother Arshak, the only otherblonde member of our clan. Gone. All gone. Because of me.

My fault.

My fault they died.

I deserve their fate.

And the one thought that prevailed – I will make them suffer for what they have done.

I repeated the mantra in my head, feeling the numbing lethargy spread throughout my body. Dazed, I knelt and picked up Arshak's little body, rocking him as though he was only asleep. As though he might wake up. Never again.

My fault.

My gaze alighted on the beaten path leading back to the Huns. My anger formed a terrible core, shaping itself into the arrow that would pierce the hearts of those evil men. Something inside me tightened unbearably, and then exploded in a wrenching howl of absolute misery, a heartrending mixture of guilt, hatred, and passionate grief.

As the sound died away, I began to sing softly, my broken voice reciting the lullaby that my mother used to soothe me with after a night terror.

Au! Au! Zhihar da, Kav da!

Zhiv da, v noza. Mi ta, mi nogam.

Kala ndi. Indi! Yaku tash, ma Bi tash.

O Kuto! Mi, mi nu, Van! Zidi ma!

The song spoke of mermaids, but my heart was too heavy for such fantasies. I lapsed into silence, unaware of anything but my own silent pain, and the burning need for revenge that grew within me.

I don't know how long I sat, unmoving, with my grief wrapped snugly 'round my shoulders like a cloak, my brother's blood soaking into my tunic. But I know it was dark when the dizzy roaring in my head became too much, and I slumped to the ground.

I lay there for two full days, hoping, praying to die. I called out to my gods to take their vengeance on me, to strike me down for my treason. The misery crept into my bones as I realized that they sought retribution in a different fashion, a much more horrible way.

They let me live.


When the fires had burned out, I took up a knife and gathered my hair in one hand, cutting it with a single stroke of the blade. My mourning was now clear to all who would look upon me henceforth.

For three days I moved mechanically, salvaging the usable items from the wreckage of the village, living off of the tough jerky used on long hunts, and precious little there was of that. Only two of the huts yet stood, and I used them for shelter from the chilly winds that swept the decimated camp at night.

I armed myself with my sword, given me by my father, and the knives Gatalas was once so proud of. I took my bow and two-handed kontos, carved to match. They were made for me by my uncle for my fifteenth birthday. Not once did I cry – I was simply unable to, even if I tried. I was almost used to the emptiness inside. The numbness protected me, at least.

The sound of hooves pounding the ground reached my ears. My surprise was faint, as all of my emotions were in that dark time. The raiders had returned, though I didn't expect them to, and I wouldn't let them take me without a fight.

"Spread out. See if there are any survivors." A Roman? A traitor. A so-called ally in league with the enemy.

Footsteps sounded on the other side of the half-destroyed hut where I crouched. I gripped the knife tightly in my hand, fingering the dragon engraved in the hilt. He reached out to pull aside the flap of the tent. Growling like a rabid animal, I launched myself at the desecrator of my clan, bowling him over.

I recovered my balance rapidly and drove my knife down toward his throat. Shouts of alarm dimly penetrated my unleashed rage, but I paid them no mind. He grabbed my wrist and fought to keep the deadly point from his neck.

All death is certain… the maxim came unbidden to the surface of my thoughts. So close… I could almost smell his death; see the blood spurting from the severed artery.

"I'm – trying to – help." He managed in my own tongue, and my eyes widened.

"Traitor!" I shrieked, slamming his head against the ground.

Pain exploded in my temple. I reeled back, dropping the knife. The world was suddenly hazy, and a blurry face came into view. The mouth moved, but the ringing in my ears was too loud. Darkness overcame me, and I was still.


I woke to find the sway of a horse beneath me.

Raiders.

Clan dead.

Grief. Unbelievable pain.

I became aware of two things at once – the arms around my waist that held me upright in the saddle, and the nearly unbearable throbbing in my head.

The gait of the horse jolted my head, and I tensed and groaned aloud, despite my best efforts to keep quiet.

"Sir! Captain, she's awake!" The person holding me shouted, and I cringed. A man should be shot for making such a racket.

The motion stopped, and I felt myself being lifted down and laid on the grass. A gentle hand smoothed my hair away from my face. Several faces peered down at me in concern.

"Who are you, girl?" One man demanded, and I could see that he was Roman by the insignia on his chest and what I always liked to refer to as the "please shoot me" uniform, complete with the conspicuous scarlet plume on the helmet resting on his hip. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

"Get some water," he commanded one of his men. A moment later cool liquid spilled over my parched lips, and I gulped at it greedily. When the water skin was pulled away, I protested weakly.

"That's enough for now," he said. "I am Captain Marcus Tullius of Rome. What is your name? How did you come to be in that place?" he asked.

"I am Isolde, daughter of Beler. That place was my village." I said in Sarmatian, while one of the men translated it into Latin for his Roman superior. While I knew the language passably well, I was much more comfortable in my native Sarmatian.

The Roman looked somewhat taken aback. I frowned. Why was it so hard for him to believe that I had survived?

"What happened to your people?"

"Raiders," I said shortly. The blackness of grief was too great and far too near to say more.

"How did you escape? Were there any other survivors? I saw none."

I resigned myself to the impending interrogation. "I was on patrol. When I returned, everyone was dead, the village burning. I left the bodies and took what I could use. I couldn't save them." My voice was flat and stony, detached, but despite my control, it wavered. Numb, I remembered. I have to stay numb. I compacted my grief, my guilt and anger, tucking it into a terrible knot in my chest.

"Where did these raiders go? Is there any danger?" He asked.

"Not to you. But they'd best watch their own backs." The dark-haired one next to me raised an eyebrow, and I could feel the strange glint that came into my eyes, a bloodthirsty look, and my blood ran cold for a moment. "They went northeast, into the hills. Hun territory."

"They were Huns?" His surprise was evident. "Why would Huns attack a Sarmatian tribe?"

I suddenly realized that with the exception of three or four grown Romans, the rest of the riders were Sarmatian boys. Recruits, no doubt, for the Roman army. Most looked to be between 10 and 16 years of age.

"Who else would attack us? Romans?" I sneered, and I swear I saw him flinch. "Of course not - they're too busy taking young boys from their people to consider terrorizing the lowly Roxolani."

His face darkened slightly. "Watch your tongue, girl," he warned. "Lancelot, she'll continue to ride with you. We ride out, and tonight we will discuss what to do with her." Marcus commanded. The company mounted up.

"Sir!" I said sharply in Latin. "Let me go, let me take my revenge on the raiders and restore my honor, and that of my family and my clan." I lifted my chin.

The Roman turned and said dismissively, "Nonsense. What could a single girl do against armed raiders? You'd only get yourself killed."

And what if I want that to be the way of it, you cocky bastard? I wanted to say.

As the boy called Lancelot lifted me into the saddle and climbed up after me, I cried out in despair. "You must let me go!"

He mounted his horse, paying me no mind. Lancelot gathered the reins in front of me, and was that sympathy etched on several faces? I thought it was, and I turned my own away. I did not want their pity.

"Move out!"


We rode until nightfall. In the shadow of the hills we camped, lighting fires to ward off the chill that still lingered in the air. Our fare was simple and plain, as soldier's rations are wont to be, coarse bread and jerked meat.

When they offered me food, my first instinct was to refuse. Lancelot persisted until the need for nourishment overrode my grief. I found that I was both ravenous and terribly thirsty, after going five days with what could hardly pass as food or drink.

I was given two full servings when they saw how hungry I was. I didn't know or care who gave up their dinner to see me fed, but instead turned all of my attention to my food to keep my mind off other cares that were sure to drive me mad with guilt and anger.

I realized that I am all but under guard here, for one of them was with me at all times, and I was kept away from the Romans. When I asked about my weapons, the boys skillfully evaded the question. The Romans obviously didn't trust me, and well they shouldn't. Besides, no doubt they all thought me insane after I attacked one of their own without provocation or explanation.

I was sitting by a fire with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, staring wordlessly into the orange flames and feeling very much alone when Captain Tullius approached me.

He greeted me but received no response. I tried to ignore him, but he continued to prompt me.

"You can use a sword, girl?" He asked. I nodded without taking my eyes from the fire. "A bow?" Knives?" I nodded twice more.

"You had a spear with you. Can you use that as well?" I threw a questioning gaze his way. He mimed throwing. My current guard, a boy no more than 12 years old, offered, "A kontos, sir?"

Again I nodded my assent, and he pounded the dirt with a fist in frustration.

"By God, wench, I know you aren't a mute! Why won't you speak?"

I glared at him coldly until he looked away. Then I spoke in Sarmatian. The poor boy was left to translate, but sputtered and looked at me incredulously. "You want me to say that?"

I jerked my head toward the officer and repeated my words for him.

"Is it not utterly obvious to you?" I said. "You seek to deprive me of any chance of regaining my honor. My family would be churning in their graves at this injustice – had they any graves in the first place." My tone turned mocking. "Does the great Roman Empire allow murderers to roam free?"

His face had turned a rather extraordinary shade of puce, but I continued, acting thoughtful as I released my fury through sarcasm, the only way my distant manner would allow. "Or is it just that you, sir, are an amazingly pompous Roman ass who trembles in his boots at the mere thought of these rogue Huns?"

By this time, several of the boys had gathered around us. A sturdy boy with curly brown hair who I'd not yet met stifled a guffaw by staging a coughing fit.

The commander's cheeks burned with embarrassment at the insult in front of his charges, and he roared and backhanded me. My cheek stung from the force of the blow as I picked myself up off the ground, livid and daring him to strike me again. When he raised his fist to repeat the action, Lancelot, who seemed to be the leader of the Sarmatian band, gripped his wrist.

"Control yourself. Captain." He said, his tone frosty. The other boys had shifted imperceptibly to form a protective circle around the three of us.

The man took a step back from the steel in his voice.

"Bitch," he spat out, glowering at me. "I was regretting our decision, but you deserve your fate." Before he turned to walk away, he looked back at me. The malice in his eyes made me shudder involuntarily.

"Your clan shall pay their dues. Consider yourself conscripted. Welcome to the Roman cavalry, to be posted in Britain – hell itself, some say. May you rot in it."


"Bastards! Damned, fucking bastards!" An older boy ranted. "They've all but dominated our territories and destroyed our men, now they'll take our women as well!"

The Sarmatians had gathered to discuss this new development. I was still in a state of shock. I knew what I was in store for. Fifteen years of servitude, doing Rome's dirty work. My father had served, and he saw horrors that he could never share with me, even when I begged him until he lifted me onto his lap, him being a giant of a man and I a slip of a girl, and told me a story, and I could never tell if they were true or false but I loved them nonetheless…

No.

I stood suddenly. My head was swirling with memories, and right then, memories were the last thing I needed. The guilt stabbed at the place my heart should have been, over and over and over again.

The others looked at me as I walked swiftly away. A hand caught my wrist, and I looked back at Lancelot.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm not going anywhere. Where would I go? I'm conscripted now." I laughed bitterly, but to my horror it caught and mangled in my throat, emerging as a sob. I turned on my heel and left them, fading into the darkness.

I stopped on the other side of the rise. Sobs racked my body, but no tears came. My stomach rebelled and emptied its contents onto the ground. I felt myself shaking in reaction and I just knew they could all hear me in my disgrace and my moment of weakness.

I felt a presence then, and jerked up, prepared to flee. It was the boy I'd seen lurking around the edges of the group, whom I had labeled the loner, perhaps a year older than me, silhouetted against the starry sky.

I wiped my mouth. "Come to laugh at me, then? The poor orphan girl, whose tragedies were brought upon her by her own foolish doings."

The nausea came again, and when it passed I found the boy standing next to me and tentatively rubbing my back, in an effort to comfort me, I supposed. Just as my mother did when I got into her healing herbs that day so long ago…

I recoiled from him, curling up on the ground and hugging my knees miserably, the sharp scent of vomit lingering in my nose. I felt as though my head might explode with the memories, the terrible gaping hole in my chest, the guilt.

"It was me, you know." The words escaped before I realized what I was saying. The boy said nothing, simply waiting for me to get it out. "It was my fault they died."

"I was on patrol. That much is true. Supposed to be, anyway. I left my patrol to daydream. They slipped past me. It wasn't even dark out. I was picking flowers. Picking flowers while my family, my clan, everything I knew and loved was destroyed! They had barely left when I got there." A lump settled in my throat and I choked out the last few sentences of my pitiful story. "I'm a horrible person. It was my fault they died. I will never excuse my actions on that day. Never."

He hesitated, and then spoke. "You don't have to excuse them, only forgive. It will come in time."

I stared blankly ahead. "You don't understand. You can't. I will never forget what I have done. I will never forgive."


I blinked blearily in the early morning light. Khors, god of the sun, had not yet shown his face. I hardly remembered falling asleep, much less getting back to my borrowed pallet, and I had the sneaking suspicion that I was carried by someone – certainly not Tristan, as he was hardly the type for gallantry.

When I sat up, I found a small mountain of red by my hand. I picked up the first scarlet garment and swallowed hard. There was a tunic, trousers, a red belt… even a strip of worked hide for my hair. My new comrades had given me a way to express my grief, in the color that signifies Sarmatian mourning.

I carefully dressed after making sure no one else was awake (omitting the four sentries, who were facing out toward the surrounding plains and thus posed little threat). I was touched by the gesture they had made by gathering these offerings. Obviously Tristan had stood by his word and kept my secret close, as he promised.

My weapons had been returned to me as well, so I strapped my belt on over the clothing, tucking Gatalas' knives into it, along with my own deadly akinakes, a dagger with a wicked blade. It was a gift from my elder brother before the Romans took him. By now I was almost certain of his death, although we'd had no word.

I slung my sword over my back, the leather strap cutting diagonally across my chest for easy access over my right shoulder. The quiver of arrows I also settled on my back, but over the sheath so as not to mar the fletching.

After that I tore my ragged skirt, now quite bloody and useless, into long strips and reached up under the red shirt to bind my breasts, which I had found made fighting and practicing much easier.

When this was done, I went to the line of horses, noting which belonged to Sarmatians by the presence or absence of stirrups and full saddles, as our people were credited with their invention and were more or less the only ones who used them.

When I came to the six or seven that lacked the Sarmatian features, I passed over the leader's stallion but took my pick of the geldings, who wouldn't go haring after the first mare they smelled on the wind. I noticed that the Sarmatian horses were all mares or geldings as well. Why should I care that my new friend once belonged to a Roman, I figured. I belong to the Romans now, too.

At least my gelding was one of the finest horse in the string. I tied my bow to the saddle beside the oiled packet that held my bowstring, and led him over to my few possessions. The pallet was rolled and bound securely behind the saddle.

The others began to stir as I sliced the pad of my thumb, hissing at the sharp pain. The blood that welled up was streaked across my face, from my nose, down my upper lip to my chin. Two large circles covered the hollows of my cheeks. Then I cut the other thumb and dragged it over my eyelids and just below my eyes before wrapping the injured digits tightly with more cloth.

Finally, I picked up my long kontos, now adorned with a red flag. I swung a leg over the back of my new horse, whom I had decided to call Simargl after our god of war and vengeance – a fitting name I should think. I took him to the top of the rise and faced the rising sun. Whatever came, I was ready.


MUSE…

Lancelot woke to sun spilling over his face. The sounds of others waking told him it was time to get up. Groaning, he rolled off his pallet, automatically tucking it into a ball and tying it there. He looked over to where the girl Isolde had slept, but no sign of her remained.

He stood, kicking the boy next to him, Saros. The Alanian rolled over, grumbling. Lancelot kicked him again, and he sat up and glared at the older boy.

"What is it?" he snapped, not being much of a morning person.

"Where's the girl? Isolde. She's gone." Saros stood up quickly, putting his notoriously sharp eyesight to scan the low hills around them.

"There." He sounded awed. Lancelot looked, and saw her, a scarlet vision against the pink skies. She looked like the warrior queen that was her namesake.

"Khors," he whispered. "Just look at her."

"That's the mortal Tabiti right there." Saros said, making a sign to pacify the jealous goddess.

"Yes, it is, Saros. It is."


ISOLDE…

It was another hour before they were ready to move on. I sat atop the hill throughout this time, looking out over the steppes. I was darkly amused by the shock and disgust Marcus displayed when he saw my bloody face, and I savagely bared my teeth in a feral grin to see him flinch.

We rode until we came upon a village just before nightfall on the tenth day. Unlike the last, this one was whole and alive, a sight that made my breath hitch. The blood had mostly dried and flaked off, leaving only faint smears across my cheekbones, but my state of mourning was obvious to all, and the Sarmatians lined the path in respect for the dead as I rode through. There was a murmur of unrest when they realized that I was, in fact, a girl, but the clan's people held themselves in reserve, for their visitors had come to take one of their own.


The Romans decided to stay with the tribe for two days to resupply before taking another recruit. We dismounted, our legs stiff and sore from riding for so long. The clan children watched us, wide-eyed, as we settled down to rest. They must have left us to go to sleep, but when we awoke the next morning, they still sat and stared at us. I began to feel as though we were a pack of mangy dogs that were on display for the people to pity.

One, apparently the boldest of the little band, asked me, "Are you gyàsz?"

I nodded and answered shortly, "Yes. I mourn my tribe," and I said no more.

My limbs were sore and exhausted yet, but after a breakfast of stew and goat cheese – good, homemade food, such as I hadn't had since that day – we gathered away from the village to spar. I wasn't entirely out of practice, for which I was grateful. I'd feared that my skills would soon rust, like iron left out in the rain.

I started off with some simple stretches and one of the pattern dances that were my signature. One of my favorites was one my father taught me, one he'd learned from the Britons and observing the native woads when he was a knight, with two blades crossed to make a small, four-squared area.

Today I used my sword and kontos because I had only one of the former, and the latter would allow me more freedom of movement, since I wasn't as limber as I could've been. I resolved to practice my dances more regularly. But for now…

I slowly began to tap out the steps, twirling slowly while my knives flashed in each hand. As I completed the third circle around the blades – keeping my feet within the boundaries set for them – I began to speed the dance up, faster and faster, loosening my stiff muscles and swinging my leg up high as if to catch someone across the face, then sweeping down low to knock their feet from under them.

My arms I used to block imaginary attacks. My leather armor had a useful feature that most didn't, curved plates of metal to use almost like a shield for deflecting blows from a smaller weapon.

I slashed downwards as I ducked under an oncoming blade, recovering to jump up and twist around in a strange fashion, landing and almost immediately throwing myself forward into a tight somersault.

That was the signal to slow it down gradually, and I did, following the same steps until I paused in the same position as I started, unbending my torso slowly and raising my arms as I did so, knives crossed over my head and my feet in opposing angles of the square. My chest rose and fell with each heaving breath. Definitely needs some work, I thought. In the old days I would hardly be winded when I finished that one.

"That was awfully nice," said a voice behind me. I turned to find the boy named Balambar, a large, cheerful fellow who told me when we met to call him Balai. I thanked him, rather unsure of what he wanted.

"The other boys are facing off. You looked like you were concentrating and I didn't want to disrupt you. Did I mention that that was a pretty little trick?" It's not only pretty, my lad, it's deadly, I thought. "Anyway, they've already started. Would you like to hack at each other for a bit? Maybe cut off an arm or two? Or perhaps just a toe, as those aren't as useful as arms and the Romans do hate to get damaged goods."

I laughed, charmed despite myself by his easy and light-hearted manner.

I paired off with him next to Lancelot and his partner, a wiry boy whose name I'd forgotten. We dipped our blades out of courtesy, and I held still, finding my center, grounding myself. Then he attacked, slashing across. I knocked his blade upwards, feinting with my akinakes. I followed with a series of feints and jabs.

When I realized he was holding back, I increased my speed, nearly decapitating him in my anger, for I took the assumption that I was the weaker very personally. He finally decided to stop worrying about hurting a girl and start fighting after I dumped him on his arse and laughed at him.

Because of my slight frame, I found it easier to dodge many of his powerful attacks rather than parry them. His build gave him an advantage if I let him get close – should our hilts lock, he would almost certainly win, unless I could break away before he bore me to the ground. Thus, I danced out of his way more than I actually fight.

At the beginning, we had decided to call it an open match, meaning we could use any weapons at our disposal. With that in mind, I jammed my akinakes into my belt, snagged a knife, and flicked my wrist to bury it in the ground at his feet, pinning his loose trousers and tripping him up.

He stumbled, but somehow managed to block my butterfly sweep. A slice to my right flank almost went unnoticed when he distracted me with a low cut at knee height, which, combined, sent me scurrying backward. I tripped over a stone and fell, slapping the ground to absorb the impact as I'd been taught. Balai stood back, pointing his sword at my neck.

"Yield?" He asked me.

I rolled and grasped my kontos, coming to my knees and jabbing at him with the sharp end. He jumped back in surprise, shaking sweat-darkened hair out of his eyes.

"Never!" I grinned fiendishly.

Slipping the akinakes out of my belt, I retrieved my sword and we both lunged, striking hard as our momentum carried us past each other.

We circled each other, watching for weaknesses. This was one of the most strenuous workouts I'd ever had, for he was very strong and had the youthful energy that my father lacked when we sparred. My breath came quickly now, and I panted from the exertion.

Suddenly he attacked me, and for a moment I was blinded.

Damn! He'd maneuvered me into the sun, a factor I had forgotten about – fool – and so I fell directly into his trap. He swept my feet out from under me, bending down to touch his sword and his long dagger to each side of my neck in a scissor-like fashion. This time he was careful not to allow me any leniency.

"Let's try that again," he said, smiling. "Yield?"

I sighed. I was more tired than I would've liked to be after a duel as short as this one, too tired to last against him for much longer. The battle was all but lost – I had to concede – but I could hardly let him win without having the final say. "Alright," I said, waiting until he'd relaxed before swiftly pulling his feet out from under him. The blades sliced the skin below my ears lightly, stinging fiercely but missing anything vital, of course.

"I yield."

We lay there, exhausted, until I rolled over and pushed myself to my feet.

Papa would have been proud of that fight, I thought. My face turned to stone as I realized that I'd been smiling. One practice fight and the world had been set to rights? No, it wasn't time for peace yet.

For the first time I became conscious of our audience. The other boys ringed us, having already finished, and beyond them stood several children and even a handful of adults.

They applauded lightly, and then swarmed around us to offer suggestions. I was reminded to always keep an eye on both of my opponent's hands, and to never forget about the outside influences at least a dozen times apiece.

A figure caught my eye, distant on the ridge. It moved, raising an arm as if in greeting, and I raised mine in return. My action drew the attention of the tribe and they went quiet and ushered us back toward the huts, glancing uneasily behind.


That evening, I was offered a place in the kibitka of an unmarried woman who had put forth her hospitality. I nearly refused, but many of the others were given the same offer from various families, and so I accepted.

Her kibitka was small, but felt quite lived in. A small pallet lay in the corner, and a chest sat at its foot. The woman, whose name I learned was Yasynya, put out furs for a pallet in the opposite corner.

She handed me a cloth and a bowl of water to wash with, and I gladly took it, setting it on the ground beside me. The itch of the dried blood that still lingered faintly on my chest, where Arshak had lain that day, made me suddenly feel horribly unclean. I turned away and stripped to the waist, all modesty forgotten in my haste to cleanse myself.

I dabbed at the cuts on either side of my throat, where Balai's weapons had sliced the flesh, and scrubbed my body with the cloth until my skin was fresh and pink, but still I felt Arshak's blood clinging to me. I stood helplessly by the bowl, holding the cloth and pushing back the guilt. It was only when she came and gently took it out of my hand that I realized the sense of revulsion I felt was only a memory.

She silently offered me a blanket to wrap myself in. I did so, and she guided me to the pallet, where I sat.

I watched as my hostess squatted by the fire just outside the entrance, cooking something in a heavy iron pot. Soon my curiosity got the better of me, and I had to ask.

"Where is your family?"

She answered quietly, for I'd learned she was a quiet woman. "Dead and gone," she said, and then elaborated. "My father and brother were knights. They were killed in Gaul. My husband died a year past in a hunting accident, and a man from another tribe recently came and took my widowed mother to wife."

"I'm sorry," I said, but petulantly thought that I wasn't sorry at all; I'd seen far worse horrors in the past weeks at only half her age... but then I hated myself for the thought, for grief, however fierce, is never easy to live with. I was selfish once before, but I would never be so again.

Yasynya must have sensed my initial insincerity, for her voice was a few degrees cooler – or perhaps it was the pain I'd inadvertently brought up.

"And you? How did a girl-child come to be taken as a knight, wearing the color of mourning?"

I wanted to turn away, but it was my own fault for asking in the first place, so I told her the same tale I'd told the Romans, wishing to keep my dishonor secret. Yet when I had finished, she said,

"I wish you could trust me enough to tell me the whole tale, but one such as you, who has bound herself with an oath of vengeance, must have a reason to keep it from me. I would tell you to go to Shpadana, who sees much that others are blind to. She may be able to help you make the decision you must make."

I left Yasynya's kibitka to find this Shpadana, puzzled by Yasynya's insight. Lancelot jogged up and turned me around with a hand on my shoulder.

"Do you always play games when you fight?" he asked.

"What are you about, Lance?" I snapped in annoyance, rather out of patience for the day.

"That was a dangerous trick you played today. When you yield, you're expected to concede. Khors, for a moment I thought he'd killed you when I saw those cuts. How are they, by the way?" His tone was one of concern, and I relented.

"Fine." He reached out to pull the cloth away from the injuries. I winced when he touched the scratches gently. Then his fingers trailed down my neck and settled on my shoulder.

I suddenly came to my senses and jerked away, blushing hotly as I hid my face in the gloom of twilight. I mumbled some excuse and hurried away, leaving him standing in the shadow of the kibitkas with a bemused expression upon his face.

Following Yasynya's directions, I found Shpadana's dwelling and tapped lightly on the hide curtain that covered the entry.

"Come." I ducked under the flap and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light inside.

A aged woman sat cross-legged, with her back to me.

"Sit, Isolde, daughter of Beler," she said, using the old tongue, the dialect of our Scythian ancestors, which few used anymore. "You are expected."

I sat, dumbfounded. "By what means did you learn my name?" I asked.

She turned to look at me, and I saw that her eyes were a milky white – she was blind. So much for seeing what others are blind to, I thought. The crinkling of the crow's-feet at her eyes was the only sign of her amusement.

"I could tell you I foresaw your visit, but that would be an untruth. News of your identity, at least, has spread through the tribe like wildfire. It is no secret. No more is your skill with weapons, an art that dwindles among females as our people grow ever weaker." She sighed regretfully, looking at wizened hands that had once been strong and nimble, wielding a sword to defend her tribe.

"Oh." I said in my usual eloquent manner.

"You are known to me. The tale of how you came to be here, however, is not," she hinted, and I was neither dense enough nor rude enough to withhold the information she sought. I knew I could trust this woman, for silence was her blessing and her curse, and she wouldn't betray my dishonor.

"I killed my tribe. Rather, I was the cause of their deaths. Two weeks ago, I was patrolling, but I knew there hadn't been a single problem for nearly ten years, so I neglected my duties." I swallowed; her face has become grave. To neglect one's duties to their tribe was a terrible thing among our people – indeed, among all peoples, but as nomads the scout had quite an important responsibility. To fail it was a serious perfidy.

"I heard a shout from our camp – by the time I reached it, they were all gone, felled by Huns. My family was slaughtered, even our animals, those that were not stolen. The Romans came three days later. I fought them, thinking them to be the raiders returning; I fear I was not in my right mind. When I awoke, I offended their captain, and he cursed me and told me I was condemned to be a knight."

"That is my tale, for what it's worth. The only way I can see to restore the honor of my clan is to desert, track down those who murdered my family and kill them, one by one, until their loved ones are decimated as mine have been." I declared fiercely. And then with less fervor, I said "Only then will I be able to regain my honor in death."

She was quiet for a long time. I fidgeted with the fringe on the blanket, looking down and aside.

"I do not know what to tell you, young Isolde. I can see two options, where you see only one, though you will not like the second. You can desert, tell the king of your dishonor and ask our priests how you might find atonement, performing whatever deeds they deem necessary. Or you can keep your story a secret, pursuing your vengeance across time and distance, hiding it from your people and your new brothers, and taking your own life when you believe your task is complete."

"Either one has its disadvantages, just as it has its advantages. Should you tell the truth, the Romans shall pursue you, the Sarmatians shall shun you. You will be guided to success if only to put your family to rest, but you stand a good chance of failing in your mission, for you are young yet and have much to learn of war.

"However, should you decide to hide the truth, you will serve. You might die before you have exacted your revenge, but that is a risk you take either way. Your brothers, should they find out, may scorn you, or you may find a kinship with them. Your path to redemption will not be swift, and you will never see your home again, but one way or another, you will settle your accounts."

"It is your choice to make. All I can do is provide you with the means to make that choice, and give you my blessings."

I knew she was right. I was strongly tempted to confess, to accept my exile. I wondered if it was worth giving up what little I had left to retreat to Britain, to go to such lengths to keep it all a secret.

I felt a strong pull to stay with my people, despite the animosity they would undoubtedly hold toward me for not pursuing the murderers to their graves on my own, as the gyàsz were supposed to do.

But also, I realized, there was a flicker of fear inside me. I was frightened of dying, for all my risk-taking and brave resolutions over the last few days. I was still young and had yet to sample the many charms of this world, and I was afraid of leaving it so soon, small and alone as I was.

But then I squared my shoulders. Had I not declared to myself that I'd be the epitome of selflessness until my death? I did an about face and looked at my options again. She is right, I repeated to myself. And I was wrong.

There was only one choice, and it wasn't the one I thought it was. I would stay with the knights, to learn, to train, and to return when I was granted the freedom to do so. I would hope beyond hope that I survived to release my family, for if I deserted now, I know I'd be relentlessly hunted down and executed, robbed of my one chance to avenge the deaths I caused by my costly mistake.

One way or another, I would see them all again.

After all, in the end, were we not already doomed?


This is not a disclaimer.… Well, not exactly. Those go before the chapter. I would just like to remind you, all historical references are as correct as I can make them. Because all records of Sarmatians are both patchwork and foreign, being mostly Greek or Roman (Sarmatians did not have an alphabet), it is quite a trial to put it all together. In many cases, I have condensed the timeline. Thus, history may be slightly skewed, but I have been true to it as much as I could understand it. The language references are also either entirely Sarmatian or relatives of Sarmatian (i.e. Iranian/Hungarian/Scythian), unless otherwise noted. Like the disclaimer and note at the top of this chapter, this also applies to all chapters.

Somewhat more of a disclaimer: The reference to red being the color of Sarmatian mourning is not a proven fact; it is purely fabricated, and I don't know that anyone has researched this aspect to any extent. Also, I am not a horsewoman, so all that I know about them comes from books and the internet. If there's a problem with my terminology, please, enlighten me.

I look forward to your comments!

Ribhinn

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