Under Camelot's Banner by Sarah Zettel Page A

his pointed beard with a thick hand covered in blue, swirling tattoos. “Fish, I’d say, and an old fish at that.”
    They laughed at their joke, which gave Colan time to push himself back to sit on his heels. He was breathing too hard, and he could not stop the trembling that had seized his limbs. “I seek the Lady Morgaine,” he said between his chattering teeth. “I ask you, of your courtesy, to take me to her.”
    This seemed to sober them. “Well now, perhaps it’s a man after all,” said the axe bearer.
    â€œPerhaps it is.” The spear man held out his hand. Colan grasped it, and let himself be pulled to his feet.
    The axe man circled him, looking for arms, and to make him uncomfortable. Colan endured, concentrating on remaining upright. “What do you want of the Lady Morgaine, boy?”
    What do I want?
“Mercy,” said Colan with sudden, lonely honesty.
    The men looked at each other. “Well, she’s but a small store of that.” The axe man stroked his pointed beard again. “Still, you’d best come and make your case to the lady herself. She’s always ready to speak any who come openly in her name.”
    They flanked him, as much to keep him walking as to make sure he did not make any threatening gesture. The rough, open grasslands gave way to stands of trees, and then to the muddy expanse of plowed fields. Beyond these, they came to a place that was more crofting than fortress. Wattle and daub houses stood between wickerwork fences. Folk in rough and plain dress moved about the place, feeding the animals, scolding the children who ran between the houses, setting their hands to all the mending and making that governed life in harsh country. A few watched curiously as Colan was led past them, but there was no sign of alarm. They were people who knew themselves to be well defended.
    Colan’s guards led him toward a long, low house with a thatched roof. Smoke rolled out from the hole in that roof, and the scent of a fire came to Colan like a benediction.
    The inside of the great house was dim and smokey, but no more so than such a place normally was. There were fewer folk in here, for the day outside was fine, if cold. Some women sat in a circle, carding wool and spinning the thread. The scents of lint and fresh wool mixed with the smoke. Old men sat by the fires, alternately tending them and talking with each other between long pulls from mugs or leathern jacks.
    The spear man shouldered some of these greybeard aside with the amiable roughness born of familiarity, clearing Colan a spot beside the fire. No one offered him a stool, but no one seemed to begrudge him a place either, and that was all Colan cared about. He sat on the packed earth, and stretched his hands toward the fire, getting as close to the flames as he could stand. Warmth of it spill deliciously over him.
    One of the rough-hewn old men handed him a jack, and Colan drank cautiously. A sweet, fiery liquid rolled down his throat, making him cough hard, which in turn made his companions grin knowingly at each other. Not one of them spoke a word and not one of them hid their stares. Colan answered their silence with more of his own. He would not be discomfited by so simple a tactic. Despite the drink he’d just accepted, he did not expect anyone to name him friend or guest until the lady of this house had done so.
    Finally, Colan’s clenched muscles eased and he could stop shaking. A bowl of pottage and bread was passed to him. He devoured the plain fare, running his fingers around the inside of the wooden bowl to get every last dollop. When he at last was able to attend to something other than the food in front of him, he looked up and saw the axe man laughing, silently and not in a wholly good natured way.
    â€œWipe your chin, boy,” the axe man said. “The lady will hear you now.”
    The man’s tone stung Colan’s pride, but he held it in check. He