Starfall
Valley of the Fallen Kings, early morning
The man was beautifully formed, with hazel eyes and hair of a honey color which fell, both loose and braided, to his waist. He was an elf, and he moved with all the lithesome nimbleness of that ancient race. From the shadows, though he was unaware of it, a ragtag band of thieves and cutthroats watched him, as they had for the last several hours, with cold and predatory eyes.
He had just emerged from the doorway into the mountain when they jumped him. Caught by surprise and outnumbered, he was quickly overwhelmed and fell to the earth, several knife wounds in his chest. The attackers carelessly stepped over him, several of them kicking him as they rushed through the open doorway, certain they would find vast treasure.
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Several kilometers away in a wooded area, a small group of druids was picking blackberries.
Help me. Iseldir cocked his head, listening. The voice was faint; either the person was far away or badly hurt, the latter he feared.
"One of the elves is in trouble. Gabriel, I think."
The others paused in their berry picking and looked at first Iseldir and then each other, uneasiness reflected in their glances. Gabriel guarded the mountain.
A short time later the druids cautiously approached the area where the injured man lay upon the ground. His attackers had left. Two of the druids knelt to tend to him while Iseldir searched through his pack for the Cup of Life. He had had to weigh the risks of bringing it against possibly needing it and not having it. He had made the right decision, and the elf would live because of it.
The remaining druids hurried through the open doorway into the mountain. The treasure was gone.
A few days later
After quarreling over the matter and a rather nasty fistfight, the thieves decided to shop the crown around to the reigning monarchs of the five kingdoms. If they'd been a bit brighter, the pitfalls of doing so would have been more apparent. The man chosen to approach the first king was Whitley. Ill-favored from birth, he had broken, discolored teeth and a jagged scar running from the corner of his eye to his jaw line. Of them all, he had the lowest intelligence which, granted, was not saying a lot. They decided to start with the Pendragon king in Camelot. Inquiries were made in a tavern on the edge of the lower town. The king would be holding court that very afternoon.
Upon entering the palace and being eyed suspiciously by several guards, Whitley was dismayed to see the long line of subjects waiting to address the king with various grievances. He lined up at first behind the others but soon grew impatient and attempted to cut in front of a shabbily dressed, middle-aged woman. She protested in outrage, several others objected on her behalf, and a minor scuffle broke out with shoving and angry muttering.
"Silence!" the king bellowed. "What is the meaning of this?" He gave a nod to Sir Leon. "Find out who is responsible and bring them here."
In no time at all, Whitley, escorted by Sir Leon and Sir Percival, found himself standing before an annoyed King Uther (the other petitioners having helpfully pointed him out to the two knights.) "How dare you create a disturbance in my court! Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Uther demanded.
"A thousand pardons, your highness," Whitley said, nervously bowing. It was beginning to filter through his tiny brain that he had badly mishandled matters. "It's just that my companions and I have a jeweled crown that we wish to sell -"
"A jeweled crown?" The king took in the man's shabby garments and unkempt appearance and laughed, amused. "Show me this jeweled crown," the king demanded, not believing him for a second.
"I don't have it with me -, " Whitley began.
"How inconvenient for you," Uther interrupted, unsympathetically. To Sir Leon: "Put this man in a cell for the night for causing a disturbance and wasting the court's time. You can release him in the morning."
"Yes, Sire," the knight said.
"But we do have a crown in our possession, your highness. I swear!" Whitley continued to protest as he was dragged from the room. "It's antique gold and studded with green stones on the sides!"
"Next! Come, come," the king said, impatiently. Although Uther had already turned his attention to the next person in line, a farmer from an outlying village, his brain registered the thief's last remark.
Same day, on a riding path through the woods
Emrys.
Merlin pulled his horse to a halt and looked around. Arthur looked back impatiently. "What is it now, Merlin?"
"The druids, Arthur. They're here." Gwaine and Lancelot looked around, seeing no one.
We mean you no harm. We wish to speak to Prince Arthur.
Merlin moved his horse closer to Pyramus, Arthur's black stallion, and spoke in an undertone. "They wish to speak to you, Arthur."
"All right." The prince then spoke in a louder tone. "Show yourselves. I will hear what you have to say."
Iseldir, several other druids, and a man with honey-colored hair that fell to his waist stepped out of the woods and onto the path ahead of them. The prince immediately recognized their leader. He had had several previous encounters with the druid, the last a battle of wills between the two of them which the prince had surprisingly lost. Iseldir had refused to return his servant to him on a bitter cold and snowy night. Arthur's eyes narrowed. He was not feeling particularly magnanimous.
"Yes?" the prince said politely, if a bit coldly.
"There is a clearing near here where we can talk," Iseldir said. "May I suggest -"
"I'm not liking this, Arthur," Gwaine interrupted him.
Arthur raised his hand for silence. "It's all right." To Iseldir: "Show us."
A short time later, Arthur and his three companions had gotten off their horses. Merlin hurried to grab the reins of the prince's horse as well as his own. Iseldir gestured toward the elf.
"This is Gabriel. Two days ago he was attacked in the Valley of the Fallen Kings by robbers and nearly killed. Fortunately we were nearby and were able to save his life."
The four men looked the elf over with interest. He seemed in perfect health. Gabriel returned their gaze with a solemn look in his hazel eyes.
The druid leader continued. "For centuries, the elves have watched over a great treasure hidden inside a mountain. When he was attacked, Gabriel was standing guard alone. The robbers entered the open doorway into the mountain and took the treasure."
"I know nothing of this. What is this treasure?" Arthur asked.
Gabriel picked up the conversation. "There were gold, silver, and precious jewels taken, but what needs to be returned is a crown."
Arthur waited.
"It is an ancient crown of legend and contains much power. In the wrong hands - and it is in the wrong hands - the crown contains a curse."
"What is the curse?" the prince asked.
"I do not know. Only that there is one."
In a cell, sometime after midnight
Whitley sat on some scattered straw, wondering if it was safe to fall asleep. He had heard some small thing scurrying across the floor earlier; a rat he supposed. He resolved to shake the dust of Camelot as soon as possible in the morning. There were four other kingdoms they could peddle the crown to. That failing, he supposed they could pry out the green stones, and sell them individually to wealthy nobles. Maybe even melt down the crown and sell the gold to some merchant as a last resort.
The following morning
Uther was eating breakfast alone at one end of a long table while two servants attended him. He shot an irritated glance at the empty seat on his right. He gestured at Leon and Elyan, standing by the door, to approach him. "Sir Leon, do you know what is keeping my son?"
"He is not in the palace, Sire." Leon shifted uneasily. "He and Merlin went out riding yesterday, and they haven't returned."
The king looked up sharply. "Were they alone?"
"No, Sire. Two of the, uh, knights accompanied them." Sir Leon was hoping the king would not inquire too closely as to their identity.
The king exhaled heavily in irritation. "Tell my son he is to attend me immediately upon his return."
"Yes, Sire." The two knights turned to leave.
"Wait," the king said, on a thought. "Tell Geoffrey I wish to speak with him."
"Yes, Sire."
Back to the prince and his companions
"Show me this place," the prince said to the elf, "this doorway into the mountain." He moved to his black horse, taking the reins out of his servant's hands. "Merlin, ride with Gwaine. Gabriel, you can ride the buckskin."
"It's not necessary," the long-haired elf replied, solemnly. "I can outrun any horse."
"Not Pyramus," Arthur said, laughing as he patted the stallion's neck. He turned at a strangled sound from Gwaine and a general commotion from the others. Gabriel was no longer standing in the clearing. In his place was a long-legged wolf with mottled gray fur. It was a large animal, possibly topping 100 pounds. The pupils of its eyes were blacker than midnight, surrounded by irises of palest green-gold.
"Gabriel can shape-shift," Iseldir said, unnecessarily.
"No, really?" Gwaine said, sarcastically under his breath as the wolf took off running through the woods.
After a moment frozen in shock, Arthur recovered. The prince was nothing if not game. Throwing himself onto the back of his stallion, he felt more exhilarated and alive than he had in weeks. He threw one quick look back at Merlin then urged the black horse into a run.
Merlin would have been hard-pressed to say which creature was wilder: the timber wolf or the prince.