Magic Mirror
by Soledad
Chapter 03 – At Bardon Pass
While they are waiting for nightfall, Arthur manages to get the situation at Bardon Pass under control. It doesn't even take long; nor costs it him much effort. Unlike his namesake from this world, the Crown Prince of Camelot is a seasoned warrior and an excellent strategist who has been trained for his future role as King all his life – and excels in that role, even in these strange environs.
He also knows how to delegate. He sends Lancelot – who, due to his origins, is familiar with the way the common folk thinks and speaks – to build, with the help of Lord Lucan's household, all sorts of crude yet effective traps, using whatever they can find in the outbuildings, to stop the attackers at various distances from the house itself.
He sends Merlin to look after the wounded. He assigns the big, burly warrior he still can't quite call Gawain to the task of placing the remaining archers in the key positions. Then he sits down with Lord Lucan and the dark warrior who strongly reminds him of Elyan and whose name is apparently Ulfius to learn more about this bewildering place where they had accidentally landed.
"Britain is not a united realm," Lord Lucan explains. "It consists of a number of petty kingdoms, the Kings of which are in constant conflicts with each other, over chunks of land, trade routes and the likes. Until recently, King Uther and King Lot were the most powerful ones, both aspiring for the title and role of the High King."
Arthur nods. The kingdoms of Albion may be stronger and more glamorous, but unfortunately, the situation is quite similar.
"So who won?" he asks.
"No-one," answers Lord Lucan with a sigh. "They are both dead. King Uther died first, leaving only one legitimate child behind: Princess Morgan, born to him by his first wife. Or so we thought. Until the sorcerer Merlin showed up with the King's writ that – according to Uther's wish – his bastard son, Arthur should follow him on the throne."
Arthur finds it interesting how everything is reversed here: Uther is dead, his daughter is the rightful heir, his son the unacknowledged bastard…
"Do your laws not allow a woman to rule?" he asks.
"They don't forbid it," replies Lord Lucan cautiously. "Although as our Kings are little more than savage warlords, a Queen might have a hard time getting the realm under control. But that is not the true reason. King Uther always hated his daughter."
"Why?" Arthur is shocked. His own father might not acknowledge Morgana, but he's always doted on her… not that it would do him any good.
"Because she reminds him of his sin," Lord Lucan replies grimly.
"What sin?" Lancelot, returning for a drink of water, asks with interest.
"That he used sorcery to take on the shape of the Duke of Cornwall and so seduce his wife, the Lady Igraine. That's how our Arthur has been conceived," explains Lord Lucan. "There are rumours that he had Morgan's mother, Queen Anna, murdered, just like Igraine's husband, so that he could claim her as his own. How much of this is true, I cannot tell, but Morgan was sent to a convent as a very young girl and not allowed to return – until shortly, right before the King's death."
"Your King must have dabbled in sorcery extensively if he could manage a transformation spell," comments Merlin.
He's finished treating the wounded and has joined them to listen to the tale. Lord Lucan snorts.
"Him, casting a spell? Ridiculous! The King couldn't even write, beyond his own name; most nobles cannot. Nay, that was all Merlin… our Merlin, I mean, though I am a bit reluctant to admit any connection to him."
"Why is that?" is Arthur imagining things or does Merlin really sound indignant on his counterpart's behalf?
"Because he follows his own agenda and doesn't care who gets hurt in the process," replies Lord Lucan darkly. "No-one can tell what that agenda truly is, but we all have our doubts. They say, he is hundreds of years old, though he looks no older than I do. He took Queen Igraine's baby, right after his birth, and gave it to Lord Ector of the Marshes and to his wife to raise the boy along with their own son. Then, after King Uther's death he took the boy from his foster parents again, ordered the warriors dwelling in Castle Pendragon in the King's name to follow him and the Queen to Camelot – an old, ruined castle at the sea – and somehow cajoled them into pledging themselves to Arthur. I still don't know how."
"He told us it was the King's dying wish and showed us the writ," says Ulfius, the dark warrior. "Some of us can read; Leontes, for one. He checked the writ and confirmed that the sorcerer was saying the truth. It had the King's name under it, drawn by his own hand. We could not turn our backs on the King's last decree. I wish we could."
"Are you not happy with your new King?" asks Lancelot quietly.
Ulfius shrugs. "He's but a sorcerer's puppet; unlearned and untrained to be a leader of men. And he has seduced Leontes's bride, on their wedding day. He's not better than his father was; but at least his father could keep the kingdom under control."
He is clearly disillusioned, which is a dangerous thing while waiting for a battle to happen, and Arthur does not know how to lift his spirits.
Lord Lucan shakes his head. "Would you prefer Morgan on the throne? Her first move after her father's death was to offer an alliance to King Lot, Uther's greatest enemy."
"And what other choice did she have?" returns Ulfius sharply. "She is the rightful heir, and she was wronged. To whom else could she have turned for help, after we were ordered away, to leave Castle Pendragon undefended? To the sorcerer who has schemed to shove her to the side for twenty years, to put Uther's bastard on the throne?"
"You said it yourself: it was the King's wish and his hand-sign under the writ," Lord Lucan reminds him.
Ulfius makes a derogatory snort. "Yeah, but it's been Merlin's plan from the beginning. We've been but pawns in his game – and I don't like being used. Not for a sorcerer's scheme."
"You're just pissed off because you had to leave the court and dwell in some godforsaken ruin," a bearded warrior whom the others call Brastias says teasingly. "You're afraid that the fair Vivian won't follow you to Camelot."
"Who is Vivian?" asks Merlin, wondering if King Olaf and his scatter-brained daughter may also have their counterparts here.
"Oh, just some serving wench whose ancestors were brought to Britain from the far South as slaves by the Romans," Brastias explains with a shrug. "She's served in Castle Pendragon all her life, and Ulfius has been sweet on her for just about that long."
Ulfius protests, but Arthur doesn't really listen to him anymore. His mind is preoccupied with more important things. Like how they are supposed to capture the enemy leader – and keep the manor house intact in the process.
"Are you done with the traps and fortifications?" he asks Lancelot, and the knight nods.
"We did everything we could with what little we had to work with," he says. "I'd suggest that we rest, sire. Nightfall is still about an hour away, and we'll need all our strength for this little manoeuvre."
Arthur realises the wisdom in Lancelot's words.
"You are right, Lancelot. I'll do as you suggest… after I've given our enemies something to think about," he adds with a dark little smile.
In the enemy camp Wallace, a thick-set, experienced warrior and the leader of the attack troops, stands, leaning on his sword, and watches the fortified manor house from narrowed eyes. Currently there are no men on the walls but he knows the battle is far from over yet.
He is particularly worried about the archers of Lord Lucan, who have proved to be better shots than expected – and about the warriors the boy King's brought with him. Even though their low numbers surprised him.
"I still can't believe that they came, exactly as Morgan predicted," he says. "That they would walk into such an obvious trap with their eyes wide open. A child would have seen through it."
Harwel, Princess Morgan's champion – dark, handsome and very obviously in lust with his lady – shrugs and grins.
"She knows her family well," he comments. "She swore her brother wouldn't ignore a lost cause."
Wallace shakes his head and scowls. "A lost case, you say? When this battle started, we outnumbered them, four to one. We've lost two thirds of our men in the first encounter."
Harwel shrugs again. "I warned you not to underestimate them. Morgan says they're highly trained."
"I know," Wallace replies sourly. "We'll have to keep them locked in until we can get more men, so that we can launch another open attack again."
"Perfect," Harwel grins. "A King to the slaughter. This is my way to Morgan. I'll deliver her the king's sword. She'll be on her knees to me in gratitude."
For his part Wallace seriously doubts that Princess Morgan would sink to her knees to anyone – unless such a gesture would further whatever scheme she's working on – but he doesn't waste his breath on trying to sober up the besotted, delusional fool. He has a new strategy to work out, since the straightforward attack hasn't worked out… and he's got a bad feeling about this. The defenders of the besieged manor house have been suspiciously silent. He's sure they're up to something.
His brooding is interrupted by somebody appearing on the wall. It is a tall, fair-headed young man, carrying a great sword, but too broadly built to be the boy King. He is also wearing a knee-length mail shirt none of them has seen before: one made of interlinked steel rings, and a dark red cape embroidered with a gold dragon falls in heavy folds from his broad shoulders.
"Is that all you've got?" he calls out in a ringing voice that carries easily to the enemy camp.
It is the voice of a field commander, used to make himself heard and understood by the furthest positioned troops.
"This land belongs to your King. And we will protect it to the death," he adds warningly.
There is utter self-confidence in that statement, and Wallace grows cold with dread. He doesn't know who this warrior is and how he's managed to sneak into the manor house before their very nose. He only knows that had the boy King half the charisma and strength of personality this stranger displays, he'd follow Arthur to hell and back, too.
Harwell, in his madness, remains unimpressed, of course.
"They're taunting us, Wallace," he hisses. "Are you enjoying being taunted?"
Wallace, however, isn't ready to tumble headlong into another fight. Not before daybreak. Not with the unknown warrior within the walls. He shakes his head.
"I've sent for reinforcements," he says. "They're too good for us to attack just on level numbers. More so with that new player in the game," he waves in the direction of the wall.
Harwel all but pouts. "I promised Morgan I would take Arthur's sword from his dead body. I will not let her down. King Arthur dies at our hands. Here. Tonight."
Or we'll be slaughtered to the last man at the hands of his allies, Wallace thinks unhappily, but there's little he can do. He is in command of the men-at-arms, but Harwel speaks for Princess Morgan and thus has the deciding word.
"We live to serve Queen Morgan," is all he says.
Protected by a powerful invisibility spell, Merlin smiles grimly.
We'll see about that, he thinks; then he turns around and sneaks back into the manor house.
After nightfall, Wallace reluctantly gathers his remaining men and the reinforcements that have arrived and divides them in two groups. He sends the first group in as a distraction and keeps the better trained, more reliable men with him.
"Be careful," he warns them all. "They must have set up some traps inside. Watch your steps, lest you end up in a hole full of sharpened sticks. That would be a painful and very messy death."
The men nod grimly. They climb the outer walls, listening to any noise that could tell them the whereabouts of the defenders. No-one offers them any resistance, which makes Harwel's chest swell with stupid pride. He's sure they've beaten the defenders already.
Wallace's anxiety, however, grows with each new step. The whole situation smells more and more like a trap… and there has been no sign of the first group ever since they went in. He doesn't like it.
"It's been too long," he murmurs worriedly. Then he turns to the second group. "Your turn now. But look out for traps."
He leaves Harwel behind in the camp – doesn't want the overzealous fool to get them all killed out of sheer impatience – and leads the men personally as they approach the house. Suddenly, there are flaming arrows flying by them, hitting bales of straw that have obviously been piled up on the inner side of the palisade, trapping them in a ring of fire.
The men panic and stumble forward to escape the flames – straight into the thin rope that has been fixed at ankle-height, bringing them to fall, making them vulnerable. Two of them die on the spot, with arrows in their throats; the others scramble to their feet and run towards the house.
Wallace barrels after them, his worries momentarily overcome by rage.
They lose another man before reaching the house, and once inside, they are stopped by the strange warrior… and another one, clad in a similar mail shirt. That one may or may not be the boy King; the slender build would match, but they can't see his face. They both fight like demons, and Wallace's concerns resurface at once.
"Separate them from each other!" he barks, and his men understand the strategy at once.
Even so, they have a hard time to corner the two warriors, and another man falls, a thrown sword embedding itself in his chest. Wallace recognizes the sword, of course – who wouldn't? They've all seen it often enough. It is Arthur's.
"We'll end this, here and now." He says grimly. "Griffith, bring forth the bolos."
His lieutenant takes out the long, thin leather tongs, weighted with steel balls on both ends and throws them at the second warrior who may or may not be Arthur. The tongs wrap themselves around the legs of the warrior and he falls backwards.
"We've got him," says Wallace with grim satisfaction. He pulls the sword out of the dead man's chest and hands it to Griffith. "Take the sword to Harwel as fast as you can. I'll finish the boy."
Griffith scurries off with the sword and Wallace turns to the fallen warrior to give him the rest. The young man blocks his blow with his legs and jumps back to his feet. The light of the burning straw in the outside falls upon his face through the window and Wallace can see now that he's not Arthur, after all.
Neither does he appear particularly frightened by the danger in which he finds himself.
"Merlin!" he calls out. "Don't you think this has gone on long enough?"
Wallace freezes for a moment because he knows all too well that the sorcerer is imprisoned in Castle Pendragon, together with Queen Igraine. That moment is enough for a previously unseen young man to step out of the shadows. He's almost painfully thin, just skin and bones, his ears are sticking out in an elfin way from under the thick cap of his dark hair.
"If you have played enough," he says breezily.
Then he raises his hand, his eyes turn molten gold and everything goes black for Wallace.
When he comes to, he's tied to a chair. Lord Lucan, the guardian of Bardon Pass is in the chamber with him, and so are the two warriors in the strange mail shirts, as well as the young man they called Merlin.
It is he who notices that Wallace is awake and alerts the others.
"Good," the blond warrior who challenged them on the wall says. "Now we can get some answers."
He stands in front of Wallace, a dagger in his hand. "Who sent you?"
Wallace shrugs, as well as it is possible when tied to a chair, since the battle is clearly lost. He only hopes that Harwel manages to get the sword to Princess Morgan in time, so that she can be crowned before the boy King resurfaces.
"What does it matter?" he asks back, trying to win time for Harwel.
"The blond warrior smiles menacingly and puts the danger to Wallace's throat.
"Oh, but it matters," he says softly. "Who do you fight for? Who sent you?"
"Oh, come on, Arthur, it's not so as if we didn't know already," the young sorcerer says impatiently. "I've heard them discuss it myself."
The blond warrior, who is decidedly not Arthur, and Wallace can't understand why they'd call him that, shakes his head.
"We need proof, Merlin," he says in a sing-song voice. "And witnesses. No-one would accept your word for it. Less so as we're misplaced here and nobody knows us," he moves the dagger, so that its point nearly touches Wallace's eyeball. "Who?" he repeats silkily.
And Wallace collapses. He might be devoted to Princess Morgan to an extent but not far enough to sacrifice an eye for her if he can avoid it.
"Morgan Pendragon," he confesses.
The blond warrior doesn't look particularly surprised, as if this had been the answer he expected.
"What were your orders?" he asks, and Wallace sees no reason why he shouldn't tell everything. Less so as the sorcerer has obviously spied on them, unseen.
"Attack Bardon Pass," he answers. "Draw out the King. Kill him when he shows up to defend it," he pulls a face. "Those were Morgan's orders. Those Pendragons are a fucked-up family all right."
The boy King would probably hit him for that slander against his family. Or kill him, hot-headed little idiot as he is. The blond warrior, however, lets go of him with a mirthless grin.
"That we are indeed," he agrees. "And in more than just one world, it seems."
Then he turns to the lord of the house. "Lord Lucan, I believe we should take this… gentleman to Camelot, so that the people learn the truth about this attack against Bardon Pass."
The guardian of the Pass nods. "You do so. Take the King's warriors with you. I must remain here and keep guarding the Pass."
Griffith, in the meantime, has reached the camp and hands the King's sword to Harwel.
"Where's Wallace?" Harwel asks, frowning.
"Finishing off the King," replies Griffith. "He told me to bring you the King's sword. They have Arthur surrounded. He's alone in there."
Harwel shakes his head, not convinced.
"The banner still flies," he murmurs, "and Wallace hasn't returned. Arthur must still be alive; but we'll change that, soon."
He takes the sword, kisses it right under the hilt, then hands it back to Griffith.
"Take this straight to Morgan, with my compliments. Ride fast; I'll follow you. After I've put a burning torch to the King's body."
Griffith nods and mounts his horse immediately. Harwel watches him ride off; then he turns around and heads for the house. It's time to get rid of the bastard King and make room for the legitimate Queen.
~TBC~
