It should not have surprised him as much as it did. The presence of enemy soldiers within the city's walls spoke clearly enough of Agravaine's treachery, and it could not have been coincidence that in Camelot's darkest hour the man was nowhere to be found. Arthur had been subduing his own suspicions for too long, justifying his uncle's actions because he didn't want to believe that his strongest ally was actually working against him. In his heart, he knew. He should have known all along.
Yet it was still a shock to see him marching down the street at Morgana's side, unashamed of the company he kept. He didn't seem to care that Camelot's citizens were dying in the streets, or that a line of red-cloaked knights opposed his dark mistress. Like Morgana, he was empty of pity and fear, advancing relentlessly to the heart of the city.
"She'll fell us before we ever get close." Leon's voice, wary but unwavering, jolted Arthur from his grief. Indeed, the soldiers who didn't fall to Morgana's warriors were torn apart by her magic, a dark golden fire simmering in eyes that used to shine green in the sunlight.
"We'll flank her. I'll take front, Leon left, Percival right. Gwaine." He nodded at the ale-swilling git, not wanting to admit that he'd given him the rear because he was the best sword in Camelot and this needed to be perfect.
Then they were rushing into the iron-soaked haze of the front line, a pathetic barricade across a city street. They would have lost fewer men if they'd retreated to a more defensible position, but refugees were still streaming into the citadel behind them. Grandparents and children would be saved, though mothers would weep for their sons. So it went.
Camelot's only hope was in speed. They had to hit Morgana quickly, repeatedly and decisively. Let her unleash her magic on them one at a time, cloaking their final strike in the barrage so that she wouldn't see it coming until it was too late. Arthur swept his blade through broad, devastating strokes, tearing apart her mundane defenses as he prepared himself to face her punishing magic.
But it was Gwaine who moved too quickly to be stopped, throwing his king a helpless sort of grin as he charged Morgana, leaving Arthur with no choice but to switch their roles. As the long-haired knight threw himself forward, Arthur charged past the distracted witch, diving deep into the sea of southrons behind her.
In the flurry of battle, it is easy to lose sight of your goal, to drive at the thing in front of you and miss what approaches from behind. The knights had charged Morgana's army, mingling with the men that surrounded her until she couldn't possibly tell friend from foe. Her magic erupted anyway, hammering her own forces even as it struck down the knights. Arthur was thrown back with the rest, struggling to breathe as he lay on the cobbles, stunned. Morgana stood alone, raking her gaze over the piled bodies.
But she never reached Arthur. Somehow, Gwaine was up again, half his face sheathed in blood and his eyes alight. Arthur wanted to scream at him to wait, because he wasn't ready, couldn't find his feet, couldn't breathe. He forced his limbs up, moving toward Morgana while she was concentrating on what was in front of her. Arthur didn't see his uncle until it was too late.
Pendragon screams rent the night, filling the air with pain and rage and frustrated schemes. Agravaine had saved his queen from a mortal blow, but she had not escaped unscathed. Arthur had failed, and that was infinitely more painful than the rib-cracking blow his uncle had dealt him. Morgana spun, eyes blazing ,and yanked Arthur across the street, his armor throwing sparks off the stones. The world went white for a moment when he hit the makeshift barricade. It felt like his chest had been crushed and he couldn't think, still could not find his breath.
As he lay there, he noticed the ground rocking with great rhythmic tremors. They were hard to miss because each one sent waves of stabbing agony coursing through his battered body. He managed to open his eyes, and saw Morgana advancing, Agravaine and his bloody sword at her side. She was holding her ribs where he had slashed her, but she was smiling that horrible smile that meant madness and death at the hands of one he'd once loved.
"Oh, dear brother of mine."
When a great hulking shape rose behind her, its eyes glowing molten in the darkness, he thought she must have summoned some hell-beast to finish him off. But Morgana turned, her own eyes as wide as a startled doe's. She shouted a few words and thrust her hand out to drive it off. Fire lit up the night, and the creature was illuminated, its stone scales and spear-like teeth untouched by the flames. Morgana began stumbling to the side, and the huge sculpted head swiveled to follow her with a motion too sinuous for such a cumbersome creature.
Arthur would have flinched, but his aching muscles would not respond to his fear as an enormous clawed foot passed over him – and by all the gods, it was solid stone, moving like a living thing. The bulk of the creature straddled the fallen king, the long neck arching across the street. It was a fourth the size of a real dragon, but there was azure fire in its belly that seared the night air.
It was difficult to reconcile such an obviously magical creature with the skinny fool who served him breakfast every morning, but Arthur knew it was Merlin's doing. He'd seen only two sorcerers this day, and Morgana obviously didn't summon the thing. Her lips drew together in a tight line of terror as she backed away from the dragon.
Morgana tried another spell, and another after that. The words of the old religion poured from her in a torrent, chased by fear and desperation. Lightning crashed and the earth shook. Chips of stone rained down on the cobblestones, but the creature did not appear to suffer any serious damage. Agravaine rushed to Morgana's side, brandishing his useless sword. And then the dragon breathed.
The light and heat were too intense for the actual strike to be seen, but when Arthur blinked the spots from his vision, he could see Morgana crouched against the wall of a neighboring building, the stone around her literally red-hot, and the glow of sorcery fading from her panicked eyes. Agravaine was nowhere to be seen. There were more thudding impacts from down the street, as two more of the incredible living statues approached. The first one was opening its maw again, fire kindling inside like a fallen star, when Morgana screamed out a complicated incantation. A great wind gathered around her and she disappeared into the swirling tempest before the flames hit the cobbles.
For a few moments, silence blanketed the street, broken only by the faint hissing of stones superheated in the false dragon's breath. Arthur began levering himself to his feet, biting back the growling cry that threatened to escape him when his ribs protested the movement. He slid out from under the stone beast, which was just standing there, staring at the place where Morgana had been a few heartbeats ago. Arthur let the barricade take his weight and just breathed into the quiet, trying to collect his thoughts. He watched warily as the stone dragon moved once more, joining its fellows further down the street. They seemed to be taking up defensive positions, treading on a blanket of Morgana's followers as they went.
Arthur looked at the ground around him, searching the fallen for signs of life. Leon and Percival groaned when he prodded them, rising slowly, eyes glazed but limbs sound. None of their enemies seemed to have survived. Every one of the invaders had either been defeated in battle or crushed by the stone behemoths. From the other quarters of the city, he could hear screams and roars. Fire was running rampant, fed by the magic employed on both sides.
The king barked a few hoarse orders to the recovering men. They needed reports from the other cohorts so that men could be redistributed and battlements reinforced. It looked like the last of the refugees had made it inside while Morgana had been occupied, and now a decision would have to be made: withdraw to the citadel or push out toward the city walls, where hundreds of people were no doubt trapped behind the enemy lines. He would not have entertained the latter option an hour ago, but with the invading force seemingly broken, not just survival but victory seemed possible.
He was thinking about how odd a thought that was: to see sorcery countered with sorcery, when he noticed one body that was not moving, Camelot's colors lying over the still form. Percival, who had been pulling the other knights to their feet, noticed Gwaine at the same time Arthur did, but the king moved much more slowly.
"Does he live?" Arthur asked as he approached. Percival was putting a huge, grimy hand to Gwaine's throat. His fingers came away sticky with blood.
"There is breath in him yet, but it is weak."
Arthur was surprised at the strength of his despair. He'd thought that nothing could make this hellish night any worse, but the thought of losing Gwaine suddenly seemed too much to bear. He'd lost so many men, most of them loyal subjects that had served since Uther's reign, and none of whom had been keeping evidence of treason from their king. He didn't even particularly like Gwaine, for blood's sake.
That smile as he charged, too defiant to be an apology.
He tried to assess the man's injuries, but he had only the skill to cause wounds, not heal them. He was about to send someone for Gaius, when Merlin limped out of the shadows, haggard and dusty but remarkably clean of blood, considering what he had...done. Arthur raised his blade and spent a moment wondering why his knights were so slow to follow suit. Then he remembered that the only knight who'd witnessed Merlin's exploits was unconscious. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leon and Percival looking from Arthur to Merlin warily, hands drifting to hilts with a hesitance that suggested they weren't entirely sure whose side they were on.
Merlin didn't answer Arthur's promise of violence. He just said, "I'll tend him." For the second time, the king found his blade sinking to the ground. But Merlin wasn't waiting for permission, moving even as he spoke and kneeling gingerly next to Gwaine. Arthur searched for words, but could find none. The accusations and demands that came to mind were shattered by the shadows under his friend's eyes, and the gentle fingers he used to feel for life and breath.
He recognized the look. Arthur had seen it before: on the battlefield and in the physician's quarters. It was a tightening of the mouth, a shuttering of the eyes. It was the face of a man preparing to dispense grim tidings. But Merlin didn't turn to give a diagnosis. He just knelt there, and a fierce denial settled slowly over his expression. His eyes never left Gwaine's face, and as the foreign words began falling from his servant's tongue, Arthur couldn't think of sorcery. Sorcery was hate and death and hurt. But Merlin's actions recalled only glasses raised in fellowship, and swords bloodied in the same battles.
Gwaine didn't wake, but he gasped like a drowning man, and his next breaths came strong and steady. Merlin swayed, and would have fallen if Percival had not supported him with one thick arm. Leon's sword was half out of his scabbard before he looked to Arthur, confusion and alarm warring for precedence on his face. Arthur knew that if he ordered it, Leon would execute Merlin on the spot. By the looks of things, he would have to go through Percival, but he would do it. Arthur felt the eyes of his subjects on him, waiting for his decision. All but Merlin, who had closed his in weariness.
I want to forget what I saw, he thought. I want this to have never happened. What he said was, "Take them to Gaius. We must secure the city. Sir Leon, keep watch over Merlin. He is not to leave the citadel."
It was strange, but sometimes he found himself waiting for his father to give the order. With every decision, even the most mundane, there was a part of him whispering that he would never be the king his father was, that he didn't have the strength. But Leon nodded briskly and set to his task. The other knights followed suit, securing the street and taking positions around their king.
Percival, after a strangely unreadable glance at Arthur, hoisted Gwaine onto his shoulder and made for the castle. Arthur tried not to look at Merlin as the boy stumbled along beside Leon, tried not to see the downcast eyes and hunched shoulders. A piercing combination of rage and confusion threatened to sweep away his resolve, but he had a kingdom to care for and a city to defend. The time for judgment would be later, when the tumult of battle had subsided. He turned back to the smoke-filled streets and collapsing buildings and tried not to see blue eyes fading to gold.