Chapter XXVII: One Good Strike

Merlin and his latest unicorn arrived to find that the courtyard had become even more chaotic and panicky than when he'd left. The warlock hadn't thought that was even possible. Gods, what horrible thing could have happened to make the situation that much worse?

Then Morgana was there at his side, pale except for two bright spots of angry red high on her cheeks. "Uther sent an army," she spat.

"No."

The witch continued as if she hadn't heard his breathy denial. "We thought they'd make for the courtyard right away, try to kill as many of us as possible in one fell swoop, but they've split up. They're hunting people in the streets."

The frozen fury inside him, carefully shelved in the midst of crisis, shattered entirely, flooding his body with shards of pure rage. Wasn't it enough that these monsters had nearly killed his mother and sister, had violated the sanctity of the one safe place in all the kingdom by slipping death into its water? Now they were hunting men and women and children like animals, ready to cut them down as they fled.

They would not hunt for long.

"Wyrmbasu!" Merlin shouted, the name springing to his lips like he'd always known it.

The red wyvern heard. He leapt down from his customary perch on the castle roof, landing in a flurry of dust and mist. Merlin flung himself onto the creature's back. Basu's three legs bunched beneath him, his wings unfurling like banners. They beat at the air as he threw himself aloft.

"Heofonwolcen, gaderiaþgaderiġaþ," the warlock intoned. "Hríð, yste. Cépnaþ mín gebodu."

Wyrmbasu made a noise of protest as the winds picked up, but he was a strong flier. Far above the wyvern and his rider, clouds coalesced across the formerly-clear sky, blotting out the moon and stars entirely. The only light on the Isle of the Blessed came from torches, diffused through the mists in soft hazes.

Good. The enemy would be easy to spot.

"There," Merlin said, nudging his mount to the east. A small cluster of orange-red flames was moving swiftly along a street, too quickly to belong to a party conveying an ill spellbinder. Still, the warlock directed Basu closer, just to ascertain that they weren't a group of his people who had escaped the poisoning entirely.

Thankfully, the two of them didn't have to get too close. A cry went up at their approach, terrified rather than joyous, and two of the five men shot at them. At the warlock's silent command, a gale slammed the arrows away almost immediately, careening them into a nearby building. But that wouldn't have been necessary, not really, for thick fingers of fog had grasped at the archers' faces.

Merlin Emrys lifted his hand, his finger stretched out as though in accusation. Or condemnation.

The bolt of lightning which struck them was thicker than a blacksmith's arm and hotter than his forge, hot enough to melt through armor and flesh and bone. Its light left Merlin blinded and blinking; the crash of its thunder set his ears to ringing. If he'd had his senses about him, he would have noticed how the earth itself seemed to shake, how a nearby window shattered in its frame, how the mists curled in something like vindictive, triumphant joy.

Basu screeched, the sound half-muted, and wheeled away. But dulled or not, the noise hurt. Merlin instinctively clasped his hands to his ears; they came away moments later all wet and sticky and smelling faintly of copper. Hot liquid streamed down the sides of his head.

The pain helped. It cooled his burning wrath into something more manageable, more cunning and practical, focused and deadly. Merlin pressed his bloody fingers against Basu's hide, whispered the first healing spell (that wasn't related to poison) which popped into his mind. He'd rather not ride a creature half-blinded and half-deaf, especially not with this wind surging between the buildings. Moments later, at Basu's pleased chirp, he repeated the spell on himself. The ringing in his ears faded.

"Let's go," Merlin rasped.

And they flew.

Their next targets (victims) were another quintet of soldiers who were chasing down a sobbing woman. (The mists wrapped around her like a blanket, muffling her voice, but they could still hear her.) Merlin grabbed one with his mind, slamming his body against the running forms of his comrades. Their torches fell to the ground as they tried to untangle themselves.

Merlin looked at the hungry fire, reached out….

…and snapped the soldiers' necks. Quick, painless, more merciful than they deserved. But it wasn't a fire lit by the command of Uther Pendragon.

The earthbound cloud fell upon them, smothering the flames, seeping through the corpses' clothing to dampen their skin. Then all evidence of the skirmish was gone, devoured whole.

"Let's start by circling the outskirts," Merlin suggested. "Pick off their stragglers, drive them towards the nice armed defenders in the center." He looked over at the courtyard—or, more accurately, at the barely visible gold-and-bronze bulk breathing out great plumes of glowing smoke over the poisoned innocents. "And towards him."

Basu's answer sounded an awful lot like a cackle.

Morgana stood at one of the courtyard's many entrances and wished that she had her sword. Yes, she could summon huge balls of fire with nothing but a single word, but there was something reassuring about good cold steel in her hands.

She wanted to do as Merlin had done (though she'd have to make do without a wyvern to dramatically ride into the night) and hunt the hunters. But the Isle that had welcomed her with open arms needed stationary guardians as well as roamers, and she didn't have a wyvern mount. Part of her still wanted to leave this duty to Kilgharrah, who had swooped into the courtyard mere moments ago, but the dragon had more talents than destruction. His breath could heal, not as well as the unicorns' horns, but still enough to save so many lives. Morgana lacked that power, so she would limit herself to what she could do: throw fireballs.

A man staggered down the street, limping as though he'd strained a muscle in his haste to escape. The mists parted for him, a little bubble of clear air. Morgana's legs twitched, but she forced herself to remain still. She had to maintain her position, not go raring off after everyone who might need assistance. This man could walk, and he clearly hadn't been poisoned. He could make it on his own.

Then a figure darted across the street, dim and fuzzy in the fog. It paused long enough to nock, draw, fire, then sprinted for cover. The arrow whizzed through the night, towards the exhausted spellbinder. Two more arrows followed suit.

Morgana acted without thinking, flinging out her hand. The witch's eyes flared gold.

The arrows stopped. When Morgana realized what she'd done—no preparation, no incantation, not even a conscious thought—the magic failed, and the arrows clattered to the ground.

"Thank you," whispered the man she'd saved as he limped past her.

"You're welcome." This, too, was automatic, a relic of her long years at court. Her focus was elsewhere.

The archer had ducked around a corner. Morgana didn't know much about the layout of the island yet, but from what little she remembered, the bowman was in a good position to intercept anybody coming down this path. He must have just taken that position; if he'd been there earlier, the staggering man would have died before he reached her line of sight.

Someone had to clear the archer out before he ambushed anyone else.

Morgana looked around. Chaos everywhere, with barely enough defenders to hold each entrance.

There was only one corridor before her. She wouldn't leave any openings if she went out to dispatch the sniper. Not unless he won.

So she'd better make sure that he lost.

There were two types of death that Merlin rained down upon his enemies.

If the soldiers were alone, thin forks of lightning would spear down from the heavens, dancing along their metal armor as their hearts gave out. (Normal lightning was not necessarily fatal, but the strikes Merlin commanded would always kill.) The attacks would often bounce between dying men, smaller arcs of light that moved and faded almost too quickly for the eye to see. Then they would disperse into the earth, leaving no trace of their presence save the corpses left in their wake.

But if they were pursuing spellbinders, he had to act more cautiously. Even in the depths of his rage, he knew that his first priority was to protect his people, not to vent his wrath on those who would harm them. He had to bring life as well as death, or he would be no better than the king who had poisoned his mother and sister, who killed and killed and only killed. He had to keep his kin alive, or he had nothing worth fighting for.

So he did not use lightning against those soldiers; he could not risk the lightning jumping from them to their would-be victims, the people Merlin was fighting to save. Instead, he would grab those men with his mind, halting them in place as his vengeful magic broke their fragile necks.

(It was so very easy to kill. He hated that even as he was grateful for it.)

Wyrmbasu soared above the Isle of the Blessed, spiraling inward, swooping down towards every suspicious flame he spotted. He was better at picking out soldiers than Merlin, his keen eyes able to discern friend from foe at a great distance, even through the swirling mists. He was especially gifted at finding people whose lives were in danger, at bringing their rescue to them in the nick of time.

But not even the red wyvern could stop all these soldiers. They did not fly above many corpses (except the ones they'd made), and it was difficult to see in the cloudy night without torches to act as beacons. Still, occasionally they would come across someone with arrows sticking out of them, or lying in a pool of their own vomit.

They always went to check on these poor innocents. Two were still alive, so Merlin transported them to the emergency clinic at the heart of the Isle before climbing aboard Wyrmbasu with fresh determination.

The others were dead. They were dead because these soldiers had invaded their home, poisoned their water, violated their only sanctuary. They were dead because Uther Pendragon was alive.

(Remember your promise to Arthur. You can't kill Arthur's father—though perhaps you could get away with cursing him, making him a slug or a rat or some other creature that isn't nearly as vile as he is.

After this, someone else will kill him for you.)

Another body, this one still moving, if only barely. Basu folded his wings. Merlin leapt from the wyvern's back, darted towards the fallen man. "Hang on," he ordered, "I'll—"

The man flipped onto his back and stabbed Merlin in the stomach.

Morgana pressed her back against the wall as she stepped sideways down the street. The word for the fire spell was on her lips. All she had to do was get to the corner, then shout a single word as she rounded it. Easy. It would be easy.

And, indeed, that part went off without a hitch. The fog kept her hidden until she was within range. Her fireball hit the archer in the center of his chest, colliding with enough force to knock him backwards. His scream pierced the night as sharply as his arrows.

But, sometime in the last couple minutes, another pair of trained killers had joined him. Only reflexes honed by years of clandestine sparring saved Morgana's life. She glimpsed two feet of solid steel, dyed red by the light of her fireball and the burning man, swinging towards her. Without thinking, the witch jumped backwards.

There were four of them now, she realized: the screaming, burning sniper; the man currently swinging his sword at her; another fellow with a slightly bigger sword, its blade hissing free of its sheath; and one more, who was grabbing for an arrow.

Morgana swore, but only once. She had to save her breath to dodge another sword-thrust. This soldier—Amatan, she thought, though it was hard to see his colors in the flickering firelight—was damnably fast, and she had neither weapons nor armor. Hell, she was wearing a dress. All she had was her brain and her magic.

The shield spell. That was one of the first things Merlin had taught her, back when they'd both been hiding in Camelot, but she couldn't remember the word. She might have the reflexes to catch an arrow midflight, but she couldn't think when dodging a gifted swordsman and trying not to trip over her stupid skirts. Or, rather, she couldn't think like a witch.

Thankfully, she was a swordswoman too. She knew how to fight.

But for that, she would need a sword.

Morgana twisted, ducking between the two warriors intent on slicing her to death. As they moved to follow her, she kicked with all her might, aiming for back of the second swordsman's knee. He staggered, narrowly avoiding decapitation from his own ally. Morgana kicked his other knee in, and he fell, instinctively flinging out his hands to catch himself.

The witch dove for the ground, grabbing for the hilt of his sword.

She had a sword now, but she was in a bad position: on the ground, outnumbered three to one, no armor or shield, stuck in a dress, with an archer ready to shoot her if she got too far from his friends. But her position had been outright terrible a few moments ago, so she counted it as a win.

The soldier on the ground took hold of her legs right as she rolled onto her side. She stabbed wildly at him, but he hung on, and the other soldier was right there, his sword was falling towards her neck—

"Gescildan!"

-and it struck the deep green shield that she'd finally remembered how to conjure. Thank all the gods.

Morgana laughed her relief, unable to help herself, but her happiness didn't last long. One soldier was inside the shield with her, and he'd clenched her braid to jerk her head towards him. His other hand lunged for her sword.

The lady twisted her wrist, barely able to avoid getting disarmed. The sword scraped against the man's gauntlet with a hideous screech. It didn't pierce his armor, but it did knock his arm back, keep him from stealing her blade. She swung at his face. The angle was all wrong to kill him, the cut too shallow, but he cried out in pain.

She struck again and again, unable to get past bone but fully capable of reducing his face to a web of blood and pain until he finally pushed himself away. Morgana's green shield slid between them, just as it had stayed between her and the others, as she climbed to her feet.

Of the four men whom she'd found here, only two remained immediate threats. Bloody Face was disarmed and blinded, while the sniper had fallen silent, burnt to death unnaturally quickly. The other swordsman and archer regarded her warily.

She still had to clear this passage.

She would have to drop her shield.

Morgana sliced through her skirts. She didn't particularly like ruining this dress—she'd been borrowing it—but it was a miracle that her legs hadn't tangled and gotten her killed. Then, once she'd trimmed the garment to an acceptable length, she charged Bloody Face. At the last possible second, her shield vanished into the ether.

Two down, two to go.

The would-be archer had finally realized that she wouldn't give him a clear shot. Rather than risk shooting his one remaining comrade, he drew his own sword. "Flank the witch," he ordered.

Morgana didn't give them a chance to put their plan into action. She lunged for the former archer, feinting to his left. He fell for it. Maybe swordplay wasn't his strong suit, maybe he couldn't see well enough to tell the difference. Morgana didn't care. She reversed her momentum, aiming for his unprotected throat. He blocked, but only barely, staggering back from the force of her blow.

"Gescildan," the witch intoned again, conjuring a second shield between them and the last soldier. He slammed into it with a satisfying thud and a muffled curse.

From there, it was a familiar dance, blade against blade, two fighters exchanging blow after blow until one of them slipped up. Morgana had more to lose; she did not falter. When her opponent did, she went in for the kill.

One left, but he was fresh, he'd seen her fighting style, and in the brief pause between bouts, Morgana realized that she was growing tired. Her lungs heaved. Small cuts along her arms stung, bruises throbbed, and there was blood in her mouth. She'd bitten her tongue at some point, probably when Bloody Face had tackled her.

"Try it, witch," the survivor spat. "I will avenge them."

"No, you won't," Morgana snapped. Every second she kept him talking was another second to catch her breath. "I will avenge the innocents that you and yours murdered tonight in cold blood."

"Innocents?" he sneered. "Sorcerous scum, the lot of them. The world is better off without them."

Her vision went red. She charged him, shield dissipating, a cry of battle-fury on her lips.

The survivor smirked. He blocked her almost without effort, turning her aside rather than stopping her in her tracks. She hadn't expected that. The tactic made her overreach and almost stumble.

A hot slash of pain along her arm, all the way to her bone. She screamed, pain shattering her blind rage.

The survivor laughed and swung again.

Morgana parried, but barely. He hadn't injured her dominant arm, thank all the gods, but the wound would slow her down. Against a skilled opponent, any faltering could kill her.

Unless….

She kept her motions deliberately slow and weak, for the next few seconds, husbanding her strength while letting him think that it was already gone. All she needed was a single good blow, one strike at his neck, and she'd win—but if he hit her first, then she would die.

That hateful smirk widened. He was toying with her now, Morgana realized. He enjoyed her exaggerated suffering.

So she gave him what he wanted, faking a stagger. He huffed a laugh, his blade swinging towards her almost lazily….

…and Morgana, with a last burst of strength, drove her sword through his neck.

He collapsed. She stood there, panting and exhausted and triumphant, for a long moment. Then Morgana walked away from the people she'd killed and back towards the ones she had chosen to protect.

The disguised soldier died almost as soon as he revealed his true alliance with the blade in Merlin's belly. Magic flared out from the warlock, raw and uncontrolled, shattering every bone in the man's body.

The knife began its slow downward slide, but Merlin grabbed its hilt. He couldn't take it out until he got to the healers, the unicorns.

Then Wyrmbasu was there, catching the back of his master's cloak as the warlock sank to his knees. He keened, his breath hot on Merlin's neck.

It hurt to move, but it hurt to stay still, too, so he wasn't going to complain too much. He maneuvered to face his wyvern, only to be presented with the problem of how he was supposed to ride him. Could he risk sitting upright, or would he weaken and fall and drive the knife deeper? The alternative was lying on his back and hoping to not fall off. He'd have to risk it.

So Merlin lugged his aching, bleeding body onto Basu's back. "Hurry," he rasped, the word barely audible.

Basu flew. It wouldn't take them long, Merlin knew. Perhaps he could just rest his eyes until they got there….

The world faded to black.

Spell: Clouds of heaven, gather together. Storm, rage. Await my command

Wyrmbasu: scarlet, red. It's also... a little bit of a pun, because I think that Merlin would appreciate that.

I realized whilst eating dinner that the chapter title didn't just refer to Morgana's victory strike or the attack on Merlin. Uther is also trying to make one 'good' (for a certain definition of the word) strike against his enemies in the hope that it's enough to finish them off.

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Merlin Makes Yet Another Dramatic Exit"

The epilogue will be up on May 29. Then I'll probably take June off to make more progress on Book 4 (I've been having SO MUCH WRITER'S BLOCK), both the writing and the editing to make sure the story is cooperating. If everything goes according to my current plan, I'll start posting Book 4 the first Friday of July.

-Antares