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Chapter 3

Lancelot barreled through the woods, ducking under trees growing in an arc whose tops plunged right back into the soil. Scraggly branches snagged at his chainmail as he kept up the harried pace. He finally staggered to a stop to catch his breath, casting an anxious look over his shoulder. There was no sign of the hag. But now Lancelot had an entirely different problem—he'd left the stream, which he needed to follow to find this fold place to leave the staff. But he couldn't go back in case the witch or goddess was still there. The Vilia were powerful spirits and he had no doubt they could battle those shadows, but the one who controlled them? It'd be too risky. Given the warning Coventina had given about evil parties getting their hands on the staff, Lancelot knew he couldn't chance it. But then what was he to do? Where else could he even go in this dream world? Back to the glade and hope Coventina was still there? And then what, admit he'd failed and give up? No, he couldn't do that. Perhaps if he waited a while and then ventured back to the stream…

A distant howl echoed on the wind, one that sent chills up his spine. Perhaps staying put wasn't a good idea.

He propelled himself forward again, making his way through the intricately knotted trees, flinching when another howl sounded a bit closer than the last. He quickened his pace, running full out and pushing past splayed branches. Until the ground suddenly disappeared and he almost went pitching right off a cliff. Loose soil trickled over the edge as he skidded to a stop and flailed a hand to grab hold of a nearby tree to stop his forward momentum. Several trunks dangled over the edge by their roots, which luckily gave him a bit of a lattice net beneath his feet. He scrabbled backward, chest heaving.

More howls rent the air behind him, definitely getting closer. Lancelot didn't have time to think about it. He wrestled the staff through his sword belt, nocking one of the thorns on the leather, and then grabbed some of the exposed roots as he turned and stepped off the ledge. The bottom was only about thirty feet or so; he could make it.

Climbing with both his scabbard and the staff knocking against his legs and hip made every movement awkward, but he doggedly kept going, doing his best not to look down. Silt crumbled and made skittering sounds as his boots ground against the footholds. There were a lot of exposed roots that he used to help guide his descent.

And then one of them ripped free of the cliff side and Lancelot reeled backward. He lost his footing and dropped a good few inches before he managed to catch himself on another thick root, his body slamming against the rock face. His elbow snapped taut, stealing what little breath remained in his lungs, and for several moments he simply hung there, struggling to find purchase. His fingers grasped at rough rock, slipping several times before he finally got a good grip. Once he had one, he clung to it desperately and did his best not to move another inch. His muscles were trembling and his breathing was labored, so he focused on calming himself before trying again.

Taking it more slowly now, he concentrated on moving one foot at a time, testing each notch before putting his full weight on it. It was an excruciating pace, but he eventually reached the bottom. He staggered away from the cliff face, craning his head to look up at the top, only for several shadows to come shooting out over the precipice and swooping down toward him. Lancelot pivoted to flee, but they were already behind him, solidifying into dark gray wolves as soon as they touched the ground. Their fur rippled like mist, but their claws and fangs looked distinctly tangible. Fulvous eyes blazed crimson as they snarled and gnashed their teeth.

Lancelot grabbed his sword and struggled to free it from its scabbard, but the hilt was caught against one of the staff's thorns. The wolves growled and charged, and Lancelot barely got his blade free in time to swipe at the first beast that lunged for his throat. This time the steel cut through the shadow as though through flesh, and the wolf yelped and veered away. Lancelot spun to slash at the next one, cutting it across the shoulder. Black blood splattered the ground.

Lancelot gripped his sword in two hands and stabbed at another beast. It howled as the blade pierced its hide and then fell limp. But while they were capable of being injured, there were too many for Lancelot to fight off. He spun to slash at one coming at him from behind, but that left his side open, and another wolf leaped forward, sinking its fangs into his arm down to bone. Lancelot cried out and almost dropped to one knee from the shocking pain. He released his grip on the sword with that hand, taking it fully in the other, and twisted around to stab the wolf in the flank. It yelped and tore itself away, those teeth taking several chunks of flesh with it.

Lancelot was swinging wildly now, his vision going spotty and adrenaline raging through his veins as quickly as blood was pouring from his arm. His blade met more resistance as it cut through shadowy sinew and muscle, pitch unguent spraying the air.

And then everything was quiet. Lancelot swayed on his feet as he took in the blurring shapes slain across the ground. Then his legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees first, then toppled onto his side. His arm was burning as though on fire, and the rest of his body was beginning to convulse from the shock of it. Which was bad, he knew.

He struggled to sit up and grasp his sword with his uninjured hand. He almost sliced his own leg as he cut a strip from the bottom of his tunic. Wrapping it around the bite punctures was difficult, as his fingers couldn't grasp the one end to hold it in place. Hot blood pumped out from the wounds and soaked his trouser leg. He finally managed to hold one end of the makeshift bandage against the ground and wound the fabric around his arm. Holding one end with his other hand and the opposite end with his teeth, he pulled as hard as he could to tighten it.

The searing fire that erupted in his arm stole the rest of his breath and almost sent him into oblivion. But he somehow managed to remain conscious, collapsing onto his back and choking on strangled sobs. He lay there for a long while, knowing he needed to move but lacking the strength to even try. He idly wondered if he could die in a dream realm. He certainly felt like he was dying—weakness and blood loss were leeching the warmth and energy from his limbs.

No, he couldn't die here, separated from his friends and loved ones, who would have absolutely no idea what had happened to him. And if he was the only person who could accomplish this quest and protect his home from the evils of the staff at his side, then he had to get up.

Lancelot took a deep breath, and with shaking muscles, forced himself to sit upright again. He would not give up.

.o.0.o.

Merlin stood next to Arthur as he and Rodan argued yet again.

"Perhaps the goddess is testing your knight to see if Camelot is worthy of this treaty," the Druid leader suggested.

Arthur's nostrils flared. "We came to you in peace, to right the wrongs of the past, and you have the gall to subject one of my men to magic without consent and call it a test of worthiness?"

"The goddess has her reasons," Rodan maintained. "If she blesses the treaty between our people, then I will trust it."

"Well, I'm no longer sure I do," Arthur rejoined. "You know, I am not blind to the persecution my father inflicted upon your people, but it's actions like this that make everyone else fear magic in the first place!"

"Why don't we all calm down," Merlin finally interjected. Now would be a really good time for Lancelot to wake up and assure everyone he was fine…

"Arthur!" Leon urgently called from inside the alcove.

They three of them rushed back inside, and Merlin held his breath in expectation that Lancelot was finally awake—only for his hopes to be dashed as he saw Lancelot's arm drenched in blood.

"What happened?" he exclaimed, pushing forward.

Percival was already at Lancelot's side and tearing open his sleeve. Merlin gaped in stupefaction at the savagely torn limb.

"What happened?" he repeated. He and Arthur had only stepped outside for a few minutes.

"We don't know, he just started bleeding," Leon answered, sounding shaken.

Rodan also looked shocked at the sight. "I don't understand…this isn't supposed to happen. The vision quests are benign, spiritual experiences."

Merlin hurriedly grabbed the edge of the blanket Lancelot was lying on and folded it up and over his arm, pressing down hard to stop the bleeding.

"We're leaving, now," Arthur snapped.

"We can't move him while he's bleeding out," Merlin argued.

Not only that, but whatever was happening, it was connected to the Druids' vision quest, and going back to Camelot wasn't their best hope at resolving it.

He grabbed Percival's wrist and slapped his hand on top of Lancelot's arm. "Keep applying pressure," he instructed and leaped to his feet. He marched over to Rodan and pulled him outside. "We need supplies," he said, loudly enough for the others to hear, then cast a look over his shoulder before lowering his voice. "Tell me what's happening to Lancelot," he demanded.

"I swear to you, I don't know," Rodan insisted. His jaw tightened. "I cannot speak for the goddess. Perhaps she has deemed Camelot untrustworthy to uphold this treaty."

"I don't believe that," Merlin hissed. "Tell me how to speak with her myself. Can I go into Lancelot's vision quest?"

Rodan shook his head. "There is no way that I know of, but your power is greater than mine, Emrys."

Merlin huffed. There really were downsides to people thinking he was the greatest sorcerer to have ever lived, like leaving him to figure out everything on his own. But he had to try.

"Fine, we're going to go back in there, and you're going to make it look like you're the one using magic to send me into Lancelot's mind."

Rodan frowned. "King Arthur will be even more angry."

"I don't care," Merlin snapped under his breath. "You played a role in putting Lancelot in this position, and you may not have intended him to come to harm, but that's what's happening now, so you're going to help fix it."

Rodan sighed, but after a moment he gave a resigned nod.

And there were advantages to being the great and powerful Emrys.

They went back inside where Percival and Leon were still trying to staunch the flow of blood from Lancelot's mysterious wounds. Merlin knew there was no way he'd be able to clear the room of everyone, so he'd have to work quickly before anyone caught on to what he was doing. He nudged Percival out of the way under the pretense of checking the bleeding, which thankfully had slowed.

"There's healing supplies and bandages in my bag," he said.

"I'll get it," Elyan volunteered and hurried out of the alcove.

"I need water too."

"Tell Lareth outside," Rodan said casually, earning several glares, but Gwaine turned away to do so.

The room was still crowded but there was no time. Merlin knelt beside Lancelot, Rodan crouching beside him.

"Good luck," the Druid whispered.

Merlin took a breath and closed his eyes, summoning up his magic and reaching out to connect to his friend. He didn't know exactly what he was doing but trusted his instincts, letting his magic take shape around the will he wanted to execute. Then he felt his consciousness getting sucked up, transcending through a swirling eddy of light and wind. There was a gossamer thread that resonated of Lancelot's being, and Merlin grasped tightly to it and let it carry him all the way to his friend.