Chapter XXVIII: King against King
Merlin had forgotten, almost, what it was like to not be cursed.
When he'd finally reawakened after taking on the land-bond, he'd been utterly exhausted, barely capable of staying awake for a few minutes at a time. He'd gotten better since then, of course. He slept like a normal person now. But there had been a constant haze of tiredness at the edge of his mind, his body, his magic, barely noticeable until it was cleared away.
Now, his mind felt sharper, his body stronger, his magic more alive. The wound on his belly, with its constant ebb and flow of pain, had faded to a scar. It was still uncomfortable if he stretched wrong. Perhaps it always would be. But Brisen assured him that there were no signs of infection anymore.
Merlin's new health brought its own, thankfully much more minor, problem: his magic bubbled and shimmered beneath his skin, augmented by the land-bond, ready to leap into action whether he wanted it to or not. Thankfully, he was able to channel the excess energy into useful acts: speeding up the siphon, increasing the fertility of the ground, ensuring that the groundwater was safe to drink, transporting Gaius and Sir Traherne.
All that, and one more thing.
"Ready to go, Highness?"
"Yes," said Orgeluse shortly. She stood stiff-backed and pale, but her face was unruffled. Not comfortable with magic, but willing to accept it.
"Remember," Merlin cautioned, "try to keep a wide stance. It's easy to lose your balance when you're not accustomed to teleporting."
"I know that," she snapped. "You've told me several times. Is this not wide enough?" She gestured at her feet, which were a bit more than shoulder-width apart.
"You should be good," Merlin agreed. He summoned a whirlwind for them, and it whisked them away to a small deserted grove near Sarrum's camp. Another spell rendered them invisible. They slipped past the guards, through the tents and dim campfires, towards the tent where Claudin lay sleeping. Orgeluse kept her hand on the warlock's shoulder. Her grip was tighter than it strictly needed to be, but Merlin didn't comment.
Then they were at Claudin's tent, and Merlin froze time. He and the princess stepped inside. Claudin's chest rose and fell slowly, but his manservant (one of Sarrum's spies. According to Orgeluse, every royal offspring's personal servants were informants, which was why she so enjoyed forcing her own maid to jump through ridiculous hoops every day) remained still. Excellent. Merlin had never tried pulling someone not in his direct line of sight out of time, but it had worked.
The princess, visible again, shook her brother's shoulders as Merlin summoned his signature glowing orb. The prince blinked awake, saw his sister, jerked upright. "You're alive," he breathed, beaming as brightly as the mage-light. Then his jaw snapped shut, and his gaze darted about the tent.
"I'm alive," Orgeluse chuckled, speaking at a normal volume. Claudin winced, but the princess continued, "No, you don't have to worry about Laisren waking up, and Merlin here obviously isn't going to report this to Father."
The prince stood slowly, weighing the warlock with his gaze before turning back to his sister. "I'd hoped, when word came of your disappearance, that you could make allies of Father's enemies. I assume that your friend is Merlin Emrys?"
…Was that the only spellbinder name they knew in Amata, or did he recognize Merlin's ears too? The warlock decided not to ask. He probably wouldn't like the answer.
Orgeluse smirked. "Brother dear, this is indeed Merlin Caledonensis, called Emrys, leader of the magical rebels of Albion and future Court Mage of King Arthur Pendragon. Merlin, this is my brother, Claudin Ua Cleirigh, Crown Prince of Amata."
"Good to meet you," Merlin said, bowing slightly from the waist.
To his surprise, Prince Claudin echoed his gesture. "Well met, Goodman. Or would that be Lord?"
Merlin groaned. Orgeluse cackled. "He's a lord but doesn't like to admit it. He's also going to kill our father for us."
Claudin fell silent for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. "When?"
"Today," Merlin answered. "When the battle is joined. I'll be waiting on the battlefield for the first opportunity to make it look natural."
"And then, gods willing, Amata will be mine." Something sparked in his eyes like flint meeting iron. "With a convenient army in case my uncle becomes overly ambitious. Lord Merlin, does King Arthur want this war?"
"Of course not," Merlin answered, forcing himself to ignore the unwanted title.
Claudin smiled. "Good. So he'd be amenable to a ceasefire as soon as my father is dead?"
"He'd love that," Merlin assured him. "In fact, I'm fairly certain that he'll try to get Sarrum to fight in single combat. Arthur hates it when people die for him."
The prince smiled. Orgeluse commented, "You don't look very convinced."
Merlin shrugged. "I don't know how likely Sarrum is to take the bait, and even if he does, there's still Cenred to worry about. I'm Essetiri by birth. I know better than to trust Cenred."
The siblings looked at each other, holding an entire silent conversation with nothing more than faint shifts in expression. "I can't do anything about Cenred," Claudin said slowly, "but I've spent most of my life learning to defuse Father's temper. I should, in theory, be able to manipulate him into accepting King Arthur's challenge. It's been a while since I've seen Arthur, though. Is he still as skilled with the blade as I remember?"
"He's the best swordsman I've ever seen," Merlin confessed. "Just never tell him I said that. His head is big enough already."
Orgeluse chuckled. Claudin smiled. "Father is a remarkable fighter, but if Arthur truly is as good as you say, he should be able to win."
"Especially if you're there," the princess added. The men turned to her. She huffed. "Don't look at me like that. King Arthur is good, I don't doubt that, but so is Father. It only takes one lucky blow to kill an enemy. I once saw a man die because he sneezed at the wrong time. Arthur doesn't need to know. Nobody does. Hell, maybe you won't have to do anything. But you must be prepared to intervene if Father is about to win."
"You're right," Claudin agreed.
"Naturally."
Merlin nodded, already plotting ways to sabotage Sarrum. A spot of mud in the wrong place. His armor a bit heavier than it should be, his sword a touch too slow. Uneven ground where he'd expected smooth. "I'll be watching."
"Good," pronounced Orgeluse. "Claudin, this is our chance. You have to be ready to seize control of the army the moment Father falls."
"I will," vowed the next King of Amata. "I swear to you, I will."
Their armies—the main branches, that is, not the second hidden party of Amatans or Ector and Kay's men—met when the sun reached its zenith. They marched into the pasture without attempting to hide, slowly and inexorably taking their positions. As Arthur and Cenred's combined army filed into place, a pair of riders in Camelot red sallied forth into the no-man's-land between their forces and Amata's. Leon and Marrok paused in the center of the field, completely exposed, and waited.
Cenred's horse trotted up to Arthur. The Essetiri king's face was flushed with rage. "What are you doing?" he demanded lowly.
"Single combat," Arthur answered, not taking his eyes from the knight and squire.
"Single combat," Cenred echoed, incredulous. "Do you really think that Sarrum will accept your challenge?"
"I think," Arthur retorted sharply, "that I owe it to our men to at least try to save their lives."
"And what of those two men?" Cenred sneered, nodding at Leon and Marrok. "They'll be shot down."
Arthur didn't bother pointing out the heavy armor which covered the knight, the squire, and their horses. "If Sarrum were going to have them shot, he'd have done it already."
As if on cue, a finely attired rider on a massive warhorse trotted out of the Amatan camp. He approached Leon and Marrok. Arthur grinned; announcing that he knew about the reinforcements must have spooked Sarrum.
Cenred's scowl deepened.
The Amatan exchanged words with Leon. The red-cloaked knight handed over his king's letter, then the three warriors rode back to their respective camps.
Arthur went to meet them. Cenred followed. Leon and Marrok bowed as well as they were able to from horseback.
"Sir Leon, report."
"I'm cautiously optimistic, Sire. I got the impression that the Amatans don't particularly want to fight your army of sorcerers."
"My what?"
"Your army of sorcerers," Leon repeated blandly. Only a small twitch at the corner of his lips belied his amusement. "It would seem there's been a rumor spreading that you have spellbinders sprinkled amongst your troops just raring for a chance to set the entire Amatan army on fire. The rumor, ridiculous as it is, leaves Sarrum in a bad position."
"I suppose that the possibility of immolation is rather bad for morale," Arthur acknowledged. Had Merlin started that rumor? Prince Claudin, who was, according to his warlock, fully on board with his father's death? Or perhaps it was just another thread of gossip spiraling out of control. "I'm surprised that the messenger mentioned it."
"He only warned me that sorcerous tricks from the troops would not be tolerated. I deduced the rest myself."
"…How would he stop any sorcery?" Arthur asked, incredulous.
"I didn't ask," his knight admitted. "I simply assured him that I'd pass on his message."
The kings laughed. Marrok hid his mouth, shoulders shaking with repressed mirth. Leon lost his internal battle and grinned widely.
Cenred was the first to recover. "Sarrum is known to be an extraordinary fighter. Aren't you worried about losing?"
"I could die in a wide-scale battle too," Arthur shrugged.
"But what will happen if you do lose?" the other king pressed. "What does Sarrum have to gain just by killing you, when he knows that I'm here with my own army?"
"He likely sees this as his chance to quash magic's return," Arthur speculated. Why was Cenred so against him fighting Sarrum? Was it all for show? Or—and this seemed more likely—did his plans depend on Arthur surviving another day? That was good news. It meant that Arthur had gambled correctly with regards to his cousin. He must not believe that he could take over Camelot, that he needed more time to plot his coup. Excellent.
"But what concessions did you offer him?" Cenred clarified. "Territory, trade concessions, money…?"
"An indemnity," Arthur explained.
"How much?"
"Large enough to tempt him. Look." Arthur pointed. "I think that's him."
A powerful figure in shining armor rode into the field. "ARTHUR PENDRAGON!" he roared, raising his sword. It glinted in the sun like lightning. "I ACCEPT YOUR CHALLENGE!"
Arthur pressed his heels into his horse's sides. The steed walked forward, slow and unbothered.
"I'd like to see your face before we fight," Arthur announced. He didn't shout, but he was careful to project his voice.
Sarrum lifted his helmet, his eyes full of murder. "You think I would use an imposter?" he snarled.
"I think it's best to check," Arthur returned, noting with satisfaction how Sarrum's face reddened. Get angry, he thought. Get mad enough to make stupid mistakes.
"And I think it best to check your terms," the older king declared, turning Arthur's strategy against him. "You have sworn that Camelot will pay fifty thousand gold coins, give me the head of Merlin Emrys, resume the capital punishment for sorcery, and forswear magic forevermore after I kill you."
"You bet my head?" squawked an outraged voice in Arthur's skull.
"He's not going to get it," the king pointed out, hoping that Merlin was powering his reply.
"Obviously not," the warlock sniffed, "but it's the principle of the thing, Arthur."
Arthur valiantly refrained from rolling his eyes. "These are my terms," he confirmed aloud, "provided that you swear to your own end of the bargain. When I defeat you, Amata must pay Camelot thirty thousand gold coins, join us in rooting out bandits along our border, rewrite our kingdoms' treaty to remove the clause of mutual aggression against magic, remove the capital punishment for sorcery, and attend Camelot's summit this spring."
"He isn't even trying to get his daughter back," Merlin huffed.
"Shut up, Merlin. I need to focus."
The warlock shut up, demonstrating that he did occasionally possess a modicum of sense.
"My terms don't matter," Sarrum retorted. "I will not lose, Arthur Pendragon. You will die knowing that you've failed."
"Your terms matter far more than mine, King Sarrum. Do you agree that we fight to the death?"
"Gladly. I look forward to killing you, boy." The King of Amata donned his helm, sliding shut the face-plate, and drew his sword. It was a massive thing, designed for brute strength rather than skill or strategy.
Arthur had no helmet. He understood their protective potential, of course, but preferred to keep his peripheral vision. He did, however, have a steel barrier to protect the vulnerable base of his throat.
He was vaguely aware of groom leading away their horses, of their murmuring audience, but most of his attention narrowed in on his opponent. Arthur kept his stance wide, his knees slightly bent, circling left. Waiting for the first blow.
Sarrum struck first, his sword moving far more quickly than it had any right to. Arthur sidestepped. He hoped to use the older king's momentum against him, but Sarrum was too skilled for that. He didn't overbalance, instead moving smoothly into his next attack.
Arthur wasn't weak. He could stop (some of) Sarrum's blows by meeting them head-on, but that would tire him more quickly than fluid dodging. It wouldn't do for his sword arm to fail when he needed it most.
Unfortunately, despite his many flaws, Sarrum was an excellent swordsman. His blows slowed, weakened, and Arthur foolishly assumed this meant that his stamina was fading. It wasn't. When the younger man took the bait, stepping in for a quick thrust, his opponent's sword snapped up. Steel clanged against steel. Arthur nearly lost his grip.
The ploy left him off-balance, and Sarrum was quick to press his advantage. He launched a flurry of blows, not as powerful as before but swifter, forcing Arthur to react without time to think. But he did have time to observe, to note that Sarrum's attacks came in a pattern.
Arthur feinted, pretending he didn't know where Sarrum's next thrust would come from, then pulled back his arm. Their swords clashed in such a way as to unbalance Sarrum, not much, but enough.
Now Arthur was on the offensive, forcing Sarrum back. The ringing of steel against steel roared across the battlefield.
Sarrum turned a slightly imperfect attack into an opening, attacking rather than defending. Arthur danced to the other king's left, taking advantage of his obscured view. Sarrum pivoted to follow, and Arthur lunged forward, aiming for the seam between helmet and breastplate.
His foe twisted out of the way, and Arthur's attack missed by less than an inch.
The near-death experience was enough to spook Sarrum, and Arthur wasn't stupid enough to ignore his opportunity. He moved in close, forcing a retreat and negating the advantage of the massive sword's longer reach. Sarrum couldn't look behind himself, couldn't take his eyes off the man trying to kill him, but he had to keep stepping backwards. It was only a matter of time before he misjudged his step. The ground was lower than he expected, or maybe higher, or maybe just uneven. It didn't matter.
All that mattered was Sarrum's slight stumble, the moment when his balance was off and his guard was down.
Arthur struck, aiming once again for the base of Sarrum's neck.
This time, he didn't miss.
This shouldn't have happened.
How, Cenred wondered, had it gone so wrong?
Their armies were supposed to join in battle. Sarrum, expecting Cenred to betray Arthur, would leave himself open to the Essetiri army. Cenred's men would destroy Sarrum's two forces, making him a hero in the eyes of Camelot and its magical allies. Arthur would die in the fray, his sabotaged saddle failing him. He should have fallen to the ground surrounded by mounted enemies, easy prey for crushing hooves and blows from above. Cenred would have been the de facto King of Camelot as well as Essetir, and in a position to force Amata's surrender.
But his idiot cousin had challenged their idiot enemy to an idiotic bout of single combat, and now King Claudin was striding towards the tent they'd set aside for negotiations. Cenred followed, off-kilter, despairing.
This shouldn't have happened. This shouldn't have happened.
How, he wondered, could he possibly redeem the situation?
"Your Majesty," Arthur said, inclining his head towards Amata's new ruler.
"Your Majesties," Claudin returned, nodding towards Arthur and Cenred. The King of Essetir murmured an automatic greeting, his thoughts whirling.
He couldn't lose his chance to conquer two kingdoms and win the loyalty of magic. With three nations and an army of sorcerers, he could take over Albion. He could expand to Man and Eire and the other, smaller islands that dotted the seas. He could expand into the Frankish territories, to Armorica, Frisia, all the way to Jutland to the north and Burgundy to the south. If he played his cards right, he could do what Macsen Wledig could not and march all the way to Rome. He'd have had power and riches beyond anything Arthur could imagine.
The two newer kings were talking, ignoring the third monarch in the room. Treating him like a peasant—worse than a peasant, for Arthur listened to his smallfolk. A fresh flare of resentment rumbled in his belly.
But then Arthur made his mistake. The tent was small, barely large enough for the three kings and the page dancing attendance on them. Arthur turned to the excited boy and sent him away for quill and ink and parchment. The page scurried out.
The whole world went crystal-clear, an opportunity shining diamond-like right in front of him. Arthur was alone with Cenred… and a man whose father he'd just struck down.
They weren't wearing armor anymore.
Arthur was ignoring Cenred. He didn't notice when the King of Essetir slipped a dagger from its sheath. It was a plain, serviceable blade without any identifying marks. It could belong to an Essetiri or an Amatan or anybody else.
"LOOK OUT!" the King of Essetir shouted at the top of his lungs, already lunging forward. It was what people would expect him to say if he saw Claudin attacking Arthur, and he made sure that people outside their tent could hear him.
Cenred stabbed Arthur Pendragon in the back.
Ua Cleirigh: A very ancient form of O'Clery, one of the oldest recorded surnames in Europe. It's Irish in origin, as are the names of Claudin and Orgeluse's sisters. I guess this means that Sarrum's family has Irish origins and came over to Wales somehow.
Alternate chapter title: "In Which Cenred Panics"
Next chapter: February 11. Once again, Merlin must bring someone back from the brink of death. Then it's one more update to finish this book before I start Book V, which (shockingly) has given me a bit of writers' block. Ugh. At least this time I've got a detailed outline to hold my hand.