translations of dragontongue:

pŷr = fire
ophthalmós = eye of heaven


Merlin crouched down to peer through the bushes. They had a good enough view of the Gorge from up here, he decided. It was the right spot to wait in. Not too exposed, hard to see from the ground.

"Nervous?" Lancelot asked next to him.

Merlin scoffed, "I don't get nervous."

On his right, Gwaine chuckled. "This is news to me."

Merlin scowled. "Is this any way to talk to your lord and commander?"

It was Percival's turn to laugh. "Lord and commander? You hear that, boys? His first patrol, and he already thinks himself our superior."

Merlin refrained from pointing out that, as the son and heir of Balinor, he had always been their superior. Really, Merlin had no idea why he had mentioned rank in the first place. He was only trying to channel his inner warrior. Apparently, his inner warrior sounded like an arrogant prat.

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "Perhaps I am a bit nervous."

"Nothing to be ashamed of," Lancelot assured him.

"You'll do great," Gwaine encouraged him.

Merlin smiled. Whatever would he do without his friends?

He looked over his shoulder to check on Aithusa. The white dragon was curled up on the rocks, hiding herself away with the other drakes, ready to depart the moment Merlin needed her to. She was keeping completely still, trying to blend into her surroundings. For a dragon so young – and brightly coloured – she could be surprisingly stealthy.

"Someone's coming," Gwaine murmured and Merlin's head snapped back around.

Gwaine was right. At the very edge of the Gorge, Merlin could make out movement, the faintest hint of silhouettes.

"You see how many?" Merlin asked.

Gwaine squinted. "Not yet. But those sure look like red capes to me."

With excitement hitching his breath, Merlin leaned forward to get a better look – and promptly loosened some stones. They tumbled over the edge and fell straight down into the Gorge.

Merlin cursed his clumsiness. So much for remaining inconspicuous.

"Relax, Merlin," Percival said. "They're too far away to have noticed that."

"Take a deep breath," Lancelot soothed him.

Merlin sucked in a gust of air, nodded and narrowed his eyes. Gwaine was right. Red capes, five of them. A lone group of Camelot knights making their way through the narrow passage that was the Gorge of Gedref. It was a surprisingly foolish move on their part.

"A very small party," Gwaine pointed out. He sounded suspicious.

"They can't be expecting us," Merlin replied. "Perhaps Uther thinks we have given up on the area."

Gwaine hummed. Merlin didn't think it sounded like an agreement, but Gwaine kept any further thoughts to himself.

Merlin's eyes lingered on the enemy. He recounted the knights twice, still only coming up with five. It was a very small party. They were on horseback, guarding a lone, covered wagon. A laughably easy target for four warriors on three dragons. They must not have been able to keep up with the rest of their unit. Perhaps the wagon had broken down.

"Your call, Merlin," Percival said when the group had come closer. "This is your patrol."

He was right. It was Merlin's decision to make. He took another deep breath and tried to dispel any remaining trace of nervosity on exhale. This was the day to prove himself. A chance to show his father that he was worthy of his great destiny. He could do this.

A sudden vision assaulted him: His father's grim face, with hard eyes and a harsh frown that said Merlin had not yet grown into the man the dragonlord expected his son to be. Balinor was a warrior through and through, brave-hearted and tough, hardened by twenty-one years of war. Merlin was a pale, skinny lad of seventeen summers that everyone knew to be too soft and too compassionate for his own good.

But his birth prophecy had spoken, a dying mother's last gift to her only son. Merlin quietly recited the words, so often repeated to him by his father: And the Great Dragon shall command all dragons, and the fyre of all dragons shall be harnessed by one man. A great warrior, a great mage.

Merlin squared his shoulders.

"Let's do this," he said and stood.

The others followed without another word. They ran towards the dragons and swiftly climbed onto their saddles.

"Strategy as we discussed," Merlin called out as he swiftly strapped himself into place. "Ready?"

"Yes, my lord!" they chorused dutifully.

Merlin tried not to cringe. It was silly. They were his friends, yes, but in this moment, they were also his warriors to command. The title and their sudden conviction reflected that.

"Move!"

Three dragons ascended and flew off into different directions. Merlin guided Aithusa up to the clouds, then along the ravine and towards the enemy soldiers. She was the quickest and smallest of the dragons, swift and agile in her movements; perfect for an ambush in a narrow space such as the Gorge.

Merlin observed Uther's knights carefully. The group was still moving forward at a steady pace. Their enemies clearly hadn't spotted them yet.

He closed his eyes for one short moment, focusing on the feeling of wind brushing past his skin. This was it. He was in charge.

Merlin opened his eyes again and fixed them squarely on his target.

"Dive!" he shouted and Aithusa willingly followed his command.

She flapped her wings once, twice, picking up speed and then shot down into the Gorge, swift as a bird hunting for prey. The thrill of the flight got to Merlin and he found himself grinning as he leaned forward and pressed himself close to the dragon's lithe body. Gods, but he loved flying.

They were getting close now and Merlin could just make out shouting from below. Their enemies had finally spotted them.

To Merlin's people, a white dragon was a good omen. To knights of Camelot, not so much.

"Aithusa! Aim for the cart! Pŷr!"

The dragon chirped enthusiastically, and then she spat fire.

A stream of flames engulfed the wagon. Merlin let out a sharp breath as Aithusa shot right past the group of knights, drawing herself back up barely ten feet above the ground. The edge of her wings only just missed one of the horses, but the manoeuvre brought with it such a strong gust of wind that the rider toppled off regardless.

They ascended again and Merlin eagerly turned his head to inspect the damage. There was none. The wagon had escaped the fire completely unharmed, quickly dissipating smoke being the only proof that a dragon had just tried to incinerate it.

Merlin cursed. Of course that wagon was fire-resistant. He should have known it wouldn't be this easy.

A whistle caught his attention and he looked upwards to see a shimmer of blue scales. There were Lancelot and Percival, blades at the ready, riding confidently on Mynur. The dragon was big and muscular, a brute compared to the sleek Aithusa. He confidently made his way towards the Gorge and the group of Camelot knights.

Aithusa flew a wide curve above, offering Merlin a better view over the situation. But the distance was too great to make out anything in detail. Merlin drew upon his powers and closed his eyes.

"Ophthalmós," he said in dragontongue.

Merlin felt dragonfyre engulf him from within, flames of magic lapping at his very core and then, he saw the world through Aithusa's eyes. Her vision was fuzzy white at the edges, but incredibly sharp and clear at the centre. Together, they stared down into the Gorge.

This was when Merlin's heart skipped a beat.

The cover had been thrown off the wagon to reveal two more knights. And between them, on top of the cart, an all too familiar trestle. A launcher, though Merlin had never seen one so small and mobile. They could just make out the malicious glint of a draconite harpoon upon it.

So it had been a trap. Merlin shouted out a warning towards Lancelot and Percival, though he knew any words were hopelessly lost in the wind at this distance. Mynur had already passed the edge and flown straight into the Gorge.

"Aithusa," he gasped. "Warn Mynur!" The dragon chirped in agreement, then fell silent as she sent a telepathic warning to their brother.

One of the knights was quickly working the crank to get the contraption into the right position, another sat behind the trestle and pulled sharply at a lever. A second later, the harpoon was hurling directly towards Mynur at deathly speed.

The dragon was too big to make a turn or swerve within the constraints of the Gorge. Instead, Mynur abruptly drew himself upwards into a rapid ascend. But Aithusa's warning had come late, and the missile had been shot quickly and expertly. It struck the dragon's tail.

Mynur's roar of anger and pain pierced Merlin's chest. For a moment, he felt he could not breathe. He had never been able to bear seeing his kin in agony.

A roar of his own escaped him. They would pay for this! He exited Aithusa's vision with a gasp, then told her to fly at the wagon again, this time from behind. The knights noticed them at once, frantically cranking to turn the launcher into their direction.

They were too slow for Aithusa.

"Pŷr!" Merlin shouted.

Of course, the launcher was just as fire resistant as the wagon. But the knights were not. He caught a whiff of a terribly familiar stench as they flew past. Three men were on fire. As a dragonlord, Merlin was no stranger to the stink of burning flesh and hair. Fire was his element and he knew of the damage it could do.

Aithusa flew up and away again until they were circling above the Gorge at a safe distance, though closer than before. Four soldiers left. Time for the cavalry.

As if on cue, Gwaine descended on Vethoas. The dragon was sleek and pitch-black. She made an almost straight line down and towards the bottom, then took a sharp turn upwards and was gone again. Gwaine was on the ground, two blades at the ready. He immediately launched himself at one of the surviving knights and brought him down before the other three could jump him.

Merlin frowned. With Vethoas gone, Gwaine would not be able to draw upon her magic. The man was an excellent fighter, but one against three? Merlin didn't like those odds. He looked around. No sight of Lancelot and Percival. Perhaps Mynur had had to land due to his injury.

"Get me down there," Merlin shouted and Aithusa eagerly followed his orders.

She descended quickly, though not nearly as sharply as Vethoas had, then flew parallel to the ground, slowing down considerably. Merlin unbuckled the straps holding him in place and jumped off. By then, Gwaine was under pressure from three sides, desperately whirling his blades at the enemies to keep them at bay. They had draconite swords, Merlin realised with some dread.

"Get out of here," he shouted at Aithusa and she promptly flew off.

Luckily, unlike Gwaine, Merlin didn't need a dragon nearby to use dragonfyre. He raised his hand and called up the powers at his command. Once more, he felt a burning sensation rise inside of him. A flash of hot gold lit up his vision. A word, a flick of his hands, and all three enemy soldiers were blasted violently off their feet.

Gwaine awkwardly stumbled forward as his attack suddenly lost its targets. Then he turned and grinned at Merlin.

"About time!" he yelled and Merlin found himself grinning back.

They carefully approached the knights. Their red capes were fanned out on the floor, showing off the embroidered Camelot crest - a golden drake, pierced by a black harpoon. Leave it to Uther the Tyrant to adorn himself and his men with such a gruesome scene.

Merlin shuddered. He dearly hoped Mynur wasn't seriously injured.

The knights were in armour, helmets included. Their visors were closed, but from their flat breathing and still limbs, it became clear that they had been knocked unconscious by the blast of magic.

Gwaine kicked at one of them for good measure. "They're out," he confirmed.

Merlin went to look at the wagon, raising his red scarf up to his nose against the lingering stench. He only threw a furtive glance at the burnt bodies, focusing on the wagon instead. Its wood had been treated with a glossy coating and the tarp that had covered the launcher was drenched in some liquid. The knights of Camelot had been prepared for fire, and their tools were becoming more and more refined with each year. Merlin inspected the trestle on top and a shiver ran down his spine. The contraption looked incredibly sophisticated.

Another whistle distracted him. Merlin looked up just in time to see Mynur and Aithusa descend. When they had landed beside them on the rocky ground of the Gorge, Merlin immediately ran over to the blue dragon.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

Mynur huffed. "I've had worse," he rumbled.

Merlin knelt down next to his tail and inspected the damage. The harpoon had only grazed the drake. It was a long cut and there was fresh blood, but it was not a serious wound. Mynur had been lucky. Still, Merlin found himself reeling with guilt as he scrambled back onto his feet.

"I'm so sorry, Mynur!" He brushed a trembling hand over the blue scales. "I should have known they looked too easy a target."

Mynur dismissively flapped his wings.

"Don't sweat it, Merlin," Percival called out as he climbed off the dragon. "The patrol was a complete success."

"Congratulations," Lancelot added and put an encouraging hand on Merlin's shoulder.

Relief flooded Merlin. Yes, they had done it, hadn't they? They had taken out some of Uther's men under Merlin's command, with no casualties on their side. His father would be satisfied.

Merlin glanced upwards. Vethoas was circling high above, keeping watch.

"Oi," Gwaine suddenly called out. "Merlin! Get over here!"

He was crouching over one of the knights. It seemed he had opened the visors to get a better look at their enemies. Whatever he had found underneath had been enough to make him look a strange mix of startled and gleeful.

Feeling apprehensive, Merlin approached only hesitantly. "What's the matter?"

Gwaine looked up at him. "I think you'll want to see this. Your father will be absolutely thrilled with you."

Merlin came to a halt and stared down at the face of the unconscious knight. Blonde hair, a regal nose, a proud chin. Merlin's breath hitched as he realised just who he was looking at. He had seen him only once or twice from great distance, but recognised him instantly.

It was the Crown Prince of Camelot: Arthur Pendragon.