Chapter 12: Interruption

Merlin found her legs in the jumble of her skirts, slid one arm beneath her knees, kept the other behind her shoulders, and lifted. Her gasp was not much louder than drawing a quick breath, light and frail as an autumn leaf. He could feel the tension in her body; she was not completely unconscious.

"Make no noise," he breathed again, ducking his head near her face.

In the hut above them, Burton whined to Padlow, "If you don't want her no more, why not give her to me 'stead of beating her to death?"

Merlin ascended the steep cellar stair carefully and sideways, keeping his back against one wall for balance. A dozen options raced through his mind – revenge, revenge, his pulse demanded. But he could think of no way to get his revenge without further endangering her, and even the few moments he took to consider the problem were wasted.

They emerged into the cold afternoon air; she whimpered and let her head fall back over his arm. She was lighter than he'd expected her to be, and had no warmer outer garment than the old woolen shawl, but that was folded and tied around her waist, giving no cover to arms or shoulders.

Merlin growled in his throat and carried her to the stable behind the hut. His own nag would have to wait; it would take too long to carry Freya that far, and any moment could mean discovery of her absence. His tracks would be easy to follow in the snow, and it wasn't falling fast enough to cover them quickly. Burton and Padlow mounted on the grays would soon overtake them, and even if he reached the nag with Freya safely, he couldn't ride fast enough to reach town before they caught up, if they followed. And she couldn't ride alone, while he went back.

He worked the latch of the stable door with his knee and two fingers, and slipped inside. Saddling would take too long, but both grays wore halters linking them to rusty iron rings wedged between the logs of the wall. He nudged open the nearest stall gate with his boot, and lifted her as best he could over the gray's withers.

She hung there awkwardly, but she didn't slip, so Merlin swiftly untied the horse and led him from the stall slowly and carefully. He returned for the second animal, kept the halter in his grasp as he coaxed both horses to leave the relative warmth of their stable. Then as Merlin mounted, Freya nearly slid off.

He caught her, bundled her up in his arms, holding the second horse's halter in one hand and guiding their mount with the other. He pressed his heels sharply to start the gray moving, but skirted the hut only slightly. The two horses whickered nervously to each other, but made no other protest. Merlin expected a shout of discovery, a thrown blade, at any moment, but they were soon out of sight of the hut with no disturbance. He held the gray to a swift walk, trying to keep the ride smooth for Freya, yet hurry at the same time.

Her head rolled limply back onto his shoulder. He glanced down at her face, and raw, hot anger shot through him. Bruises and cuts gained during a matched fight were one thing – this was something else entirely. He was no stranger to the pain of a beating like this, but for her – for this girl, so sweet and kind and quiet – it was worse than wrong.

Freya's face had been battered until the skin broke open. Trails of drying blood led downward from her lip, her nostrils, several other places, down the slender neck that showed dark bruising as well – discoloration that would only spread over the next few hours, he knew from experience. Her dress was torn, her skin scraped and reddened beneath.

She felt so light, so delicate against him. He ground his teeth and vowed to give Padlow back blow for blow before he let him die.

The snow fell more swiftly in an early twilight. Thick clumps of flakes gathered in the horse's mane, in the creases of Merlin's coat, melted on Freya's upturned face and trickled into her hair and the crooked scarf that covered it. She moaned, sucked in a quick shallow breath. Her eyelids fluttered as she tried to raise her head, her fingers fumbling with the shawl.

He gathered her more closely, afraid to stop even to wrap his coat around her – even without worse wounds than that given by a man's fists, he knew it was possible to die from such a beating. He tucked the second horse's halter under his knee, and used his freed hand to unbutton his coat, draw her inside, stretch the edge around her. He could feel her breathing, low and quick, and tucked her head up gently under his chin so his broad-brimmed hat might provide some shelter for her as well.

Merlin swore to himself with every step the horse took, straining his eyes to see the first hint of the town. If only Gaius had stayed at the tavern... he did not finish the thought. He saw the smoke of the chimneys before he saw any of the buildings; though it melded with the gray of the sky and the low clouds, his eye was quick and eager to note the difference.

"Almost there," he murmured to Freya, who did not respond. She felt warm where she was nestled up to him, but the hand that lay limp on her leg, brushed by snowy strands of the horse's mane, was deathly white.

Remembering the watching reeve, Merlin skirted the edge of town to avoid being seen, and came up to the tavern from behind. He slid carefully from the horse's back, keeping one hand on Freya to hold her still, then eased her down just as carefully. There was a fair chance the reeve was in the tavern's main room, waiting for him or Arthur to return, maybe even expecting to arrest them himself, but he'd never seen a customer allowed to enter the kitchen. He and Arthur, being residents, were a different case altogether. He kicked at the door when he reached the back step, and shifted Freya in his arms.

Gwen opened the door. Her mouth dropped as her brown eyes widened, but no sound came out.

"Move," Merlin ordered, and Gwen jumped behind the door.

The kitchen was empty, but warm and brightly lit. The fire roared and crackled under the huge soup kettle as though someone had just added fuel; the kettle's lid rattled noisily, allowing steam to escape.

"Where can I lay her?" Merlin demanded tersely.

"Is she dead?" Gwen whispered, not taking her eyes from Freya's face.

"No, but I need a place to lay her down, and she needs Gaius – Shasta first, maybe," he snapped.

Gwen pointed out a small alcove room behind the family table. "Her bunk's in there," she told him.

Merlin glanced inside and grimaced. There was very little space in the room itself, and less than three feet between the upper and lower mattresses, which were tight against the wall. And taking Freya through the main room to reach the stairs to the upper bedrooms was out of the question – he could hear the murmur of a sizeable crowd gathered.

"Not here," he said, then nodded toward a narrow door to the left of the fireplace. "That Percival and Shasta's room?" He strode across the kitchen without waiting for her answer. "Get Shasta in here now, then go for Gaius." He kicked the narrow door open, then added, "Gwen – go the back way, and try to avoid being seen."

She nodded, her jaw set determinedly, and pushed through the double-hinged door to the common room.

Percival and Shasta's bedroom wasn't much larger than the other, and had no windows, but the light from the kitchen was sufficient to make out the shape of a bed large enough for Percival and Shasta to sleep comfortably side by side, and the fireplace radiated warmth through the wall.

Merlin crossed to the side of the bed and leaned her down gently; she moaned and turned her head. He shifted the pillow slightly, straightened her legs, tucked her arms closer to her sides. He didn't know what else to do for her, but there was a lamp and a small box of matches visible on the dresser in the slant of light from the doorway. He turned and lit the lamp, shielding the flame with the glass chimney.

He had noticed that his shirt felt wet beneath his vest, but he had supposed that snow had collected between their bodies during the ride and melted. It didn't trouble him until he looked down and saw that the wetness was a dark stain on the light brown of his vest.

Cursing under his breath, he spun back to the bed in an instant, drawing the shawl aside. The wool of the garment and the thinner fabric of her dress were soaked with blood low on her left side. He yanked his smallest knife from his boot and began to slice away the layers of clothing.

There was a rustle of movement at the door and Shasta gasped a phrase that could've been curse or prayer. "What're you doing?" she demanded, snatching up the lamp as she rushed to his side. She gasped again when she saw the answer to her question. "Freya!"

"She's hurt, probably badly," he said shortly, concentrating on his task. Freya's undergarment was stuck to her skin, which likely meant the bleeding was slowed for the time being. The rest he would leave to the professional. "Gwen's gone for Gaius?"

"She didn't have far to go," the old physician said from the doorway. "I just returned from seeing Alice home. What's the trouble?" He advanced to Merlin's side, then hissed through his teeth. "I sent Gwen for some supplies," he told them, gentle fingers already moving slit clothing aside to help him assess the extent of the injury. "I figured it would be you I'd have to patch up again," he murmured to Merlin, laying his fingers momentarily against the pulse in her neck before thumbing open one of her eyelids.

Freya whimpered and shifted slightly in response. Which both reassured and infuriated Merlin.

"You may yet get the chance," he growled, backing away to let the physician have all the room he needed.

"How is she, Gaius?" Shasta asked.

"Not well at all," the old man murmured. "The beating was bad enough – she'll have bruises to rival some of Merlin's best – but it looks as though this was done with a knife." His hand hovered over Freya's side. "I don't want to examine the wound without my equipment and plenty of bandages. If she was stabbed rather than just cut…" He didn't finish the sentence. "But her pulse and breathing are steady and strong. I wouldn't say her life is in immediate danger, but neither is she out of the woods yet. So to speak."

"Arthur hasn't returned?" Merlin said in a low voice to Shasta.

She shook her head without taking her eyes off Freya. "We expect him within the hour, though."

Merlin turned abruptly and strode through the kitchen to the back door.

Shasta trailed as far as the bedroom door. "Merlin..."

He opened the back door to a swirling shower of white, taking only a moment to look back over his shoulder.

"Be careful," she said.

He nodded once and shut the door behind him. Taking one unsaddled gray, he started back along the track toward the hut, not bothering to re-button his coat.

There were only a handful of possibilities awaiting him. Either the two had no idea Freya was gone and were still in or about the hut, or they had discovered her absence. Even if the single set of footprints in the snow dusting around the cellar door had been filled, they would still know that she had help, since the door had been bolted from the outside, and both horses were gone. Afoot, it was Merlin's best guess that they'd return to the cabin and wait for a confrontation to come to them, at least until tomorrow's daylight.

It was possible that Burton had been persuaded to resume his post along the track, but Merlin didn't think so. Burton was not a brave man, to face danger head-on, and it was snowing more heavily and would be dark before many hours passed. And they couldn't be sure anyone would come to them tonight, anyway. It was wisest to approach with the supposition that they were both waiting for him at the cabin. And very, very angry at the loss of their woman and their horses.

Merlin didn't feel like trying to act wisely.

He didn't feel like calmly weighing options or trying to guess what Padlow or Burton was thinking or doing. The core of his being was white-hot, his hands cold. He could feel nothing else, was oblivious to the weather. He had seen many things in his life, but he had never seen a woman battered with such deliberate brutality. The one bruise Freya had carried after her confrontation with Burton and the reeve in the street was nothing to what she had endured this day.

And meanwhile, he had been riding the countryside around town, strategizing. At least if he'd gone charging in without worrying about endangering himself and risking the outcome, he might have deflected some of the punishment to himself. And possibly won through anyway.

There was a point in a hunt, in a fight, when he could feel the caring slowly slipping, giving way to a reckless void with nothing of any concern to anyone beyond the outcome. He wasn't there quite yet, but he was close. He would approach the hut with wariness, but he would delay no longer.

He didn't know how long the fight might last – long enough to make sure Padlow was dead – but Arthur would return to Emmett's Creek within the hour, as Shasta said, and there was no doubt in Merlin's mind that the agent would ride on to Padlow's hut, ride hard and immediately.

Arthur wanted arrests, a trial. He would stop a fight, if he could.

The slower Merlin rode, the easier a target he would present if Burton or Padlow was lying in ambush, but neither did he want to gallop into Padlow's clearing in a splash of snow. His body was eager, leaning forward in the saddle, his heart beating high and hard; his legs convulsively clenched around the horse to hurry it along. His eyes felt dry from staring, searching the trees, but the cold air moving against him blew tiny drops from the corners.

He reached the hut uncontested. Muffled as the horse's hoof-beats were in the deepening inches of snow, he saw Padlow's tall form slouch from the door of the hut, clearly expecting him and just as clearly ready for anything. One hand was tucked behind his back, the other jammed in a fist in his trousers' pocket. Merlin sent a keen glance around, but could see no sign of his partner.

Merlin kept the horse between himself and his quarry as he dismounted and removed his fleece-lined coat and his hat. He watched the other's shifty, squinted gaze flick to the trail and the trees behind Merlin as if expecting another. Arthur, of course. Merlin felt his lips pull back from clenched teeth. No need to mention he was alone, if this set the murderer off-balance.

"That's my horse you got there," Padlow drawled.

Merlin let the halter drag loose on the ground and stalked slowly across the clearing, cautious eyes on Padlow, but ears ready for any hint of his partner, his hand caressing the leather-wrapped hilt of his long knife.

"I don't see it that way," he answered, his tone almost careless but for an edge that fury made steely and sharp. "You've been robbing folk blind for years, taking far more than your due. This horse belongs to Gaius and Alice, to Percival and Shasta. And Elyan and Leon and Cedric."

Padlow eased away from the hut, sideways to Merlin. "They hire you to come tell me that?" he said, trying himself to sound casual.

Merlin grinned a wolf's grin and moved to keep both his enemy and the door of the hut in view. "No one hired me," he said. "We have unfinished business, you and I."

Padlow's eyes narrowed, and his foot caught momentarily on a stick or root hidden under the snow. "Don't know you, stranger," he said, more cautiously. His left hand was still in his pocket, his right concealed behind his back, but if he did have a knife to throw, Merlin counted on his ability to dodge it, then have the advantage. Padlow added, "Don't recall ever seeing you before."

Merlin barked out a short, bitter laugh. "No, you surely haven't," he said, shaking his head. "Things might've gone much differently that day if I'd been there for you to see."

It would have been difficult for a stupid man to mistake his meaning and miss the threat, and Padlow was not a stupid man. He paused in his circling, clearly trying to figure Merlin out, clearly doubting the assumption that Merlin was a random thief or blackmailer.

Merlin laughed again, a little maliciously. "Thinking back now, aren't you?" he taunted. "But there are so many memories to choose from, so many enemies you've made. What was it you did that brought me here, hunting you down?"

"Who are you, stranger?" Padlow said, dropping any pretense. Merlin sensed wariness from his adversary, but not fear. It had been a long time since anyone had stood up to Padlow's face, he guessed, but he still trusted his ability to best Merlin. "Where are you from? Are you another shire's reeve, or an agent?"

Not a chance would he reveal his identity until he was sure of the kill. That knowledge was a weapon for Padlow, pointed already at his heart. Merlin smiled flatly, said nothing.

Unexpectedly, Padlow whistled, loudly and shrilly, starting the horse two or three steps to the side. A signal to Burton, possibly – but was he hidden, waiting and watching, or was that a call to return? Or perhaps Padlow was only trying to spook Merlin? The hut seemed empty…

He couldn't risk not knowing. He sent a quick glance around him, and in that instant Padlow's right arm moved, flashed forward, and a bolt of silver light left his fingers. Merlin twisted away, his head jerking to his left, followed by shoulder, arm, and body. And before he had time to regain his footing or his balance, Padlow sprang forward, face dark with rage and hate, transferring a new blade from his pocketed left hand to his right.

Merlin let the momentum of his reaction spin him in a full circle, planting his feet in a solid stance, crouched slightly to lower his center of gravity, the long knife from his belt balanced lightly in his hand. Not enough time to throw and draw another up from his sleeve or down his boot, but Padlow's rush gave him no time to react to Merlin's swift arming.

The murderer crashed into him, taking them both down to the frozen ground.

Merlin pivoted as he fell, and was successful in keep Padlow's blade away from himself, though it was more awkward – and dangerous - than unarmed wrestling. He managed to land on his back and shoulder, and rolled, transferring Padlow's weight past him.

Padlow landed even more awkwardly, face down in the light dusting of snow covering the ground.

The older man's tactics had been threats of violence backed by midnight attacks on possessions or property, daylight intimidation of vulnerable family members. He outweighed Merlin and had as much as two inches more height; he was older and more experienced, yet Merlin judged himself the tougher of the two physically, due to his preparation for the fight. Though Padlow might have numbered more physical altercations during the course of his life than Merlin, his were more recent. He had the advantage of desperate and determined hatred, too.

As they landed, Merlin swung his knife, but Padlow kicked at him, scuffing up snow and dead-leaf debris, his bootheel even glancing off Merlin's cheekbone. Merlin slashed back repeatedly, but the thick leather of the boots protected the other. He gathered his legs beneath him, and Padlow turned to lunge from a kneeling position, knife held in a stabbing grip.

He descended on Merlin, who fought back as wildly as he ever had. Padlow struggled to bring his superior weight and position atop Merlin to his advantage, but Merlin was too quick, his use of knees and elbows too effective.

Merlin threw Padlow off and rolled away, feeling only distantly the sting of his opponent's blade piercing his vest and shirt across his back and the back of his upper left arm.

Then they faced each other in a crouch once more, catching their breath, each waiting for the other to make a move, mirroring his slow circling to the left. Merlin squeezed the leather-wrapped hilt of his hunting knife, felt the cold air stretch his lungs, and hated with white-hot rage.

The only warning he had was the sudden shift of Padlow's eyes. Merlin spun, dropping to one knee, his right hand already drawing his knife over his shoulder in readiness to throw.

Burton was less than ten yards away to the east of the hut, and the suddenness of Merlin's reaction caught him off guard. His throw was slightly delayed, his aim not quite tracking Merlin's shift in position. The knife clipped Merlin's shoulder as it whirled past, but not enough to spoil Merlin's own throw, which was a straight-line cast like that used in darts, with no revolution of blade over handle.

Killing Burton had never been a goal for Merlin, though he'd been ambivalent about the trapper's survival in a situation like this, but Merlin never had a chance to consider. The blade left his fingers almost of its own accord, and found its resting place in the soft flesh at the base of the trapper's throat; he gurgled softly in mild surprise as he fell.

Merlin turned back on his right knee, fumbling in his boot-top for another weapon, but the side of his knee ground against the sharp point of an unseen rock under the snow, and his leg collapsed under his weight.

If it hadn't, Padlow's outstretched blade might have taken him just under the breastbone, angled upward to the heart. As it was, the knife stabbed into the space between his body and his arm, and Padlow's bulk slammed him into the ground.

This is it, he thought fatalistically. He would die. He had failed.

Yet still he fought.

His right leg was twisted beneath him, his left trapped outstretched where he could not reach the blade in his boot. A shard of pain exploded in his knee, and his left hand reached out to grasp the wrist of Padlow's knife hand, simultaneously driving his right hand in a hard fist into the pit of the other's stomach. And again, and again. Every heartbeat he expected the cold certainty of Padlow's steel, but every blow he delivered was an answer for the wounds torn in his father's body, the bruises on Freya's face.

And he'd never give up.

Merlin felt a scream rip from his lungs, felt his fingernails sink into the flesh of Padlow's wrist, and his own palm. He strained forward, upward – he'd grind his teeth through the murderer's windpipe if he had to. Padlow's left hand was fumbling at his throat; he snarled and snapped and writhed under his opponent like a wild thing. He could feel his heartbeat thundering through the earth beneath his back. He could hear Padlow cursing; he brought his left knee up blindly against the other's body.

Padlow reared back at the blow, pulling his knife back and extending Merlin's arm where he still gripped the wrist, weakening his hold. Merlin tried to kick up at him again, desperate not to receive a seriously debilitating wound before he could inflict the death blow that obsessed him. Padlow wrapped both hands around his knife hilt, driving down into Merlin's body with all his strength.

The memory of an old tactic taught him by Gwaine flashed through his mind, and Merlin abruptly pulled the knife toward him. The reversal of the force he exerted on Padlow's weapon allowed him a minimal control, and he sacrificed another small wound in the skin of his upper arm to cause Padlow's blade to skitter uselessly across the frozen earth. At the same time, he reached into his vest and pulled another knife, not three-quarters the length of Padlow's.

They struggled, grappled, slashed, fell to roll away and rise again. Merlin managed a stab at Padlow's momentarily vulnerable left side, only to feel the blade turn ineffectively on a rib. They were both bloodied, both winded, and still they struggled.

Then Padlow closed with him in a feint; Merlin recovered from his involuntary reaction to the move, but Padlow kicked viciously at the side of his right knee. As his leg buckled, he pushed forward off the ball of his left foot, knocking Padlow to the ground. They rolled and the murderer's weight was finally an advantage as he pinned Merlin beneath him.

Merlin buried his smaller blade in Padlow's left thigh, and the murderer threw his head back to scream.

And into Merlin's field of vision swung a thick length of tree branch, bark dusted with snow. Snow that shook free as the branch crashed into the side of Padlow's head, and filtered down into Merlin's face. Padlow tumbled across Merlin's left leg and side with the bonelessness of a sack of flour or potatoes, out cold.

Merlin never even looked to see who the wielder of the log club might have been. He rolled and scrabbled in the snow for the knife last in Padlow's grasp.

"Don't do it!" a voice rang out. Arthur's voice.

Merlin swore, still feverishly searching for the weapon. He didn't care if he had to stab Padlow while he was unconscious, kill the murderer without ever reminding him of his crime, declaring payment exacted. Arthur was putting a stop to the fight. Arthur wanted an arrest, a trial. Arthur would never let him–

The log clunked across the back of his own head, sending him down for a mouthful of snow and a scrape of his chin along the ground. He fought the darkness, fought to regain the ability to move, to control his movements. His fingers shuffled nervelessly through the snow and dirt. He could retrieve his own knife from Padlow's thigh, he thought groggily, use it again–

A boot planted itself in his side, rolled him ungently to his back. The late afternoon light was dying swiftly, but the man standing over him – log swinging from one hand as the other balled in a fist on his hip – was clearly the agent.

"Damn you..." Merlin cursed thickly; his tongue was slow to recover from the blow to the back of his head.

"You can thank me later," Arthur said sardonically. "Is that your blood?" He indicated the red stain across the front of Merlin's vest.

Merlin was too dazed to explain, and just shook his head.

Arthur continued, "I wouldn't care either way if he killed you or not - just another crime for him to answer for, no more and no less. But I have a job to do, and my oath given on how I'll go about it. I'll take this one back to Camelot for trial, and you'll honor our agreement and go with me." He leaned closer, and Merlin saw ice-hardness in his blue eyes. "Or, so help me, I'll kill you myself right here and be entirely within my rights, given our history."

Merlin blinked and Arthur's left hand held a blade of its own like it knew exactly what to do with it.

By the laws that governed the rights of vengeance, Arthur could sink his knife into Merlin's side and leave him there bleeding in the snow. There was never a better chance for the agent to have his own revenge. Yet Arthur was waiting for Merlin's decision, showed no inclination to take vengeance.

Merlin let his head drop back to the ground, startling minute red stars into his vision from the lump the log had raised. He stared up into the darkening gray sky still dropping clumps of wet snowflakes. He could find no hatred for Arthur, could not dredge up energy or motivation to fight the man; he deserved the harsh tone, and the threats. Objectively, he knew his odds of fighting Arthur and successfully subduing him without causing lasting harm, then returning to finish with Padlow – who might have regained consciousness in the interval – were poor, especially in his current less-than-adequately-armed state. He could waste strength on Arthur to no purpose, or to the death, or succeed only to fall under Padlow's hand. He'd dealt with Freya, he'd dealt with Burton, before facing Padlow, but he could not deal with Arthur and still reach his revenge, now.

He'd failed.

Temporarily? Perhaps he could find opportunity on the ride to Camelot to kill Padlow.

Arthur tucked the knife back into his belt, still watching him closely.

"You going to behave?" he said, but not as if he expected an answer. Beside Merlin on the ground, Padlow moaned and stirred slightly. Merlin hated… but he was so tired.

"Let me kill him," he said tonelessly. "Then kill me if you like." He bent his knee, brought his boot within reach of his hand.

Arthur's grip tightened on the branch, his brows drew down over his eyes. "Do I need to tie you?"

Merlin considered. To have Arthur's attention elsewhere, to see Padlow conscious… "Yes," he said honestly. And could have bitten his tongue. It would have been an opportunity.

A corner of Arthur's mouth twitched. "Get up, then."

There was a coil of twine hooked on his belt, and he dropped the log to cut a length of it as Merlin struggled to his feet. He motioned for Merlin to turn his back, and whistled between his teeth when he did so. Merlin felt him finger the slit in the back of his vest and shirt, but the pain was no more than a twinge.

"He got you here," Arthur commented.

Merlin shrugged, crossed his wrists at the small of his back. "It's not bad."

He set his gaze on the bare skeletal trees laced with white, beyond the stirring form of Padlow, beyond the motionless deerhide-clad form of Burton. Arthur looped the twine around his elbows, which surprised Merlin. Perhaps the agent took pity on the tender scars on his wrists… or perhaps he wanted Merlin able to mount without help.

Although without stirrups or saddle on Padlow's stolen gray, it would be next to impossible. Arthur's big gelding waiting patiently near the other horse.

"Stand there," Arthur ordered, pointing Merlin to a corner of the hut so he could bind Padlow but keep Merlin in his line of vision, too. Merlin wordlessly crossed the yard.

Arthur plucked the knife from Padlow's leg, twisted a kerchief to knot over the wound, and kicked the murderer to his stomach. Ignoring Padlow's feeble attempts to resist, the agent knelt on his back to tie his hands tightly behind him. In glancing up to be sure Merlin hadn't made a hostile move, the agent's eyes fell on the body of the trapper. He looked back to his knots, but jerked his head toward the corpse.

"Burton," he said to Merlin, and it wasn't really a question. Riding up to the hut, he must have seen the prostrate body, but maybe hadn't had time for a closer look in trying to stop the fight without endangering himself.

Hadn't been too hard, Merlin fumed; he and Padlow had been completely engaged with each other, and neither had noticed the agent's approach. "Yes."

"Is he dead?"

"My knife took him in the throat," Merlin said shortly. "He hasn't moved since he went down."

He felt curiously empty of regret at the thought that he had killed a man. No one would mourn Burton, and he had reacted instantly to save himself. There was nothing he was ashamed of, yet he wished that the trapper and the murderer could change places at that moment. The first – maybe only – man he killed should have been Padlow.

Arthur pushed to his feet, dragging the groggy Padlow with him, fisting one hand in the shoulder of Padlow's coat by way of support. The knot of the kerchief around his leg was crimson already. Merlin hoped it hurt like the devil. He hoped Padlow would bleed to death.

He heard the hoof-beats a scant second before Arthur did. His head was already turning when he caught the agent's own alert reaction out of the corner of his eye. The sound was low, indistinct. Merlin couldn't determine how many horses approached, but it was more than one, so it wasn't Whatley. They were coming swiftly, and neither he nor Arthur had time to react before the first rider was visible through the trees. Then a second, third, fourth – a crowd.

A posse, if Merlin had ever seen one.

Leon was in the lead on a large-boned black mare, and Percival followed closely on Padlow's second gray horse, swaying a little as he rode it still unsaddled. Cedric was in the group, and Merlin spotted Elyan in the back when the blacksmith lifted his cap to wipe his face with his sleeve.

"Hello, Arthur," Leon said.

There was a note in his voice that made Merlin suspect the apparent friendliness of the tone. Arthur suspected something, too, for his right hand strayed to rest casually on the hilt of the blade in his belt. Merlin, his arms still tied behind his back at the elbows, stepped closer to the group of horsemen. The horses weren't waiting calmly, but tossed their heads and snorted nervously, reflecting the mood of their riders. Merlin's unsaddled gray and Arthur's big gelding both moved further to the side of the posse, sensing the unrest.

Merlin had no fear of them individually. None in Emmett's Creek bore him a grudge, and a few of these men were even fairly friendly with him… but Percival wouldn't meet his eyes. Cedric backed a huge draft horse out of the crush and reined him around to the side to approach Merlin obliquely.

"Leon," Arthur responded. "What's going on?"

"Came to see if you needed any help taking your prisoners," Leon continued.

He glanced quickly to the men on either side of him, and the riders fanned out slowly, encircling Arthur and Padlow, who blinked and shook his head to clear it, still not fully in control of his faculties. They by-passed Merlin, afoot and bound, most avoiding his gaze but some giving him uneasy grins, as if instinctively amused at his predicament, yet aware that their plans did not admit amusement.

A knot began to turn in Merlin's stomach. There was a feeling in the air, a scent almost, that he'd encountered before, and associated with lantern-lit midnight in the downtown city warehouse districts, where men materialized from the shadows with bared blades to join a street-fight, a riot, to administer mob justice to a cornered wrongdoer. Morgana's lieutenant Gwaine had sometimes instigated these mobs for use as a weapon of revenge, but it was a weapon that could easily turn back on its wielder, and Merlin had always been wary of the absence of a moral brake to the mob mentality.

Percival remained on Padlow's second gray behind Leon, and Cedric held the big draft horse close to Merlin's position, almost as if he wanted the opportunity for a private word with him.

"Burton's dead, and Padlow's arrest is secure," Arthur replied shortly. It was clear he didn't like the position they held him in; he kept glancing at the riders as they slowly surrounded him. "All under control, boys, so you can see, and you're not needed anymore."

"That's not how we see it," Leon said, heeling the black mare forward a few paces. He sounded almost apologetic. "You see, what with all your questioning, and bringing our grudges all into mind, some of us got to talking, and figuring."

"Figuring how?" Arthur challenged.

"Figured the capital's far off," Cedric offered gruffly from his place near Merlin. "Figured we didn't want you risking yourself bringing him in alone. Figured we better make sure of him ourselves, right, boys?"

A low affirmative grumble sounded. Someone called out, "We all got something against him." Merlin thought it might have been Mike of the dry-goods store.

Someone else that sounded like Elyan growled, "Scores to settle."

Arthur raised his voice. "Boys, you know I have authority to arrest and bring him to Camelot for trial, and I wouldn't risk doing that unless I was sure I could see it through."

Leon crossed his arms over his saddle-horn and leaned forward. "We figured, he committed his crimes here, mostly, he ought to pay here, too."

"I don't have authority to be the judge of his crimes, and pass sentence," Arthur said.

Leon shook his head, giving a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You don't have to. Here we all are, ready and willing."

"That's committing a crime, too," Arthur argued. "You'll all be guilty of murder."

"You want to try taking us all in, or making us testify against each other, go ahead," Cedric growled.

"Pay how?" Merlin spoke up. Maybe they'd release him, let him finish the fight and kill Padlow while they held Arthur off.

The barrel-shaped rancher glanced at Merlin but spoke to Arthur. "Hanging's too good for him, but it sure took care of the reeve, and it'll have to do."

Merlin couldn't care less about Whatley's fate, but protested loudly their plan for Padlow to join him. "No! He's mine to kill!"

Cedric spoke suddenly, angrily, directly to Merlin. "You had your chance!"

He swung the big draft horse around so swiftly Merlin didn't have time to react. Cedric's legs weren't long, but he was close enough.

Merlin saw Cedric's boot, the encircling stirrup gleaming in the waning light. He felt the blow like an explosion on his temple as he tried to duck… and the snow puffed around him like a cold thin featherbed as he fell.