Part 2: The Agent
Chapter 1: Sage Springs
No one remembered how it started, though everyone had a reason why it should continue. The theft of someone's pig or cow. Or daughter. The movement of the boundary stone at the edge of a field to increase land at a neighbor's expense. The contesting of an inheritance when the wording of the will was vague.
Or maybe the murder of an entire family.
It was two generations old, this feud, maybe three. The retaliations had continued, had escalated, had expanded til few in the whole of Sage Springs were unaffected, and many were involved in violently tangling things further.
Yet one day someone had judged enough was enough. Someone unable or unwilling to exact their own vengeance, someone wealthy enough to make the three-day trip south to Camelot and gain Uther's attention.
Agent Lancelot had been sent some weeks earlier, so the rumor among the troops went. After an initial report on the utter chaos of the situation and the impossibility of one unaccompanied agent being able to sort it, no further word had been received. Neither had the agent returned.
So a company of cadets had been detailed for a peacekeeping mission, three weeks before Merlin's coming-of-age.
His fellow cadets were, for the most part, under-aged orphans like himself, with a handful of petty criminals serving a five-year-or-less sentence, who preferred fresh air and a chance to die fighting to a tiny shared cell with no windows or lights or chances to leave for any reason whatsoever.
For this mission, since the objective was restoring domestic peace, the cadets were issued only clubs from the arms-room at the end of the two-story brick barracks. Two to two-and-a-half feet long, the clubs tapered slightly to a knobby grip and a hole drilled for a knotted leather strip worn about the wrist to keep the weapon handy when hand and fingers were otherwise needed.
So armed, and dressed in uniform hunting shirts and coats, trousers with leather spatter-dashes fastened to protect their shins and keep dirt and stones from filtering into low cheap shoes, and knit caps over newly-shorn heads, packs with bedroll attached slung by straps over both shoulders, they marched three days north to Sage Springs.
And the flowers bloomed, and the fruit trees blossomed, and the fields greened with new crops, and the young of the livestock struggled to life under the watchful care of their mothers.
…..*….. …..*….. ...*... …..*….. …..*…..
"What do you think, sir?" the young lance-corporal asked, glancing back over his shoulder.
He'd asked the same question before every planned engagement the past three weeks. Since Merlin had called their captain an idiot to his face – an idiot and a fool and many other things intended to be more insulting, and taken that way. Since he'd gained twelve lashes for that outburst and lost the lance-corporal's sleeve-patch – though not for the first time – to this slender boy who shaved because of orders and not yet because he had to.
Merlin shrugged, shifting his crouch slightly. It mattered to him little, one way or the other, whether this young man – Daegal was his name – obeyed his orders for the morning's attack, or not.
Another cadet moved up beside him, club gripped tightly, drops of sweat already rolling down from the blond stubble visible where his cap had been nervously shoved back. This one looked younger, if possible, than the lance-corporal. "What are we going to do?" he whispered, his gaze darting between his current and former leaders.
Merlin shifted again to glance behind at the other three cadets in the squad, concealed in the ditch at the edge of a field between them and the two-story whitewashed farmhouse. He believed he was the closest to his coming-of-age of the six of them, except for one dim-witted pickpocket back in the cadet corps for the third time.
If he spoke up to advise against following orders, it would be for the sake of these boys. He'd be punished, almost certainly, no matter the outcome of the engagement, but that wouldn't be the first time, either.
"Sir?" Lance-Corporal Daegal said again, sounding more desperate and looking twelve years old under his cap. "Captain Nathlan's orders were to wait half an hour after sun-up, then march through the field simultaneously the other squads approach all around. But it seems to me–"
"Nathlan's an idiot," Merlin growled, shrugging his pack and bedroll to the ground, and unbuttoning his coat. "He wants to wake up with the sun, himself, and have his first cup of coffee before he supervises the attack, safely from the rear. Meanwhile the rebels in the farmhouse – and he won't wait for an accurate count to know what we're up against – are also waking, dressing, arming themselves. Changing the watch, if they've set one."
He peeled the coat down over his shoulders, pulling the cuffs over his hands behind his back.
"We're coming from the west, which means the sun will be in our eyes and blazing off each of these buttons as we march–" he bit the word out sarcastically – "toward our enemy in their perfect and complete cover."
"Yes, sir, I guess you're right," Daegal faltered. "Our orders–"
"Our orders may get us all killed," Merlin snapped, and the young man blinked. The others muttered behind him.
"Neglecting our orders get us killed too," drawled the pickpocket, but didn't offer any other solution.
"So will deserting," said the sweaty blond boy next to Merlin. "If we're not here for the fight–" He stopped as Merlin made his move, crawling to the top of the ditch.
A low gray mist still covered most of the field, a natural cover that would dissipate at the sun's first rays. Dawn, Merlin judged, was a quarter of an hour away, probably less. He unfastened his club from his belt and slid his hand through the leather thong at the handle, gripping it to prevent it banging and swinging about.
Crouching low, he left the relative safety of the ditch and circled a dozen yards to their right to utilize a hedge of last year's unmown grass and weeds, scrubby brush, and a few gnarled trees left in place when the land was originally cleared, between that field and the next. He heard the rustle of clothing and shoe soles on new grass and old leaves behind him, and didn't have to wonder if any had remained in the ditch.
None of them had any experience to speak of in fighting, even the pickpocket, prior to the training provided by the cadet corps. In the last six months, Merlin had been promoted and demoted as many times, flogged twice, and set in the stocks almost weekly, for insubordination and for fist-fighting. Communal bathing facilities meant everyone in the barracks had seen his scars, and cadets were as bad as farmwives for gossip. His squad followed him now for his experience.
What did he care? What did any of it matter?
There were so many cadets, the squads changing almost weekly, he didn't remember any of their names beside the young lance-corporal, but he had a hard time forgetting they had more in common with him than any others he'd met since the day he was orphaned himself. These boys were parentless and alone; no matter how their parents died, violently or peacefully, unexpectedly or from long illness, they had all suffered loss before time, and had no one to take them in.
And did he care? Really? About any of it? What reason did he have for doing anything, anymore?
His lack of motivation didn't matter. None of them deserved to suffer or even possibly die because the captain wanted to sleep in and enjoy his cup of coffee, ignore the lack of adequate information about the target.
For now, that was reason enough.
They came up to the farmhouse quickly and silently as possible, trying not to raise an alarm nor linger in the open, the five cadets and the young lance-corporal, who was not in the lead and showed neither resentment over that fact nor the desire to change it. A squad by stealth could accomplish more swiftly and safely what a company would take casualties and hours to do.
And Merlin was used to working by himself, or with few others.
They came up to the porch, Merlin motioning the pickpocket and the other two cadets to circle the house to the right, keeping below the level of the windows. They all knew from the previous evening's briefing the position of the front and back doors, and the three windows – two in the kitchen and one into a small sitting room off the hall where the front door opened. That much could be seen from their camp across the field.
The skirmishes they'd been involved in since coming to Sage Springs had been about surprise and capture – mostly successful in spite of the stupidity of the captain, in Merlin's opinion – but it seemed the fighting folks of Sage Springs took exception to government involvement in their feud, and resisted the cadets. So far the unit had suffered only four deaths, but most had at least one cut or bruise gathered in combat to brag about. Merlin hadn't, yet, but he chalked that up to experience, and to luck. It wasn't for lack of action, that was sure.
"You see me pass that window," he told the blond boy in a low voice, "you smash this one and duck. For three seconds. Then you're up and ready to throw that club if need be. If not, you're in that door and covering us quicker than blinking."
"Sir," the boy replied in affirmation, slipping the leather strap off his wrist in readiness.
A crooked finger was all it took for dark-eyed Daegal to follow Merlin, stepping quietly around the corner of the farmhouse, listening for voices or other noises from the kitchen. He heard both, but not loudly enough to determine how many, or gender, or positions inside the room. It was clear, however, that they didn't yet suspect the presence of the cadets; the kitchen door was not latched on the inside.
Merlin took a deep breath. The door was just on the other side of the window, but he wouldn't have time to take a glance before the blond cadet at the second window would be smashing the glass, drawing the attention of any in the room away from the door. Whether there would be one, or ten, present who would not be distracted, would be ready with weapon aimed…
He stepped past the window, twisting his body so he could slam the door open with his left arm and shoulder, crouching slightly in case someone inside was just that wary.
The door crashed into the wall scant seconds after the window opposite smashed under the cadet's club. Merlin drove forward and slightly left, around the plank table in the middle of the room, to clear a line of sight down the hall to the front door. A woman screamed to Merlin's right; crockery smashed as she dropped it. He didn't spare a second glance; Daegal was already at her side to silence and subdue as necessary. The blond cadet hustled into the kitchen behind Merlin, crowding him slightly as an inexperienced cadet might.
Merlin reacted by moving further down the hall toward the front door, which faced east. He heard footsteps overhead, but nothing from the sitting room on the ground floor.
Which didn't, of course, mean there was no one there. No one had appeared at the sound of breaking glass or slamming doors. Yet word had surely come that troops were present in Sage Springs; even the laziest and most careless could scarcely assume an innocent kitchen accident.
He kept next to the wall down the hallway, glancing quickly up the stairs – empty so far – before crossing the doorway of the sitting-room. A shadow shifted, movement whispered; Merlin ducked as a machete clanged into the doorpost now opposite him, and took advantage of the momentary delay of metal biting into wood, driving his club upward into the pit of the man's stomach. His attacker, dressed in the simple trousers and checked shirt – half-buttoned and untucked – of a farmer, also unshod, dropped like a stone. He appeared to be alone in the room; Merlin bent swiftly to ascertain that no one was hiding behind the green horsehair sofa or the chair. A closet door opposite the stairway might conceal someone, but he figured someone hiding probably wasn't someone preparing to take the offensive.
Merlin wordlessly pointed the blond boy to see to the fallen farmer, writhing and gasping on top of his own weapon. He debated briefly opening the front door to call for the others of his squad, but he expected them to be occupied searching the barn, making sure the outhouse was unoccupied, and the time that would take would be time that those overhead would have time to prepare. And ascent of the stairway was a vulnerable assault as it was.
It did occur to him that he might hold his position til the rest of the company arrived, but Merlin was never one to wait for reinforcements. Besides, if he was killed trying to gain the second floor, the others in his squad wouldn't try, and the position would be held regardless.
He wished he had his hunting knife. Or his other blades, but they were locked up along with his clothes at the barracks in Camelot.
The stair was steep, rising parallel to the hall back toward the kitchen. He guessed there was a room unseen to the left above him, and another further along toward the kitchen. Anyone attacking from that direction would have to show himself to take a decent aim – the danger lay, then, in the room overhead.
Merlin climbed swiftly, club held ready in his right hand, his left out for balance as he could not spare a glance for his feet and could afford to lose neither footing nor concentration. His ears were strained to hear past the whimpers of the woman in the kitchen, and the moaning of the farmer on the floor in the sitting room.
He heard muffled voices, footsteps. Saw no one.
Saw nothing, til a man rushed to the railing and let fall a wooden ladder-backed chair. Fortunately for Merlin, the man – half-dressed as the farmer downstairs – was nervous and too scared to wait for a good look at Merlin's position before dropping the chair. As a result, Merlin was able to swing his club and knock the chair down the stairs behind him.
The blow numbed his arm to the elbow, and the club danced and jerked from its strap at his wrist, but he was at the top of the stair in an instant. He charged down the short hall to the room where the chair-thrower had retreated, betting that the speed of his rush would not allow the man to re-arm himself, would not give any others in the second room chance to aim any missiles before he was covered inside the room again.
No blades tickled his ribs from behind.
Merlin purposefully drove through the door at an angle, pushing himself against the outside wall just past the doorway to give himself extra momentum as he turned his head to scan the room for the chair-thrower.
There was a bed, rumpled blanket half on the floor, side-table, closet door ajar – machete on the floor, probably set down so the man could lift the chair with both hands – a man who didn't relish close combat.
Yet he was bending already, reaching for the machete.
Merlin left the club dangling from his wrist and instead crashed into the man from behind, his head reaching the level of the man's waist, his weight taking both of them off their feet, his impetus driving the other into the wall.
He knew immediately the man was knocked unconscious from the collision with the wall; the plaster was cracked inward like a boiled egg-shell. He released him even as he fell, and the skin on Merlin's knuckles split on the edge of the machete blade as he fumbled for his grip on the club, rolling to face the door for a possible attack from someone else from the other room.
The machete shifted on the bare floor beside him, the scrape of metal on wood sending a thrill through nerves already drawn to tautness. He glanced down; a half-size fist closed over the smooth handle of the long blade, two wide frightened eyes stared back at Merlin from under the bed. Merlin stamped down on the blade, his prone position not giving the action much force, but at the same time he lunged forward, left hand wide to grab at a handful of hair and clothing. He dragged out a boy child, eight or ten, dressed only in a nightshirt, thin and pale.
The boy grimaced in pain or fear or anger, releasing the machete to wrap his hands around Merlin's grip. Upon seeing the man's body motionless and facedown on the floor, he began to shriek, "You killed my daddy! You killed my daddy!"
Merlin made a fierce hissing noise and shook the boy to quiet him – the last thing he wanted was for anyone to believe one of their own dead.
"He's not dead! He's – sleeping!" he tried to reassure the child in a hoarse whisper, but the boy continued to howl.
There was a higher-pitched cry from the half-open closet door, and a second half-size, nightgown-clad form flew out. Merlin, still half-sprawled with the boy in one hand and his club in the other, turned his head in time to glimpse the lamp-shape, to see clearly a pink rose painted on the kerosene base, to lift his elbow and duck his head slightly - and the edge of the lamp's glass shade bounced off his forehead just under the edge of his cap. It hurt, but his vision remained clear, the lamp unbroken.
The girl was a year or two younger than the boy, and didn't make another effort with the lamp clutched at her side. Her piercing wail joined his, interrupted only by her need to draw breath.
Merlin expected at any moment someone would appear in the doorway, armed and ready for a fight to the death.
No one came. Which didn't mean, of course, that there was no one else to come.
He kicked the machete out of the boy's reach and scrambled to his feet, bringing the boy around between him and the lamp-wielding girl to discourage any further blows. Blood was beginning to ooze ticklish down his forehead; he shoved the boy at the girl – his sister? – hustling both of them into the closet, then slammed the door and hooked the bedside table in front of it with his foot.
It was heavy enough to hold. He hoped. He used the man's own belt to tie his hands together atop the small of his back, in case he regained consciousness while Merlin was otherwise occupied.
Gripping the club again, he hefted the machete in his left hand, turning it a quarter so he could hit with the flat rather than the edge of the blade. The children in the closet were already banging on the door, their hollering only slightly muffled. The man on the floor didn't move.
Merlin ducked a quick glance out the door, enough to see there was no one on the landing or the top half of the stairs. He moved into the narrow passage, club and machete both raised, ready to knock any further projectiles out of the air.
Half a head with a shock of shaggy brown hair shot into Merlin's view at the other end of the passage, from the second room's doorway, and dodged back just as fast. Merlin leaned into the wall to present a narrower target, and waited for a moment.
Bang, bang on the closet door. Not much noise from downstairs.
Two men shuffled into the passageway. The man in front was fully dressed in dirty and wrinkled clothes, face lumpy with bruises behind longish dark brown hair, one eye swollen shut and a white bandage tied around the lower half of his face as a gag. His hands were tied together at his belt buckle, another rope drew his elbows together behind his back, and the two steps he stumbled forward made Merlin believe he hadn't stood on his feet since yesterday, if not longer.
The lighter-haired man behind him was using him as a shield, shoving him forward mainly chest-to-back, as he held a blade to the captive's throat in one hand. The other drew back and snapped forward with a thrown blade.
Merlin moved the club with no other thought than to provide what shield it could, maybe hit the spinning knife enough to throw its revolution off a killing – or severely injuring – aim. He was as surprised as the other when the blade stuck, quivering, halfway down the club's length, hilt pointing back at the thrower, but he'd never show it. Let the attacker think his skill was such, he'd meant to catch the knife just so.
He dropped the machete and wrenched the throwing knife free with his left hand – handier in the cramped space of the passage than the larger blade – in the time it took the other to shift the second blade to his right hand.
"You throw it, you hit the gov'ment man," the captor threatened, peering out from behind the other's neck in a way that was almost comical.
"You throw yours, you're unarmed," Merlin returned.
Bang, bang. The closet door still held.
"You Sweetman clan?" the man asked.
Merlin assumed the man wanted to know if he was one of his feudal enemies. He assumed the man would recognize his allies, and also that he hadn't yet set eyes on the cadet troops; he wouldn't mistake Merlin's uniform if he had.
"Cadet," he answered.
"Peacemaker," the other snarled. "Didn't ask for no peacemakers to come into our bus'ness." He paused, and Merlin didn't immediately respond.
The man in front was surely Agent Lancelot, sent months ago, and not heard from. Keeping him prisoner in an outlying farmhouse was a good way of keeping him from interfering in the feud, but surely the combatants would have guessed that an agent would have rated a rescue, at least. And this man's safety was the most important objective that Merlin's unit had.
Not that the mission meant much to him, as such.
"I didn't ask to come, either," he said finally. "I always aim to let a man get his own revenge. But killing gets you nothing but more trouble. And killing me gets you even less. They brought a hundred and twenty of us – how long do you think you can hold out against them? And if you kill your hostage–"
"Like you killed Staney?" the other accused, gulping a little. "And Tray, and Wandy downstairs? Can hear the little ones; at least you draw your line somewhere."
"I haven't killed anyone," Merlin said, calm but still poised for action. "You can check. Only knocked them out, took prisoners."
Disbelief showed on the glimpses he had of the man's face. "You're gonna arrest us, take us back to jail in a big city somewhere, leave the children to be raised by neighbors or fostered to the gov'ment?" The tone turned sly. "Like yourself?"
"Not my decision," Merlin said, unmoved. "Some will be arrested. The goal is peace, an end to feuding, folks back at their trade without fear."
"Sweetman clan killed our sister, and stole her husband's herd," the other spat. "Ain't no peace til they pay!"
Merlin hissed a breath through his teeth in dissatisfaction. Should be anyone but him trying to talk the agent free. Didn't his beliefs, his experiences, put him on this man's side? And yet how ludicrously out of hand it had gotten since the initial incident, long forgotten – perpetrator and victim both likely beyond caring any longer?
Wasn't he beyond caring, too? His revenge was accomplished…
Talk would keep them all there, til the unit attacked from all sides. They'd meet no resistance, anymore, and occupy the property swiftly. Lance-Corporal Daegal would report on the situation; the captain, the lieutenants, and corporals would fill the stairway – and the agent would still be a human shield.
Or til the two children managed to knock over the bed table and escape from the closet. They could charge into the hallway or stop to untie their father; either way the man holding the hostage was likely to take the opportunity to fight again, and Merlin would be forced to hurt either man, or kill them, or be killed. And there was the agent, and the two children, in the middle of it.
He didn't have time to talk, then, even if he'd been so gifted. Or so inclined. His options were to attack or bluff. He didn't know enough of the other man to guess if a bluff would be called, or believed. Waste of time, then.
Merlin took a step forward. There wasn't much room in the passageway to maneuver. But what did that matter, anyway? His life was worth little, anymore. The agent was surely more valuable.
"You take another step, I'll slit his throat," the rebel threatened.
"We stand here much longer, that closet door won't hold," Merlin answered. "You think that government man means as much to me as those children mean to you?" He took another step. "You ever kill a man, yourself?"
One of Merlin's squad interrupted from the foot of the stairs. "Sir, the rest of the platoon is coming."
The other man shifted his weight. The agent squinted out of one good eye and looked ready to collapse.
Merlin shrugged, lowering the club and unwrapping three fingers from the knife hilt to show the man he had no intention of using it. "Guess you can talk to the captain about it," he said. "Me, I'm going back downstairs."
He moved forward, which crowded the local and the agent into the corner of the passage and the doorway of the second bedroom. Would he bet the man wouldn't throw the knife at his back as he descended? It wouldn't achieve much for him, might work against him when more troops arrived, but would he bet on the other realizing that and acting sensibly? The blood oozing down through his eyebrow tickled annoyingly. Merlin stepped from the passageway to the tiny landing at the top of the stairs, keeping his body facing the other two.
At that moment the agent, maybe deciding to take his chances rather than wait through another negotiation attempt with the approaching captain, wrenched himself suddenly from his captor's grip, took one long step down the passage just vacated by Merlin and dove forward, twisting to land on side and shoulder.
The local half-bent, trying to clutch belatedly at his escaping captive, then twisted to face Merlin's reactive lunge. Merlin dropped his knife to grab at the man's knife-hand wrist, to limit and partially control the man's use of the blade. And for the second time in moments only, he and another crashed to the ground, through the doorway of the second bedroom.
It occurred to him as they fell that he was as good as dead if there was anyone else waiting, hiding in the room. But as he grappled with the man for control of the one remaining blade, no boots rushed another assailant into the fray, no other weapons came hurtling from the interior of the room.
The man fought, and strongly, but it was only moments before Merlin had possession of the knife – he forced the other facedown on the floor, the tip of the blade against the base of his skull, one arm twisted behind his back, pulled across his body by Merlin's other hand.
The agent staggered into the doorway, having somehow gained his feet with his hands and arms still bound. The banging from the other upstairs room had ceased, though the crying continued. Whether they had broken out of the closet or had given up trying, the children didn't come down the passage. Merlin was glad; he had enough of a headache as it was.
"Here," he offered, raising the knife from the local's neck and gesturing to the agent.
He leaned down to allow Merlin to slice through the ropes, freeing his hands, and then his elbows. Merlin stuck the knife into the floorboard and used the pieces to bind the rebel's hands securely, though not tightly. The agent dragged the gag from his mouth, and rubbed his wrists and stretched his arms.
"Nice," he croaked, worked some spit around in his mouth, and tried again, "Nice to meet you. My name's Lancelot."
Merlin looked at him, bruised and long-haired, scruffy beard that looked weeks old, and snorted at his manners, in the situation. "Mine's Merlin."
The other nodded in thanks, breaking into a coughing spell. Merlin shrugged the blood from his forehead onto the shoulder of his hunting shirt, and shifted so he could pull the rebel to his feet as he stood himself.
"Can you manage the stairs without help?" he said, bending to yank the blade from the floorboard.
Lancelot said, "If I have to."
The bound local cursed in frustration; Merlin herded him out to the stairs behind the agent.
"Lance-Corporal!" Merlin shouted. "One agent and one captive coming down."
Daegal appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "We have these two secured, sir," he reported. For a moment he stared blankly at the broken chair sprawled on the steps, then dragged it out of Lancelot's way. "Jonesy and Marshall found two others in the barn, and the other squads are fifty yards off and coming in. Lenny is going to meet them."
Merlin watched Lancelot and the local halfway down the stairs, then returned to the front bedroom, retrieving the rebel's second knife as well as the dropped machete. His other captive, bits of plaster clinging to his hair, struggled groggily on his side. Merlin stuck the two knives through his belt at either hip, and the machete at the small of his back, then yanked the father to his feet.
"For your children's sake, keep walking," he ordered tersely, giving the man a shove toward the door.
He moved the table away from the closet door and opened it to discover the boy and girl huddled on the floor, tears still making tracks down both faces, lamp lying discarded on its side. Merlin snapped his fingers to get their attention, but received only a glare from the boy. Sighing, he reached in and picked the girl up bodily, slinging her over his shoulder in spite of outraged shrieks from both. He grabbed the boy as he had done before, by the back of the collar of his nightshirt, and lifted him out of the closet onto his feet, in time to see the father swing unsteadily around, hands still tied behind his back.
"Walk," Merlin commanded him. The little girl beat her fists against the still-tender lashes under his shirt; he was in no mood to prolong the experience, and used the boy to shove the father out the door, down the hall. He hurried them down the stairs, half-carrying the boy by his fistful of clothing when he stumbled on the steep steps.
Two of the cadets Merlin had left outside were in the sitting room, guarding four locals, tied and seated on the floor. The woman from the kitchen straightened in the green horsehair chair as the two children, released from Merlin's grasp, ran to her for protection and comfort.
Merlin left the house, the cadets, the prisoner, and the weapons in the hands of the young lance-corporal, and stepped out the front door to the porch.
The other troops were close enough to recognize faces, most notably the pickpocket sent to notify the officers of the situation. They stepped out of trampled fields into the farmyard; Merlin snorted at the bemused expression on the face of Captain Nathlan, mounted and safely behind the row of advancing cadets.
He turned away from them, around the corner of the farmhouse, and headed back down the hedgerow to the little hollow where his squad had left their coats and packs, stepping neatly through the gap made in the closing noose of cadets by the absence of his squad.
Merlin was tempted to stay in the quiet little hollow – listening to the conversation of the birds, smelling early-morning spring in the country – or better yet, to keep walking. Coming-of-age birthdays were ignored in the field, however, and it would be considered desertion, which carried penalties. Which was neither here nor there to him, but he didn't care to go on the run again, and had no destination to interest him beyond a shrug.
So he heaved his pack to his back and collected and carried the equipment for the rest of the squad, back through the dewy fields to the house.
Dropping down on the east porch to one side of the jumble of packs he'd deposited, he watched the red-faced captain pace furiously from one side of the farmyard to the other. Daegal stood stock-still, straight and tall, his ears red from embarrassment also. His eyes flicked once to Merlin, but to his credit, the lance-corporal remained silent. Captain Nathlan was livid, that much could be seen for twenty yards.
Merlin took a certain perverse pleasure in noting that he'd been embarrassed by the very lowest of junior officers, a lance-corporal who'd taken with five cadets the farmhouse that Nathlan assigned a thirty-member unit to take, and only minutes before he'd ridden up. And to top it off, this particular farmhouse happened to be the location where the missing agent was being held. So although he clearly wished to punish Lance-Corporal Daegal for disobeying orders, Merlin guessed he was going to be forced to publically congratulate and probably promote the boy instead.
As he pushed to his feet, Agent Lancelot and two cadets from another squad stepped out the front door.
"Merlin," Lancelot acknowledged him, squinting into the rising sun at the pacing captain. Merlin noticed they'd found a change of clothes for the agent, though they were rough farmer's clothes. He'd washed as well; his dark hair was wet and slicked back from his face, making the bruises more noticeable. Lancelot nodded toward the captain, who hadn't noticed him, yet. "What's going on? Is that your captain?"
"Idiot," Merlin growled.
Under the bruises, Lancelot's face twisted in a wry grin. "Don't pull your punches, kid. Tell me what you really think." Merlin glanced aside in time to catch the agent raising an eyebrow as he reached to touch the small rips in the right sleeve of Merlin's uniform coat, marks of a removed patch of rank. "Or maybe you told him what you really think?"
Merlin didn't answer, turned and sauntered toward the captain and the young lance-corporal.
Captain Nathlan was an egg-shaped man whose lower legs looked too skinny in the spatter-dashes to hold the bulk of his body. After almost a month of mishaps, contradictory orders, and mismanaged troops, Merlin was convinced the captain commanded cadet troops because the standing army wouldn't have him, and his pride in the uniform and rank of captain was not quite genuine enough to cover the bitterness over that rejection. He was a man, it seemed to Merlin, out to punish every offense and every infraction, no matter how small, real, or imagined. He covered his own ineptitude by punishing cadets and junior officers when things went wrong.
The captain turned at Merlin's step. Merlin sketched a barely-acceptable salute, stood not-quite at attention. His appearance, he expected, would serve to take Nathlan's fury off Daegal.
"You!" Nathlan snarled. He looked at red-eared Daegal, then back at Merlin; even though he had a hundred men under his command, he had demonstrated more than once that he didn't care to remember which cadets were assigned to which junior officers, and hadn't connected Merlin with Daegal until now. "I should've guessed you were responsible."
There was an eager look in his beady eyes, and relief. Merlin could almost read his thoughts – a gladness that there would be a legitimate target for his ire. He heard two or three others join them from behind; he didn't turn, but the captain drew himself up and pressed his puffy lips together.
"Agent," he said shortly.
"Captain." Lancelot's voice, just respectful enough. An agent was outside the military hierarchy without specific orders, so he had no control over Nathlan's command, but Nathlan in turn had no say in the agent's decisions. "My thanks for the assistance of your troops."
"Our pleasure, Agent Lancelot. I was just congratulating our young lance-corporal here on his initiative, and a mission well-accomplished." Only Daegal's dark eyes, darting wide from the agent to the captain to Merlin, betrayed the questionable veracity of the statement.
Merlin heard a note of irony in the agent's voice as he reached to shake the boy's hand. "My thanks to you personally, then, son," he said.
"But, sir, I didn't –" Daegal began to protest.
"Dis-missed!" Nathlan barked loudly, and the young man reacted as trained, snapping to a salute before marching around Merlin and the agent to the farmhouse to rejoin his squad. "Cadet," Nathlan gritted through his teeth to Merlin. "I'll deal with your insubordination later."
"But, Captain," Agent Lancelot said. "Maybe you didn't realize–"
"Skip it," Merlin said to the agent as he turned away without saluting his senior officer. "Waste of breath."
A/N: So I'm finally back to composing my NaNoWriMo story, so there should be fairly regular updates for this story now - yay!