Chapter XV: Breakouts and Bandits

The alarm bells were ringing.

It was a bit hard to believe, Gaius thought, watching the guards pour out of the dungeons, that the bells were ringing because of something he had done. Admittedly, the ringers had no reason to suspect that the court physician was behind the stone creatures roaming through the night. They almost certainly blamed Cornelius Sigan, and it was completely logical that they would do so. But Gaius knew the truth, knew that he was the one who had turned the Raven's Key and unleashed the monsters, and it was strange to think that he of all people could cause such chaos and panic. Usually, it was Merlin who did things like that.

But it was for a good cause, he reminded himself. There were a hundred and fifty people crowded into Uther's dungeons, and most if not all of them would die if they didn't escape.

Half of the stone creatures were roaming through the city, causing more chaos and panic than actual damage. They weren't going to hurt anyone, just cause a distraction and lure off as many soldiers as possible. The rest—smaller and more maneuverable, able to fit into the dungeons without crowding the Catha too badly—were to accompany Alator and his men, providing backup and security and broken iron bars as they broke people out.

There were no more guards emerging from the dungeons. Gaius glanced at Alator, who nodded and signaled to his men. A few whispered words later, the Catha vanished, cloaked in invisibility. They padded towards the dungeons on silent feet, trailed by the stone guardians that Gaius had been keeping in reserve.

It took less concentration than he had expected to wield the Raven's Key. The golems needed very little instruction after their initial orders, and though Gaius was keeping his mental eyes peeled, they hadn't even tried to hurt someone yet. Still, he wasn't about to let his guard down.

In the event of an attack, the court physician was supposed to be in his chambers unless ordered onto the field. Gaius hastened back to the infirmary, where he began arranging medicines and boiling bandages. The constructs controlled by the Raven's Key would not harm the guards, but Gaius wasn't supposed to know that. Besides, Alator and his Catha were under no such restrictions. He would likely need to tend to some of the guards who had remained in the dungeons while their fellows ran out to fight the gargoyles.

The plan was simple: golems to cause a distraction, other golems to help in the dungeons, Catha to guide the prisoners away. They would get onto the main road as soon as possible, travel along it through the rest of the night and splitting into smaller groups once the sun rose. By that time, the messages that Alator had sent out would have been received. Druids and other spellbinders would come for them, some to provide aid and distraction, others to teleport exhausted escapees—the ones incapable of moving on—to the Isle of the Blessed. Everyone else would press into Essetir. Uther could not follow them there, not without risking war.

Hopefully, he wouldn't risk war.

Eventually (if Uther didn't risk war, if they weren't caught before reaching the safety of Essetir, if Cenred didn't somehow catch word of the mass escape, if they didn't run into bandits or soldiers, if, if, if), the escapees would probably all end up on the Isle of the Blessed, at least for a little while. A few might move in with their relatives in the country, but Gaius suspected that most people wouldn't want to risk bringing Uther's wrath down upon their families' heads. He certainly wouldn't.

The physician paused briefly, reaching out with his mind to make certain that the golems under his control hadn't hurt anyone. They hadn't. The ones in the city proper were mostly leading the guards on a merry chase, while most of the statues in the dungeons had formed an impenetrable barrier between the guards and the Catha. Others broke down cell doors, and a few others guarded the entrance to the dungeons. Gaius was about to pull his awareness away when a flash of crimson caught his gaze.

It took him several moments to realize what must have happened, why one of the prisoners had drawn a dagger from his clothing and stabbed one of the Catha—a young fellow with hair halfway between brown and blond, someone whose cloak was dark blue and whose face was vaguely heart-shaped—through the neck. Then he recognized the killer (for there was no way that the young Catha could have survived a wound like that), realized who he really was.

There were guards hidden among the prisoners, bloodcloaks disguised as ordinary victims of Uther's hate. Uther or Donald, the new captain of the guard, had anticipated a rescue attempt and scattered spies and assassins among the prisoners.

Gaius's heart stuttered as his mind raced through the implications.

If there was one guard, then surely there were others. How many, though, and what were their orders? Were they meant to kill the rescuers (or, he realized with a chill, the rescuer who looked most like Emrys) or were they supposed to follow them, betray the location of the prisoners' haven?

This first guard, the one who had murdered a man who looked like Emrys, was dead, struck down already by one of the surviving Catha. The others were alive. Infiltration, then. It must be infiltration.

Alator's expression indicated that he had come to the same conclusion. Eyes wide and face livid, the warrior mage looked from the guards to the prisoners and back again. Grimacing, he gave a sharp nod, began barking orders.

"We'll question them later! For now, follow the plan!"

Swallowing hard, Gaius returned his attention to the physician's chambers. His hands shook as he resumed his work.

Hopefully, Alator's Catha would be able to root out all the guards before bringing the prisoners to safety. Hopefully, the townsfolk would be willing and able to identify the enemies in their midst.

If not, the Isle of the Blessed was in grave danger.

Arthur's foul mood had not abated in the slightest.

To be honest, they were all in rather unpleasant moods by the fifth day of their journey, and Merlin was very much looking forward to their incipient arrival at Tintagel. He probably shouldn't think like this, because Arthur was his friend and was obviously having a hard time coming to terms with everything he'd learned on their surprisingly eventful trip, but it would be nice to get away from the prince for awhile. Gwen, Morgana, and Leon had helped him keep an eye on Arthur, helped prevent their friend's attitude from getting even worse, but it was something of an uphill battle.

Besides—as Leon had quietly pointed out to him a few hours after they departed the inn—it was hardly fair to put this burden on Morgana and Gwen. The former was returning to her beloved childhood home after being away for years. The latter had just reunited with her estranged brother and deserved to spend time with him.

Morgana had overheard. She'd butted in then, commenting that while of course Leon was right about Gwen and Elyan, she still had a few days before they arrived at Tintagel.

Leon had just sighed. He'd known better than to argue.

Still, even with the leftover happiness of the siblings' reunion, a dark pallor hung over the group as it traveled through Cador's territory. The fact that it was raining—not even proper rain but a slow, miserable gray drizzle that sank through their clothes and into their bones—only made things worse.

Merlin's boots were caked with mud, his hair plastered to his head. He was seriously debating the benefits of casting a drying charm on his socks when a gray-and-brown blur whizzed past his face and pierced Harold's throat.

The guardsman fell instantly, blood gurgling from his wound and soaking into his shirt. Every warrior drew his sword, instinctively moving the horses to surround Morgana and Gwen.

Merlin slid off his horse, making for the wounded man, but it was too late. Harold was gone.

He and the guardsman were not particularly close. Harold was quite vehement in his opposition to magic and had made it quietly clear that he didn't see anything wrong with Uther's reasons for starting the Purge. That had not helped with Arthur's mood, so the rest of the party had been surreptitiously keeping him away from the prince. But he told hilarious stories at the campfire, and one of the other guards went to him for advice about his marriage. If not for his dislike of magic, he and Merlin could have been friends.

It was too late, now, for Harold to change his mind about magic. It was too late for him to do anything. He was dead.

Merlin stood, took stock of the situation. Arthur had led a charge against the trio of men ahead of them, but the terrain was against the royal party. They had been traveling downhill through a narrow gorge between two steep hills. Bandits stood on those hills, and a glance back revealed that there were bandits behind them, too. Like their comrades on the hillsides, they held wickedly curved bows, nocked and aimed at the fighters' backs.

Golden eyes flared. One of the bandits on the northern hillside yelped as an invisible fist grabbed ahold of his pant leg and yanked. He fell into an uncontrolled roll, knocking over two of his fellows as he tumbled down. Spinning on his heel, Merlin repeated the process for someone on the southern hillside. This one knocked over three men as collateral damage. Practice makes perfect indeed.

Except the first bandit he'd knocked over was climbing to his feet, a bit bruised but otherwise uninjured. Apparently the two men with whom he'd collided (one completely unconscious, one motionless and moaning) had cushioned his fall. "SHOOT THEM!" he roared. "We'll take the money from their—"

"Swefne!" cried a woman's voice.

Merlin's heart froze. No, no, Morgana couldn't have just done that. She was so vehemently opposed to Merlin revealing himself, she wouldn't have used magic so loud and clear right in front of Arthur and a half-dozen guards.

(The part of him that wasn't panicking wondered how Arthur was about to react.)

Except then a man's voice called out the same spell, felling two more bandits. Merlin met Morgana's stunned, confused gaze. She shook her head.

That was right. He hadn't even taught her that spell yet, and though he'd shown her his spell book, she hadn't really had much time to look through it, what with all the preparations and such. It couldn't have been her.

Which meant it was someone else.

Well, if someone was using magic, Merlin could help. He mouthed the words to the sleep spell, pushing out with his mind until the rest of the bandits collapsed.

It occurred to him a moment later that it might not be safe to use his own magic, that whoever had saved them might not have come to the rescue for benevolent reasons. After all, they were traveling under Uther's banner, and surely word had spread that Arthur had been sent to Tintagel? Then, as other voices joined the fray, he finally realized what was going on.

Word and deed.

Merlin's smile nearly split his face.

He'd told the people of magic to fight back, to perform blatantly obvious good deeds with their art before hurriedly retreating into the shadows. Nobody had been stupid enough to try anything like this in Camelot proper (except Emrys, of course), but rumors had nonetheless trickled in, quiet and persistent. A hooded stranger lifting the blight destroying a man's field. A wandering child led home by two women with distinctive tattoos. And stories like this one, tales of travelers protected from bandits by shouted words and powerful hand gestures.

The bandits were down, subdued by spellbinders. Aside from Harold, the entire party was safe.

The tears that rose to Merlin's eyes had nothing to do with Harold's death.

"Does he need healing?"

The warlock turned. There was a woman standing several feet behind him, her dark robes kilted over deerskin leggings. She gestured at Harold with the very obviously magical staff in her nut-brown hands.

Merlin shook his head. "The arrow took him in the throat," he called back, pitching his voice so that Arthur and the others could hear too. "He is beyond your healing, but thank you for the offer."

"Ah. I am sorry for your loss," the woman said. Her eyes roved over the rest of the party, probably searching for anyone else who might be wounded badly enough to require magical attention. Finding no one, she turned on her heel to leave.

"Wait!" Arthur cried.

The woman hesitated. Biting her lip, she took in the red cloaks, the shining mail, the unsheathed weapons. Her gaze lingered for a long moment on the Pendragon banner, the golden dragon on its field of blood. Then, giving a little shudder, she ran.

Merlin really couldn't blame her for that.

Arthur cursed, kicking his horse into action. His steed thundered towards where the spellbinder woman had gone.

"Are you crazy?" Merlin yelled, throwing himself into the horse's path. The stallion reared, its hooves dangerously close to his head. "She's terrified, you bloody arse!"

"If she's afraid, then why did she help us?" the prince demanded.

"Because some things mean more than fear, obviously."

"So what makes talking to me not worth the fear?"

Merlin sighed. "It's one thing to save you lot from a distance. It's another thing entirely to get within stabbing range of a bunch of bloodcloaks or to have Uther Pendragon's son chasing you."

Arthur slumped, scowled, then heaved a heavy sigh. "Thank you!" he called.

Merlin smiled again.

Arthur climbed down from his horse, inspected Harold's body. He sighed again, deeper and heavier.

"It was quick," Merlin said quietly, his cheer fading. "I don't think he suffered."

"That's something, I suppose," Arthur muttered. He ran his hand through his hair. "Morgana, how much longer until we reach the castle?"

"Two or three hours, nothing more," she assured him.

The prince grimaced. "Bold bastards. Leon, do we have any rope?"

"Not enough for all of them," the knight replied.

Arthur thought for a long moment. "Leon, Morgana, Guinevere. You three ride ahead to the castle and tell Cador what happened. Have him bring guards and shovels." He unclasped his cloak, laid it down over the corpse.

"Yes, sire," Leon murmured. The women nodded. All three made their way forward.

"The rest of us are going to disarm the bandits and round them up as best we can. Merlin, how long are the sleep spells going to last?"

The warlock froze, eyes enormous. "Why would I know?"

"Because you're Gaius's apprentice, you idiot."

"Oh." That was a relief. "I think… at least five hours. Certainly long enough for Cador to get here." Especially since he could just put people back to sleep if they stirred.

"Good. Now let's get started."

IMPORTANT AN: You've probably noticed that I haven't been able to keep my update schedule. My life is really busy at the moment. I've even had to push back the date for my thesis, which sucks. The point is, I need to put this story on HIATUS until July, at which point I fully intend to make an updating schedule and actually stick to it. I'm sorry, guys, but my thesis takes priority. Thank you for being patient.

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Gaius Reveals that He Too Can Raise Hell Even When Merlin is Away"