Chapter XXVII: Tintinnabulation

There were times when Uther Pendragon was painfully aware of his son's origins.

Arthur had been born of magic. The same magic which had killed his wife had woven his son into being. Sometimes Uther feared that the magic… influenced him, or at the very least made him more vulnerable to malign sorcerers.

Or perhaps, he admitted to himself, the problem went deeper than that. Arthur was hardly the first Pendragon to have been bamboozled by a sorcerer. He himself had once called Nimueh a dear friend, as had Ygraine. The spirit which had haunted them these past weeks had once been King Bruta's bosom companion, as close to him as his own shadow. A vulnerability to magic might be part of Arthur's very blood, exacerbated by the manner of his birth.

And now this false Emrys—the supposedly harmless boy he'd made his son's manservant—had ferreted that weakness out, had taken advantage of it to trick the Crown Prince of Camelot.

Uther had noticed, of course, that Arthur's faith was wavering, though he hadn't known the depth or cause until today. At first he'd thought it was some lingering influence from Gaius's lessons about magic (which reminded him. He needed to keep an eye on Sir Leon as well), that Arthur would come to his senses soon. But that hadn't happened. If anything, Arthur had gotten worse, and now that damn sorcerer had convinced him that only magic could stand against Cornelius Sigan.

Had Arthur completely forgotten everything he'd ever learned? He knew that Uther had wiped out sorcery in Camelot through strength of will and strength of arm. That was how he had done everything: taking back his kingdom from Vortigern, destroying the Old Religion, chasing the Catha into retreat, invading Essetir to put his cousin on Loth's throne. He could defeat Sigan, just as he could defeat Emrys—though if they killed each other off of their own volition, he certainly wouldn't complain. Then he could focus his attention on the upcoming war with Odin that Sigan had started while possessing him and that the other king refused to call off.

Now more than ever, he needed his son to trust him. Two dangerous sorcerers were rampaging through the citadel, the dungeons remained insecure, his spies were probably all dead, the kingdom was at war, Gaius had betrayed him (and oh, how that stung), and the Great Dragon remained at large. Everything was going wrong, and he needed his strong right hand.

So of course now was when Merlin—when Emrys—decided to strike. To think that he'd trusted the boy, even liked him, that he'd made him Arthur's manservant. And now he'd told Arthur his own (doubtless biased and twisted) version of Queen Ygraine's death in a far-too-successful attempt to manipulate him.

He would have to take steps, drastic steps. He needed to contact the Sarrum, to find a court physician who could undo the other traitor's work, to—

The door opened. A dark shadow stepped inside, one cloaked in iridescent raven feathers.

Uther's heart hammered in his chest, but he did not let himself show fear. "Cornelius Sigan, I presume?" His sword was on the other side of the room, but if he was fast….

The sorcerer didn't answer. He flicked his hand, and suddenly Uther found himself completely immobile. He strained against the spell as Sigan levitated him through the halls, but it was no use.

Where were his guards?

Sigan brought him to the throne room, deposited him upon his throne. Ropes appeared, binding the king to his seat, a helpless witness to the downfall of his kingdom.

The sorcerer drew something from the depths of his cloak. For a moment, Uther panicked, expecting him to withdraw the Raven's Key and turn the citadel itself against them. But no. It was a… jar? A jar that Sigan carefully levitated over to the doorframe, a cruel smirk on his face. Only then did he bring out the Raven's Key, holding it loosely in his fist.

But first, Sigan decided to fortify his location. He circled the room, murmuring in the ancient language of sorcery. Uther neither knew nor cared what he was doing, but whatever it was, it didn't weaken the bonds upon him. He pulled and strained, but he couldn't escape.

Then Sigan held out the Raven's Key. A great shudder went through the citadel as the statues awoke.

Not long after, the bells began to ring.

Elyan was still awake when the bells began to ring. He'd been standing outside, leaning with his back against the wall and his eyes fixed on the stars, when the clamor started.

Gwen had told him on the way here that the ringing didn't necessarily mean that the citadel was under attack. It could indicate that someone had escaped the dungeons or that there had been an assassination attempt or that a sorcerer had been sighted. Elyan wanted to believe that it was one of those things, but with Sigan on the loose, he rather doubted it.

The door opened beside him. Gwen looked out, practically brimming with worry. She glanced at her brother. "Do you see anything?"

"Nothing. Maybe it's a localized attack."

"If it is, it would be at the castle," she speculated. Her eyes went wide. "And there's no physician."

Their father strode outside. Elyan stiffened, still not entirely comfortable around him even though he'd been welcomed back with open arms. Actually, maybe that was why he was so uncomfortable.

"Gwen, how likely is it that your friend knows about this?"

"Merlin? I don't know. He's probably keeping an eye on us, but, well, it's late at night. He might just be sleeping."

"Then they'll need all the help they can get," Elyan murmured.

"You can't possibly be thinking of going up there," Tom said, alarmed.

"I'm technically a guard now, Dad."

"And I know a little bit about healing," Gwen added. "I'm no Gaius, but I can help bandage people up."

Tom sighed heavily. "Then I suppose we'd better grab some hammers and get going."

"We?" his children chorused.

"It's either that or worry about you all night," he pointed out.

Something in Elyan softened at that. "I suppose we can't have that," he mumbled.

Gwen smiled. "No, I suppose not. Let's go."

Gwaine had never been to Camelot before. Maybe it was some bizarre form of residual loyalty to Loth and Lot (he sincerely hoped not), or maybe he'd just heard too many stories about bounty hunters and witchfinders. So he really wasn't surprised when his peaceful night's sleep (he could explore the taverns tomorrow, he'd just been oddly tired tonight) was interrupted by alarm bells.

Nope. Not surprised at all.

He could probably get away with not doing anything. It wasn't like this was his home, and it wasn't like he owed anything to Uther. But. He liked the people he'd been traveling with the last few days (some more than others). He didn't particularly want them to die horribly at the hands of a deranged ancient warlock.

Grumbling under his breath, Gwaine pushed himself out of bed.

Shirt. Boots. Sword. Door. He jogged down the stairs, nearly colliding with another man as he rounded the corner.

"You've got a sword too," Gwaine noted. "Heading to the castle?"

"Yes," the man replied, "we are."

"We?" Gwaine repeated.

The stranger—a great giant of a man with arms like tree trunks—nodded towards a second individual. This fellow was shorter and darker, as light on his feet as a cat. Come to think of it, they both moved like warriors. Good. They shouldn't be running around with swords if they didn't know how to use them.

"Any idea what we're up against?" Gwaine asked as they went outside. The ringing was louder here without walls to muffle it, but not enough that they had to raise their voices to be heard.

"I heard that he used an undead army last time," said the shorter man. "He probably couldn't find another one, but he may have recruited some manner of supernatural horde as his backup. That's what Nimueh would have done."

"Have experience with this, do you?"

"I used to work for the guard," he explained. "It didn't work out, but I learned a little about the attack habits of magical heavyweights."

"Which is a lot more than I know," laughed the vagabond. "I'm Gwaine, by the way. You?"

"Lancelot."

"Percival."

"Good to meet you. Now let's go kick some ass."

Leon was out of bed in a flash. He'd always been a fairly light sleeper when he was expecting trouble, and he was utterly unsurprised that Sigan had chosen tonight for his next attack. "Marrok," he called automatically, then paused, trying to remember what night it was.

"I'm here, sir," his squire called, running into Leon's room with as much armor as he could carry. With his strength, that was quite a lot.

"Do you hear anything I don't?" Leon inquired as his squire helped him arm himself.

"I'm afraid not."

Leon sighed. "And here I was hoping to know what we were up against before literally running into it."

They exited the room, Leon turning left, Marrok right. The squire frowned, looked back over his shoulder. "But I thought the meeting point was that way?"

"It is, but I have to get something before I go there."

"I can go with you, though," said Marrok, brow furrowing.

"No. It's… not exactly a safe plan that I've concocted."

"…Oh." Marrok was beginning to look nervous. "Sigan-dangerous or Uther-dangerous?"

"Both, if it doesn't work."

Marrok understood, just as he understood why Leon wouldn't involve him. He nodded. "Then good luck, sir."

Leon jogged to his destination, both relieved and exasperated to find it unguarded. One would think that the people guarding the weapons vault would know better than to leave their posts when a dangerous spellbinder was on the loose, even if the artifacts had been stolen. By Merlin, actually, which was odd to think about. If he ever saw him again, he'd have to ask just what in the world he'd done with them. For now, though, he just hoped that the warlock hadn't been back since they'd discovered his thefts.

Sigan's last attack on Camelot (as opposed to his kidnapping of Merlin and his various possessions, which he thought might have been ways to lure out "Emrys" before being bound in mortal flesh) had involved a concentrated attack from a small magical army. He'd thought it likely that the next assault might involve something similar, so he'd begun to formulate a plan.

He hadn't been able to defeat the Knights of Medhir until he'd picked up one of their swords. There was magic of some sort in the blades. Perhaps it wasn't as potent as whatever Merlin had done to Arthur's sword, but Leon thought that they still had a better chance against Sigan's magical forces than ordinary blades.

The problem was that Uther did not take kindly to people actually using things from his vault, especially without explicit permission. Even if this worked, there was a high chance he'd face… undesirable consequences.

He was a knight. Undesirable consequences were a constant risk of the job.

There had been seven Knights of Medhir, seven swords. Two of them had lost their hilts when their masters perished, leaving five in working condition. Leon gathered them up in his arms, then turned and strode up to the battle.

Hopefully the swords would work the way he'd theorized. Hopefully he could find other fighters to wield them. Hopefully the magical army was all they had to deal with.

Beneath his feet, the earth began to shake.

They ran.

Yes, Merlin could have teleported them to Arthur's room. That would have been faster, but it wouldn't have saved enough time to justify the energy expenditure. Even if it would only take one good shot with Beothaich (or one good blow from Excalibur, assuming Arthur could get close enough to strike) to kill Sigan, Merlin still had to find the older warlock and probably fight his way through an army of gargoyles to do it. He'd need all his strength for that.

Thankfully, nobody moved to stop them. Several people pulled up short and gaped for a moment or two, and many others did a double take, but nobody got in their way.

"Do you have any way of finding him?" Arthur demanded.

"Not unless he's dropped his anti-scrying wards." Merlin fumbled around in his pockets, finally coming up with something small and round and golden bronze. "Kilgharrah, Kilgharrah, Kilgharrah!"

The word was familiar, but it took Arthur a few seconds to remember why. "Please tell me you didn't just summon that bloody dragon."

"All right, I won't tell you."

"Why would you do that?!"

"To help find Sigan, to throw gargoyles to their deaths, to possibly set Sigan on fire. He's very useful when he's not being deliberately vague."

They skidded almost to a halt in front of Arthur's door. It swung open of its own accord, which Arthur decided to ignore. Now, where was—oh. It was glowing now. He had not known it could do that. Still, if it helped him find the sword so quickly, he wasn't going to complain.

He liked magic a lot more now that it wasn't being used in attempts on his life. Well, it sort of was—Sigan wanted to kill everybody—but it was quite pleasant to have some magic on his side.

Merlin was drawing something on the floor, candles whizzing towards him and lighting in midair. "For spirit-walking," he explained shortly. "It's faster than running around everywhere. Make sure you have everything you need, because I'm locking the door behind you."

Arthur hefted Excalibur. "I do. Good luck, Merlin."

"You too, Arthur."

There was a protocol in place for sudden attacks on the citadel, one that had been almost forgotten under Sullivan but restored with a vengeance under the new captain. Basically, the guards on duty were to hold off the attackers while off-duty guards and knights gathered in one of the halls, where they would receive orders from the captain, who was to remain in position to assimilate information and coordinate different units.

There were about two dozen guards present when Arthur burst into the hall. They didn't notice him at first, too accustomed to the door slamming open and shut.

Then one man gasped, and heads began to turn.

Arthur strode up to the wide-eyed Donald. Control the situation, he had to control the situation. He had to—

The earth began to shake. The castle shuddered around them, and Arthur remembered the enormous network of tunnels underneath the citadel with a rush of horror. If this earthquake went on long enough, Camelot would collapse in on itself.

"To the courtyard!" he bellowed.

They obeyed.

A trio of gargoyles were near the door when Arthur and his men burst out of it. They'd apparently been trying to get inside, as all were facing the hallway. The runners at the front skidded to a halt, grabbing desperately at their swords.

An enormous hunk of writhing gray stone slammed into the first gargoyle, knocking it into its fellows. The projectile—another gargoyle, its limbs chipped and falling away—was pulled back, then collided with them again and again, pounding all four creatures to dust. Magic. Morgana, or perhaps Alator was here.

The courtyard was chaos. Wounded men tried to hold off an entire menagerie's worth of hideous stone beasts, but their swords cracked and shattered against the rock. The only gargoyles anyone had managed to destroy were two great heaps of dust and pebbles. Ordinary weapons didn't work against them, and Arthur couldn't exactly tell his men to pick up the gargoyles and bang them together until they shattered.

Sigan's forces didn't appear to be that well organized, Arthur noted. That was good. On the other hand, his own forces weren't organized that well either, and they weren't invincible stone monsters. Oh, lovely—that particular invincible stone monster, the one which he'd thought was being levitated, could actually fly, and it presumably wasn't the only one. How was that fair? Stone was heavy.

They were losing. How could they do anything but lose when their opponents couldn't be slain, when the very earth shook beneath their feet? They couldn't just let Morgana (or Alator, or both) destroy them all. That would take too long, cost them too many good men.

A vaguely canine beast was attacking three guards. They were holding it off for now, but one fell as the ground shuddered again and the other two had chips and dents in their swords. The prince made a mental note to try to acquire a wider variety of weapons—hammers and morning stars and maces, for starters—before charging into the fray, Excalibur at the ready.

He really hoped that dragonsteel worked on gargoyles.

He would probably die if it didn't.

The blade connected.

Find Sigan, get back to his body, teleport, strike. It was theoretically a simple plan, just a bit easier said than done.

Merlin's spirit-self sprinted through the halls and walls and doors of Camelot, flinching instinctively whenever the floor spasmed. He wasn't affected by the earthquake, not like this, but that was disconcerting enough in and of itself. When combined with the knowledge that the ceiling could collapse on top of his body at any moment, the entire experience was extremely unpleasant.

Think, Merlin, think. He's causing an earthquake, so he can't be in the tunnels or anyplace too high. He seems like the sort who'd like to be close to his work, so he's probably—oh. Oh, he was probably behind the barrier that Merlin had just slammed into. In other words, the throne room.

Of course he was in the throne room. Bloody drama king.

The warlock was back in his body in an instant, trying to jump to his feet. He failed miserably, having forgotten that getting up too quickly after spirit-walking made him dizzy and a little bit nauseated. Recovering cost him precious seconds, as did his failed attempt to teleport into the throne room. Apparently Sigan had warded it against magical transportation. Apparently he'd warded it against lots of things.

Merlin grit his teeth and told himself that this was a good thing. It meant he couldn't escape again.

The warlock ran through the halls. He was the only person going in this direction; everybody else was very sensibly trying to run outside before the castle fell down on their heads or collapsed into the tunnels.

If it had just been Sigan, Merlin would have tried to sneak in, taking his possible-ancestor by surprise. But the other warlock had gargoyles and a bloody earthquake, and Merlin didn't have time for that. He thrust out his hand, blasting the door off its hinges.

The earthquake stopped immediately. Hopefully that meant Sigan had been crushed by the flying door. Oh, wait, no, he was just preparing the enormous fireball that he threw at Merlin when he ran into the room.

What had happened to wanting him alive?

Merlin dove to the side, already summoning a fireball of his own before he remembered that he was supposed to use Beothaich. He paused time.

The magic… bounced.

Time did not pause. If anything, it seemed to speed up as the recoil slammed into Merlin, leaving him winded and dizzy and on the verge of vomiting. He didn't have time to recover before a blast of pure force sent him skidding back into the hall.

Okay, so he'd warded the throne room against Merlin specifically. Either that, or he knew of other potential defenders of Camelot who could pause time. But did the wards extend to the halls? Merlin stepped outside of time again, grinning with satisfaction when it worked. He aimed Beothaich.

"Acwele!"

A bolt of golden light erupted from the staff's crystal. It arced into the room and… froze. The rest of the light collided with the frozen spell, folding in on itself into an orb of incandescence.

Really? Really? That was just colossally unfair.

This, Merlin realized, was going to be a lot harder than he'd thought.

Alternate chapter title: "In Which There Are Many Cliffhangers"

Next chapter: November 9. The battle continues. We find out what's in that jar.

-Antares