Chapter XXVIII: With Steel and Magic

Leon ran out of the trembling castle as quickly as he dared, the ancient swords clutched in his arms. Thankfully, he was neither apprehended by his fellow warriors nor crushed to death (or even injury) by the chunks of rock that had started falling from the ceiling.

The courtyard was in chaos. A rift was beginning to open in the corner. Gargoyles scurried across the walls, the cobblestones, the bodies of fallen guards. Men in Camelot red fought as hard as they could to stay alive, but their swords barely dented the gargoyles' stony hides. Some of the weapons even shattered, breaking at the hilts. He had no idea where those piles of stone fragments might have come from, because it certainly wasn't from the guardsmen.

Gods, Leon hoped his plan worked.

There was a burst of fiery light. Leon, like most of the other humans, looked over to see a gargoyle crumbling into dust. Wisps of flame curled up, illuminating the relieved face of Arthur Pendragon and the gleaming sword in his hand.

Apparently, the magic sword he'd gotten from Merlin worked on gargoyles as well as wraiths. Good to know. Hopefully that meant these swords really would work, too.

One way to find out.

Leon pushed the other swords to one side, someplace where they would hopefully be out of the way and not get crushed by falling stone. He kept one blade in his hand and charged at the nearest gargoyle.

This blade didn't ignite or make the enemy crumble to dust. It did, however, cut cleanly through the gargoyle's arm, as easily as a knife would move through warm butter. The limb shattered as it hit the ground.

The gargoyle roared. It tried to swat at Leon with its other arm, but the knight rolled aside, thrusting out his sword to slice off part of a leg. The thing collapsed, its arm and stump pinwheeling wildly in an attempt to keep its balance. As it fell, Leon reversed his momentum and chopped its head clean off in one brutal stroke.

That seemed to kill it. Leon wasn't quite certain why decapitation would destroy something without a brain, but he wasn't going to complain. He pushed himself to his feet.

"Do you have any more of those?" asked a familiar voice.

Leon pointed. "The pile by the wall."

Elyan nodded and ran for them.

Leon's next target was some kind of grotesque magical creature, a goat-like monstrosity with a horse's mane and lion's tail. It hadn't noticed that one of its comrades was down, so the knight found it easy to decapitate. Unfortunately, the other gargoyles noticed this one's death. Three of them charged.

Then Elyan was there, sword swinging, impaling a canine-dragon-thing before he launched over it. "I've got your back."

"And I've got yours."

"And we'll get both of yours if you tell us where we can get swords like that!" yelled a another familiar voice. Spinning on his heel to avoid a monster's claws, Leon caught a glimpse of Gwaine and—was that Lancelot? He'd had no idea that the man was back in Camelot.

"That way!" Elyan yelled, pointing with his spare hand as he parried a blow.

Arthur was yelling orders, telling everyone who couldn't affect the gargoyles (Leon noticed that he carefully avoided any mention of magic blades even though it was blatantly obvious that they were using some sort of sorcery) to focus on getting the wounded inside, on barricading what they could, on finding hammers and maces and similar weapons. (Why inside? Oh, wait, the earth had stopped shaking. That must be it.) But Donald was shouting too, countermanding the prince's orders, babbling about fell enchantments influencing his mind. The defenders of Camelot were visibly torn, displaying the kind of hesitation that could get them killed.

The cobblestones were no longer shaking beneath their feet, so Leon bellowed, "Barricade the castle! Defend it! Defend it!" He might not be First Knight anymore, but hopefully he still had enough influence over the men that they'd listen to him, or at least to his and Arthur's voices combined.

Their first priority in the case of an invasion was to defend the castle. There were many reasons for this, some symbolic, some practical. The castle was the heart of the citadel, which itself was the heart of the kingdom. It was the seat of the king's power, the place which housed his throne. Additionally, the building was designed as a fortress, a place for valiant defenses and heroic last stands.

If Sigan destroyed the castle, whether through an earthquake or through his forces overwhelming it, he would win.

Dodge, parry, strike. Leap over a serpentine creature's humped back to stab the monkeyish thing attacking the extremely tall fellow Leon had never seen before but had somehow ended up defending his home beside him. Stand back to back with Lancelot, using each other for support as two monsters used their superior strength to bear down on them.

Dodge.

Parry.

Strike.

"DEFEND THE CASTLE!" Arthur roared one more time. He had somehow ended up with them; he and the five wielders of the ancient knights' swords formed an approximation of a circle, rough and full of holes but strong enough that no one's back was left undefended.

(Deep inside Leon, something clicked into place.)

"Hammers and maces at every entrance," Arthur continued, swinging Excalibur with enough force to cleave through a lion creature's head. He was covered in dust and sweat and ash, his face flushed, his hair sticking to his head. He was every inch a king in the making. "MOVE!"

Maybe the defenders saw what Leon saw. Maybe they realized the sense of their prince's orders. Maybe the lack of earthquake emboldened them. Or maybe they were just tired of trying to defeat an undefeatable foe. Whatever the reason, they retreated.

"You five are with me," Arthur said. "We'll round the castle and kill as many of these things as possible."

"How many are there?" asked Gwaine, more serious than Leon had ever seen him.

"No idea. Hopefully Merlin can kill Sigan and stop them before—good gods, I can't believe I just said that."

"…Merlin, sire?" Lancelot inquired, suddenly a bit shifty-faced.

"I know you know he's a warlock, Lancelot. Horrifying as it is, he's our best chance, may the gods have mercy on us all."

Lancelot smiled. "He can do it. Where to first?"

"Um, everyone?" said the random tall man, staring up. "Is that a gargoyle?"

They turned as one, stared in the direction of his uplifted finger. There was a huge swift shape moving against the stars. As soon as they saw it, it began its descent into the firelight. Leon saw a long neck, a huge golden body, tightly folded wings.

"Oh, gods," said Lancelot faintly. "Kilgharrah."

The Great Dragon's wings snapped out, brushed against the walls of the courtyard. Intelligent eyes fixed on the tense humans. Leon wasn't an expert in draconian facial expressions, but he thought that it (he?) looked approving.

"Is that thing hungry?" whispered Gwaine.

The enormous creature's lips quirked. "Not at all, Sir Knight," it (no, definitely he) proclaimed.

Leon nearly dropped his sword. He'd had no idea that dragons could talk.

"Not a knight," Gwaine mumbled, but the dragon just smirked and ignored him.

Arthur hesitated before squaring his shoulders and stepping forward. "We're trying to keep them out of the fortress. Can you help with that?"

Amusement glinted in those ancient golden eyes. "Of course, Arthur Pendragon. I shall defend the roof and towers. Might I recommend heading to your left?" The dragon (Kilgharrah, Lancelot had called him) unfurled his wings, took flight towards one of the towers. Now that Leon was paying attention, he could see something moving along the stone walls, climbing for a window.

"…Father's going to kill me," Arthur mumbled. He sighed heavily, then turned to face them with a steady gaze and a firm jaw. "Let's follow the bloody dragon's advice. Why the hell not? To our left, men."

Swords in hand, they ran to their next battle.

It turned out that the light beam coming from Beothaich did not like being folded over itself. It made its displeasure known by exploding as soon as Merlin stepped back into time, blowing out half the wall around the doorframe, taking out chunks of the ceiling and floor, and knocking the warlock back into the wall again. If he survived this, he was going to be so sore in the morning.

Fortunately, Sigan hadn't been expecting the explosion either. Merlin heard him cursing as he pushed himself back onto his feet. The younger warlock ran forward until he stood at the very border of the warded area, then attacked.

Merlin reached out with his mind, grabbed ahold of some stone chunks that had been knocked loose from the explosion, and hurled them at his ancestor. Sigan thrust out his hand, stopping them in midair. For a long moment, the two warlocks silently struggled against each other.

"A trap!" called a voice so unexpected that Merlin nearly leapt out of his skin. When the hell had Uther gotten here? "The gean canach!"

Rage contorted Sigan's face. He closed his hands, disintegrating the stones, and spat out the words to a fire spell.

Merlin stepped outside of time.

Gean canach, gean canach. He'd heard of it before, he knew he'd heard of it before, but what was it? Merlin looked around frantically, more than half-expecting some horrible enormous beast to be charging him from behind.

All he saw was a slug, thick and horrid and dripping slime as it oozed out of the wreckage by the doorframe. That was when he remembered.

Blaise had told him about these abominations. Born from the furious tears of Nemaine when Roman sorcerers desecrated and destroyed her most sacred grove, they sought out the children of magic and devoured their powers. The Celts had been happy when the creatures attacked the Romans and considerably less happy when they were attacked themselves. The little monsters had been hunted for centuries and were on the brink of extinction when Uther's Purge began. His men somehow managed to capture five of them—supposedly the last five in existence—and were returning to the capital when they were attacked by Nimueh and the remnants of her Blood Guard, who had heard about the mission and decided (quite reasonably, in Merlin's opinion) that Uther Pendragon should absolutely not be allowed control over creatures that could literally devour magic. Gods only knew what he would do with that kind of power. So they'd attacked the soldiers and burned the gean canach to ashes.

Except this one was alive, it was coming towards him, it was just a few feet away, and it was going to eat his magic. Could Sigan take the magic from it afterwards? Merlin had never heard that such a thing was possible, but it wouldn't be the first time his ancestor had created a new spell. The man had brought himself back from the dead, for crying out loud. If he neutralized Merlin and destroyed Camelot, he'd have all the time in the world to study the gean canach, make it regurgitate Merlin's magic, and thereby gain all the power of Emrys.

Oh gods. How was he supposed to kill it? Think. Remember the story. Nimueh had killed them with fire, but was it regular fire or flames born from magic? Could this thing eat spell-created fire? What if that just made it stronger? The explosion from earlier didn't seem to have harmed it, so maybe it wasn't a good idea to use magic. Then what could he—oh. Of course.

Keeping time paused, Merlin jogged over to the nearest torch. It was still lit, the flames frozen mid-curl. Smiling grimly, the warlock scooped the torch out of its sconce and made his way back to the slug.

The slime coating it looked rather like oil. Flammable, flammable, oil.

Careful to not touch the magic-devouring abomination, Merlin placed the torch an inch or so above the slug's body. It froze when it left his hand, but that would only last until gravity started up again. Still, just to be on the safe side, Merlin scurried several feet away from it before releasing his death grip on time.

The torch fell. The gean canach ignited with a very un-slug-like scream.

Sigan's head snapped around. His jaw dropped, eyes widening in horror when he saw what was befalling his trap.

Merlin's smile was more a bearing of teeth. "Good luck finding another one of those, dearest grandfather." He lowered Beothaich, took aim. "Acwele!"

"Gescildan!"

The golden beam hit a shield of shadow, cracking and shattering it. A beam of ice came out the other side, hurtling towards Merlin and hitting his own shield. The second he dropped his shield, though, the ice heated to scalding steam. Merlin yelped, trying to throw up another shield, but that didn't work. The steam was already around him, in his clothes, in his mouth and nose. Thankfully he was a dragonlord's son, or things would have been much worst.

"Hrimceald rihtnorðanwind," he yipped. The breeze pushed away the steam, leaving a thin layer of frost on the nearest wall.

Sigan yanked, telekinetically grabbing Merlin's cloak. He staggered forward, feet banging through the rubble. He yelled again, then realized he still had Beothaich. "Acwele!"

The older warlock jumped aside, barely avoiding the golden beam of light. He gestured sharply, covering the room in shadows thicker and heavier than molasses.

He was going to try to escape again. That was what he always did: his plan failed, he found himself at an unexpected disadvantage, and so he ran.

Not today.

"Leoht! Forbaernan!"

Light cut through the darkness, sharp as a knife. The shadows fled, unable to hide even in corners. Fire roared to life in the destroyed entryway, blocking the path.

Merlin pushed himself to his feet, silhouetted against the raging flames. "Gescildan," he snapped, knowing that his ancestor would try something. Sure enough, a blast of pure force collided with his shield mere moments after its formation. Seconds later, part of the ceiling caved in, coming dangerously close to crushing him.

The warlock spun, facing the direction where the force had come from. His eyes flitted over Uther, who was tied to the throne for some (undoubtedly psychotic) reason, but the king was the only person he could see. Confused, he looked around again, wondering if the anti-teleportation wards only kept people from getting in.

Then another attack shattered his shield while he was distracted. Merlin jumped, looking wildly around, but he couldn't see anything. Was Sigan invisible? Was—

"Byre innan gylp," Merlin commanded. Another wind blew through the room, kicking up dust from all the fallen stone. Most of the dust flew freely, but there was one man-sized area that remained clear.

"Acwele! Acwele! Acwele!"

The first beam of light shattered a stone that Sigan levitated. The second hit his hastily erected shield. The third missed entirely, for Sigan had already dodged by then.

"Striene greosn," the older warlock incanted. "Striene papolstanas!"

The dust particles clumped together, becoming pebbles, becoming small stones too heavy to be whipped around by Merlin's conjured wind. Scowling, the warlock expanded his wall of fire, extending it so that it circled the room.

The second Cornelius Sigan got through that wall of fire—the second he passed the wards—he would be gone. Again.

Merlin was sick and tired of his ancestor running away. He wanted to end this. He needed to end this before Sigan's next attack, because every time Sigan attacked, Camelot came just a little closer to destruction. The older warlock only had to win once.

But what could he do about an invisible foe? He couldn't wait for Sigan to tire. He'd get hit long before that happened. If only he could see through invisibility….

Oh.

He could, because what was invisibility but a form of illusion?

Merlin raised up the strongest, thickest shield he could muster. His eyes closed. He took a deep breath.

He opened his eyes, and looked.

There.

Cornelius Sigan was close, just on the other side of his shield. No doubt he was waiting for Merlin to drop it, then attack him point-blank. Then he'd escape while his descendent was incapacitated, possibly kidnapping him again in the process. Well. Two could play at that game.

In one smooth motion, Merlin dropped his shield, raised his staff, and fired.

"Acwele!"

The bolt of golden light hit Cornelius Sigan in the center of his chest. Shock covered his face, but he didn't have time to move aside. The light connected, and he crumbled into dust. The Raven's Key clattered to the ground.

Slowly, hardly able to believe that it was over, Merlin lowered Beothaich. He stood there for a long moment, staring in silence at the place where his ancestor had died again.

It was over. It was really, finally over.

Merlin strode forward, retrieved the Raven's Key. The statues were still rampaging, but a few whispered words returned them to inanimate stone.

With Sigan dead and the gargoyles dormant, there was just one thing left to do. Merlin turned to Uther, sitting rigid and defiant in his chains. The king stared back, his fists clenched, a muscle jumping in his neck.

Merlin gestured, and the chains dissolved.

Uther stood slowly, cautiously, rubbing at his wrist. He was silent.

Another gesture made the fires recede. One tongue of flame escaped from the others, reforming into a ball of blue-white light.

It was very odd, but Merlin wasn't afraid. He should be. He'd feared this man since he knew what fear was, and now the man who'd butchered his people knew he was a warlock. Yet Merlin found that he was calm, placid, almost serene.

"…Why didn't you kill me?"

Merlin's lips twisted into a grim smile. "Your son wouldn't like that very much. Besides," he added, suddenly knowing that it was true, "you don't have much time left."

"You have another plan, then?" Uther sneered.

Merlin shook his head. "No, just a tendency to spout prophecies every once in a while." His voice took on a sonorous tone, rumbling like thunder. "This I prophesy: your death approaches, Uther Pendragon. You will never see your children marry, never meet your grandchildren, never witness the birth of Albion. By the time the days wane again, a new and better king will sit on the throne of Camelot."

"You are lying," said Uther, but he'd spent enough time around spellbinders to recognize a true foretelling.

"You know damn well I'm not."

"Then I'll just have to make certain to kill you first," Uther Pendragon declared.

Merlin just smiled at him. "You can try."

He spun on his heel and disappeared.

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Kilgharrah is Very Useful Even Though He's Still a Little Bit Cryptic"

Spells that you don't recognize were created with the help of old english translator. co. uk

Hrimweald rihtnorðanwind: Icy cold north wind

Byre innan gylp: Wind in the dust

Striene greosn, striene papolstanas: Create pebbles, create pebble-stones.

Next update: November 30. Camelot begins to recover.