Chapter 15: Hostage Negotiations
Freya was having trouble focusing on any of the busy tasks she set herself to in their pair of rooms, feeling more comfortable keeping her distance from the members of the family, at present. She finally sat down to try to lose herself in a book.
But the questions were there, quick to jump into her mind and harry her borrowed peace, any moment she let her concentration drift from the words.
Had Agent Lancelot managed to find the two escaped bodyguards? Had they already left town?
What would Agent Lancelot require of Merlin? What would Merlin ask of himself?
How far would he go?
And of course, what was it that was beginning to happen, that morning? Home by nightfall if he was lucky, he'd said.
She could gather nothing from the maid who knocked periodically to inquire after her needs. A message had come; Merlin and Edwyn had gone out in response. Anetta had broken down under the strain of worry, and her husband was with her. No one else was at the house, no one else had other information.
So Freya waited.
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Merlin woke to darkness and a disorienting sway.
The pain in his shoulder, arm, head, was overwhelmingly nauseating – he swallowed against the bile in his throat with difficulty and even that sent new agony splintering through head and body
Differing sensations presented themselves to him with mute and irritating slowness.
His feet were cold; one was under him, his ankle scraping a rough surface, sandy and grimy, the other was on a soft cushiony elevation. He smelled dust and filth and boot polish.
Merlin rolled to his right and almost couldn't maneuver himself upright against the rocking and darkness and pain stiffening his entire left side. He put his arm out to try to pull himself up and his fingers brushed velvet upholstery coming down vertically to meet the same sort of horizontal cushion he pulled his foot down from, opposite.
The carriage.
He was in the carriage, alone, and they were taking him somewhere.
The windows were covered, but he was now sufficiently accustomed to the level of light to tell it was still daylight; maybe only a few hours had passed.
He wondered how long it had taken them to repair the harness, and couldn't dredge up any amusement at their expense.
Merlin pushed himself up to the seat, reminded of the vague and hellish drive with Arthur from the reeve's hold to Morgana's chalet in Turad. This was worse - his boots were missing, as well as his belt. His shirt hung open; he felt of it and discovered the buttons had been ripped off; even the bandages had been removed from his wrists. The rest of his clothing felt odd, twisted, mis-adjusted.
They'd searched him – his last knife was gone, and the sheaths.
Damn. He sighed.
Well, they should have done that first thing.
At least Edwyn wasn't in the carriage; Merlin hoped that meant he'd eluded them. If they'd recaptured Edwyn and intended killing Merlin, they'd probably have done it immediately and dispensed with the bother of transporting him elsewhere.
No surprise they were moving, though, probably that had been part of their plan from the beginning. Gilbent held the message that directed them to the dirty, ugly hovel; they wouldn't stay there longer than necessary. They'd been intending to move him and Edwyn anyway.
Merlin gave himself a cursory examination, cataloguing the extent of his injuries, evaluating his capabilities objectively. The outer bone in his left forearm was probably cracked, he might have a concussion – he definitely had a headache - but any bleeding had stopped.
He couldn't take both of them in any kind of fight, maybe not even one of them. He figured Gordy and Lars each could give Gwaine decent odds on the training field – with this kind of crippling injury, the match would be dangerously uneven in their favor.
But what could fighting accomplish now? He'd be doing nothing but forcing them to kill him.
And Merlin didn't want to do that to Freya.
The thought of his death wasn't a shoulder-shrugging matter to him, anymore. How and why that had changed wasn't important, he supposed. He wasn't sure he was ready to scrutinize and analyze that feeling; it wouldn't do him any good now, in any case. As for the next step…
The next step was to live. To live, to escape. Sooner or later.
One way or another.
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Della had come to sit with Freya, bringing news of the attack, and Edwyn's escape. That Reeve Jackson and Agent Lancelot had been notified via messenger, had gone to the house… finding it empty.
No sign of where Merlin had been taken. Or if he was even… all right. Della hesitated to say, still alive, but Freya heard it anyway.
Freya rested on the edge of the bed, feeling numb. She was aware of Della's gaze on her from the corner desk chair - concerned and ready, it seemed to Freya, to call for help, if she should need it. That made her feel a little silly, and self-conscious, and she pulled her resolve around her like Merlin's fleece-lined jacket on a snowy night.
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for telling me."
"Would you like me to stay?" Della said worriedly. "We could talk of something else. Why don't you tell me… How did you meet Reeve Merlin?"
It wasn't much of a change of subject. Juliana had asked much the same question, but there was a world of difference between that woman's manner, and Della's solicitous caring.
"I was serving in a tavern," she responded as readily as she was able. "And he came in at dinnertime, one night."
"The way to a man's heart, yes?" Della smiled, relieved maybe that Freya wasn't going to fly into inconsolable hysterics. "When did you know you wanted to marry him?"
"The minute I knew he was going to ask me," Freya said softly. And what a near thing to a final answer her refusal had been.
"Did he court you long?" Della continued curiously. "Was this after he was sworn reeve? Chatting in your family's sitting room, taking afternoon walks?"
"I wouldn't say he courted me, exactly," Freya hedged, and explained briefly about her mother's death, her time with her cousins in Turad.
But he had spent time in the sitting room of the house on Sycamore Avenue, and as for taking walks - she remembered two distinctly. The one rainy day she'd spent in the tree with him outside Emmett's Creek, and the time they'd walked in Key Park and she'd blurted her terrible confession.
"If you don't mind my asking, what made him fall in love with you?" Della said, leaning forward.
"I don't think he–" She stopped.
Don't you know by now? Did he mean… that he had fallen in love with her? That he loved her?
If you find a man you want to spend your life with… he'd said. On that very walk in Key Park, when they'd discussed her prospects for marriage, and Emma's parade of suitors. And, If he deserves you, he'll understand.
What man understood her better than Merlin?
"I – don't know," she said uncertainly.
"Well, if I may say, I have the possibility of a courtship nearly ready to commence…" Della began to confide in Freya a description of the gentleman she was secretly interested in, enumerating the qualities of the potential suitor. As if today was any other day, and they two just friends chatting about their lives.
A long line of ifs stood between Freya and Merlin, leading to their union. And most of them weren't good things – deaths in their families, violence associated with Padlow and Reeve Agravaine, even the accidental scandal that had brought him to Cousin Randall's house proposing marriage.
She smiled and nodded, encouraging Della to continue the one-sided conversation, but couldn't concentrate past a single thought.
Was their time together fated to end with just such a violent incident?
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The carriage had been still for close to three hours.
Merlin figured it had been left in the sun somewhere; the air inside hadn't chilled so much as it had grown stale, but it wasn't uncomfortably cold, even though he was only in shirtsleeves, with no way to fasten his shirt, anymore. He allowed himself to resent that, for Freya's sake – she'd have to sew the buttons back on.
He wouldn't consider this ending any other way.
The windows had been boarded, nailed shut on the inside, over the privacy curtain so it wouldn't show from the outside, and all of the boards were tight, unyielding to one-handed prying. The door was well-fitted and reinforced, the inside handle removed and another wooden slat nailed over it. The seats, floor, and roof were all secure.
He'd been over it three times already, and as he hadn't tools or knives, there was nothing left to do but wait.
It was an effective prison, the damage of the additions clearly balanced against the success of the venture. The carriage could be repaired once Payton was safely home.
And more and more, he didn't want that to happen. Especially when he perversely compared their conditions – it was a sure thing the smuggler wasn't undergoing the same ordeal as he was. Lancelot wouldn't treat a prisoner like this no matter what his value.
Merlin chose to do nothing about his injuries, figuring that the appearance of fitness would minimize the reality in the eyes of his captors. He also weighed his options of success in an attack on whoever opened the door, whenever they opened it, and decided against it. There would be better opportunities.
He hoped.
Merlin cat-napped a little, but woke immediately when he heard voices near the carriage. Recognizing Gordy and Lars, he didn't bother trying to shout for help. They would not be so careless – at least, not any longer – as to leave him where any chance passerby with the ability to help would hear him.
The door was yanked open, rocking the carriage slightly – Gordy had done it in such a way as to neutralize any attack from within, and Lars was three paces away showing the blade removed from one of the bills at the ready.
"Out," Gordy said shortly. "Put your hands together."
Merlin obeyed. As Gordy tied his hands together behind him, he gritted his teeth against the waves of nauseating pain in his arm that threatened to separate his elbow and litter the ground with his fingernails, and looked around to distract himself.
It would be twilight within the hour – the sun was at the edge of the earth but still giving plenty of light. They were some distance from town, nowhere near the road or other dwelling; there was nothing but prairie and a few scrub trees. To the south waited the gray carriage horse, unhitched but saddled and ready to ride at a second's notice. To the north he could see a clump of evergreens, and two men standing halfway between the trees and the carriage, waiting.
"That's the agent and his lieutenant," Gordy explained gruffly. The good-will induced by his earlier expectation of easy victory was gone. "He wants to speak with you alone before he'll trade you for Master Payton. And you better persuade him to agree, or it's lights-out for you. Try anything, and I'll have to decide whether to kill you, or him." He showed Merlin a long slim knife designed for throwing.
Gordy had thrown the bill – long, heavy, badly balanced for that sort of use – butt end first, like a lance, with enough strength and skill to bring Merlin down from the horse's back.
Merlin believed his threat.
The man shoved him toward the waiting agent, and he walked out to meet them, the earth packed cold and hard beneath his stockinged feet. He supposed he should be glad it wasn't cactus country.
They stood out of earshot of the two bodyguards, but it was still within range of a skillfully thrown blade. Merlin stopped where he was between the two lawmen, and Gordy behind him.
"Kid with a lamp?" Lancelot said, but his face turned serious as he inspected Merlin's condition. "We had a message from Edwyn – we took a look at that abandoned house – and then we got a note with your knife."
"Don't make the trade," Merlin said.
Agent Lancelot was shocked into silence.
"We still outnumber them by half," Sal pointed out, after a moment. "After the trade, we can attack and get all three – arrested or dead."
Merlin shook his head. "These two won't let themselves be taken alive. They've got a horse ready for Payton and they'll cover his escape. You won't re-take him without casualties. Don't risk it."
"What do you suggest, then?" Lancelot said, his brows drawing together.
"Is Payton here? Have they seen him?"
"Back in the trees," Sal said, without giving that fact away to Merlin's kidnappers by turning in that direction. "And no, they don't know he's here."
"Tell them you'll bring Payton to the warehouse or some place tomorrow morning," Merlin said. "They'll believe you want to keep him a few extra hours in an attempt to gain information before you release him."
"Which we're not really going to do," Lancelot guessed, without revealing anything of what he thought or felt.
"Go with your deputies and prisoners, leave right away and push for the capital through the night. Once they realize the trade won't be made, you can be almost a full day ahead of them, and hopefully they won't even try to follow."
"Once they realize the trade won't be made–" Lancelot repeated, concern showing on his face as he eyed Merlin, bootless and bloodied.
"Maybe the reeve can spare a deputy to guard Della's family until these two are caught," Merlin interrupted. "So this won't happen again."
"Once they realize–" Lancelot persisted.
"You need to take Wiley, too," Merlin said. "Was Edwyn able to give you a clear explanation of what happened this morning? If Della was at the mill safe and sound–" Lancelot nodded in confirmation – "then Wiley lied to him earlier. He was probably paid to keep her out of sight to give the kidnapping story the appearance of truth. And if these two knew they could bribe him, then he's likely guilty of much more."
"Once they realize the trade won't be made," Sal stated, finally finishing Lancelot's intended observation, "They won't have no reason to keep you."
Merlin shrugged. "I don't fancy being used as a game piece in a losing match." Lancelot opened his mouth to protest, and Merlin added, "If you get to Camelot and don't hear from me within the week, if the reeve and deputies don't hear from me and don't find these two, you have to assume I'm dead. In that case, I trust you to pay what you owe me to my wife Freya. She'll be here with Edwyn's family, or in Percival's Place in Emmett's Creek."
"But, Merlin–" Genuine worry drew his dark brows together.
"If you try to rescue me, you'll end up letting your prisoners walk to free me, or getting me killed," Merlin said. "Don't do it. It's important to keep trying to track them down, but if Payton's gone to Camelot, they have no reason to stay in Redwillow or cause any more harm."
If he was unable to do anything about keeping Freya safe from Gordy and Lars, at least he wanted them as far from her as possible in his – absence.
"You know what you're letting yourself in for," Sal warned.
"Just make sure you don't let your prisoners escape," Merlin told him with a half-smile, and Sal cursed mildly, giving him a grudging grimace of admiration.
"Take care of yourself," Lancelot said as Merlin turned to go.
He gave them a flat wolf's grin, showing confidence he knew he had no justification to feel. "That's my plan."
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The first night without Merlin – well, the second, but the first since he'd been taken – Freya was so tired she fell asleep without expecting it.
She rode beside Merlin on the seat of a little covered cart, the brown gelding a dark blur and all else beyond a smear of lighter brown. She was weary unto death, and couldn't keep her eyes open.
Merlin shifted the reins to his left hand, and tugged his driving glove from his right with his teeth, letting it drop to his lap. Then he snugged his arm around her, drawing her head to his shoulder as his fingers spread firmly across her hip.
She closed her eyes and inhaled his scent, dusty and strong.
When Freya left her dream, she didn't dare move or open her eyes, trying to hang onto the safety and security and contentment it represented. And as she felt herself sink back into slumber, she let go willingly, hoping to find herself beside him once more.
She was in the dark warehouse, snatched from behind, a thin edge of steel biting at her neck. Merlin nowhere to be seen or felt.
Her skin opened and blood poured down the front of her dress, warm in the darkness. She felt no pain, no fear.
The wrist sheath was heavy on her arm under her sleeve; she lightened it of Merlin's gift, then pivoted and plunged it into the center of the body behind her, twisting the blade as she shoved it further into the stomach of the man behind her. Only too late recognizing Merlin…
His blue eyes widened with surprise – only surprise, no fear, no blame… And all the light of the world went out.
Freya woke sweaty and sobbing, and turned in the bed to tell Merlin, to talk about her nightmare til the fear receded before reality, to search out any meaning in the disturbing images and sensations.
The candle guttered on the dresser. The worn rug on the floor was empty. The silence pressed in on her ears.
He was gone. She was alone.
Freya lay her head down on the pillow, and let the tears flow from her eyes til sleep took her once more.
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It was lucky for him that Edwyn hadn't been re-captured, Merlin thought. He might be dead, already, else.
As it was, his hours were probably numbered.
After another long ride in the prison-carriage, Gordy and Lars had bundled him swiftly through a dark doorway. He thought maybe they were back at the warehouse, based on a vague impression of the size and shape of the structure in the dark, but it smelled and sounded different. The two seemed familiar with the space, walking him blindly only seven paces before shoving him through an interior door, which had slammed and locked behind him.
They hadn't spoken to him since his conversation with Lancelot, and he had nothing to say to them, either. If the agent had promised a meeting in the morning, he should be safe until then; they wouldn't harm him much if they hoped to get Payton back. But they weren't allowing any chances of escape, anymore. They had underestimated him before, and they were professionals.
The room he was in was a storage closet of some sort, three paces by two, with a large crate in the far corner that he knocked his knee against in exploring his new prison. One door with no interior latch, and no windows.
No belt, no boots, no knives. No way to free his hands, but if he couldn't get past the door, freeing his hands only meant that he would be tied again when they returned for him, tighter and more thoroughly.
Merlin finally laid down on the stone floor, facedown where his injured arm could rest without being pulled much by the weight of his other arm. He tried to catch what broken, exhausted slumber he could, but it was cold, and he was sore, and his mind wouldn't stop trailing doggedly around his options. He'd shown the agent and deputy more confidence than he felt, but he didn't believe all hope was gone, yet.
In the absolute darkness, the sense of time passing went uncorrected.
Even knowing this, Merlin's mind was telling him it should be mid-afternoon at least, and he was studiously ignoring this as blatantly false, when the bolt was reversed, and the door opened.
He shut his eyes against the sudden rush of lantern light, and snarled against the agonizing spikes of pain that pounded through him as he was yanked to his feet.
"Be nice," said Gordy's voice from behind the light. "You're headed home if you can behave for one hour more."
One hour, he thought fatalistically.
Was that all he had to live? Then, would he be with his family? But that meant leaving his wife behind…
"Get going," Lars said, pushing him.
Merlin walked in front, down a short, closed passage lit waveringly by the lantern carried behind him.
The carriage step was right at the threshold when he got to the door, Lars' hands firm at his elbows, and every touch send a frisson of pain through the throbbing ache of the broken bone in his forearm. No choice. He ducked his head and entered the carriage; he was locked in once again, and he tried to arrange himself on the seat for the most comfort.
Where might they might be planning to meet Lancelot? It seemed to him that his mind was moving more slowly than normal, enough to concern him when he thought about avenues of escape, windows of opportunity.
The carriage bumped from a level surface, tilting at sharp down and sideways angles. Merlin half-stood, trying to keep his balance so his arm would not be jostled. Where now? Driving back from the plain outside of town had felt relatively smooth.
The driver called to the horse, the carriage stopped, the brake was set with a rasping jolt.
Merlin rocked slightly as the driver jumped down; Gordy said something fairly close that Merlin interpreted as, Now we wait.
How long did he have left? Merlin considered trying to kick out a board, a window, the door latch. He didn't, though it felt like sitting on hot nails to wait. His pulse pounded through his head with the questions.
Was he missing a good chance? Where were they? How long would they wait before deciding the agent wasn't coming? Any attempt he made might alert them to that fact more quickly. And it wouldn't do any good at all if it didn't end in success.
An odd thought came galloping through his mind, upsetting and overturning his efforts at organized planning. Why did waiting in the barricaded carriage remind him so strongly of standing in Padlow's cramped and darkened cellar, listening to the voices above, seeing light through cracks in the floorboards, theorizing about setting fire to the place. Everything firmly in hand, going exactly as he figured.
And Freya bleeding in the corner.
Events turning to sand in his fingers, slipping and falling, changing more quickly than he could keep up. Out of his control, just as circumstances were now, a chain of instances and consequences leading inexorably – where? He didn't know. No one ever did. All you could do was your best with what you had and what you knew.
Freya's presence and wound had routed his planning that night. Had maybe prevented him from killing a murderer with his own two hands. Was he glad of that, now?
He couldn't think of her, though, couldn't wonder what it would be like for her when – couldn't consider if–
She'd changed her mind to marry him. Had feared him since the night of their union. Would she be relieved if–
The carriage door was unbolted from the outside, jerked open. He blinked against the light, tensing. Gordy stood there, throwing knife in hand, staring at him. Evaluating him.
Re-evaluating.
"Out," he ordered tersely.
Outside the carriage there was better chance for escape, so Merlin stepped down, awkwardly and painfully. He saw that they'd driven down the bank of the river, and now carriage and horse waited patiently in the cave the bridge overhead formed with the bank.
Gordy grabbed the shoulder of Merlin's buttonless shirt – at his right side, which Merlin was thankful for, and then irritated that he was thankful – and shoved him toward the water, toward the nearest grouping of bridge-support timbers. Merlin's feet stumbled over cold sharp rocks and through clinging mud that felt like snow, his woolen socks little protection. Gordy spun him and flung him back against the pillar, enough material in his grip to control Merlin's body, in spite of the missing buttons.
He raised the knife.
Merlin stared into his sky-blue eyes, summoning his anger against the sudden fear of death. The knife descended with vehemence–
And he was pinned to the post through the material of his shirt. He could feel the sharp edge against the top of his shoulder.
Gordy stepped back and turned to look up at the bridge. "Still nothing?" he shouted.
Merlin tugged experimentally, but the blue knit work-shirt was well-made and reinforced at the shoulder – he could maybe work free in half of an hour, but for the moment it held snugly. And if they'd tied his hands in front of him, he could grab the knife and use it two-handed…
"Still nothing." Lars' voice floated back down, testy and impatient. Merlin could see his shadow on the bridge railing faint and wavery on the surface of the fast-flowing river. "Quit asking. You'll know it just as soon as I see them. That's the whole point of me sitting here fishing, isn't it?"
"They're over an hour late." Gordy looked back at Merlin, then. "Why's that, do you think?" He spoke softly, as though he didn't really expect Merlin to answer.
So he didn't.
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The rap at the bedroom door was heavy, impatient – masculine.
Freya wondered, worried, as she flew to answer. It wasn't Merlin's special knock, and the only other male in the house she wouldn't be surprised to see was Edwyn, but – impatient?
"Ma'am," said Agent Lancelot, hat in hand.
Beside him, Della hovered anxiously.
"Is he dead?" Freya heard her own voice say, and it sounded incredibly calm.
"I spoke to him last night," Lancelot reassured her. "May I come in for a moment?"
As Freya stood aside to let the door open further, she thought that he hadn't really answered her question. Well, if Merlin wasn't at her door herself, and the agent couldn't say he wasn't dead, he was probably in considerable danger.
"I understand your husband explained to you about that scene at the warehouse," Lancelot began. "And Miss Della relayed the news concerning your husband and her brother and Master Edwyn's subsequent escape yesterday morning."
"Yes," Freya said.
"Well, yesterday afternoon we received a note demanding the release of one of our prisoners in exchange for Merlin," Lancelot said.
For one instant Freya's heard leaped – an exchange! but – confusion.
"We went to meet them intending on making the exchange, then re-capturing our prisoners by force, and the two others also," Lancelot went on. "But when I spoke with Merlin, he – advised against the trade."
"Of course he did," Freya murmured dully, unsurprised to hear that. But if they weren't trading for his life – she didn't have any money to offer, if they would accept that…
"We agreed to meet with the kidnappers again this morning," the agent explained. "Four of my men took our three prisoners on the road to Camelot last evening, intending to ride as hard and as fast as possible."
"Three?" Freya knew her puzzlement showed.
Della put in, "Our foreman Wiley was guilty too, it seems – can you imagine? Now I have to–"
"Yet you remained here," Freya said to the agent, still so very calm. "What are you planning to do?"
"We're hoping the kidnappers will be confused about the broken deal – unsure," Lancelot answered. "We're hoping to be able to follow them and set up an ambush at some point where we can recover Merlin safely, and capture the two responsible."
They were professionals, Merlin had said.
Freya asked, "Who is we?"
"Sal and me," Agent Lancelot said. "Maybe Reeve Jackson and a couple of deputies."
"If he can find them," Della muttered.
"We've got less than an hour til the meeting time," Lancelot hinted gently, twisting his hat and leaning toward the door. "We're on our way there, now."
Freya nodded. "Thank you for letting me know," she said softly.
"Do you want me to stay?" Della asked. "I can sit with you again for a while–"
Torturing her gently with further talk of her memories of Merlin, bittersweet and terrifyingly few in number. "No, no thank you."
When the door closed behind Lancelot and Della, Freya sank down right where she was on the carpet, her knees weak and her chest tight.
She loved him. Oh, how it hurt – he was in danger, and she loved him. What if the next trial in her life was to recover from Merlin's loss alone? Awful, despairing thought – more frightening because of its genuine possibility.
There was nothing left to do but wait – it was a good thing that waiting was something she was familiar with.
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Merlin leaned forward to meet the next blow, putting as much distance between the injured arm bound behind him and the post as he could. And even without boots, sometimes a kick was able to deflect the great branch Gordy was using.
Sometimes.
It was the sixth such blow – or the ninth, he wasn't quite sure. Keeping count wasn't doing him any good, inaccurate though it was, but it was the only thing he could focus on instead of the pain. So it didn't really matter if he was off his count.
"You're still going to tell me you begged and pleaded with the agent for your life," Gordy grunted, "and he left you to hang? What's your game, here? Two hours gone past meeting time? I tell you true, if we don't get Master Payton released, your life ain't worth half a coin."
Merlin could have told him that already – except, his life was worth more than that to Freya. And she was worth... anything. Everything.
"Are we gonna wait much longer?" Lars' voice floated down to them as Gordy paced and hefted the broken branch, and Merlin sagged against the knife securing his shirt to the bridge support, trying to catch his breath, a second wind. "Got me a crawly feeling like I'm being watched, setting here when we don't know what's going on."
"I'll take him back to the warehouse, then," Gordy returned. "Watch til we're outta sight, then c'mon back – by way of the reeve's, to see what you can find out."
"Will do."
Gordy turned to give the branch a heave toward the center of the river, and Merlin took his chance.
Leaning into the beating Gordy had given had served to rub the material of his shirt over the double edge of the blade of the knife again and again, so when Merlin put the sole of one foot against the piling and pushed off with all his strength, the shoulder of the workshirt finally parted, and he launched himself into the river.
Lars hollered a warning, and Gordy – just on the point of releasing the branch – swung around – and kept swinging.
Merlin ducked, stumbled, went down on one knee among the rocks on the bank. He flung himself forward, hoping for enough depth, enough strength of current to pull him away. The knife was five paces behind Gordy; Merlin could be far enough away by the time he armed himself to have a reasonable hope of escaping alive–
A hand encircled his ankle with an iron grip, and he kicked, turning toward his right to keep his face above the water. His shins and knees scraped backward up the bank; he kicked again and again, desperate. They'd kill him before allowing another attempt, he had to succeed–
Water filled his ears, his nostrils – he breathed, and the rocks were cutting into his back, grinding his arms and hands beneath him – the pain in his arm was unbearable.
Through whitened vision he saw Gordy lean over him, pulling his fist back. Merlin twisted, but couldn't avoid the first blow – and then he could see nothing.
He felt the next two blows.
Then – a mercy of sorts – he felt nothing.