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Chapter 9
Sherlock had ridden almost non-stop, passing through blurry villages and jumping over small forest streams. He was even in advance by a day when he reached Camelot's gates...
The Prince always arrived a bit earlier that planned in foreign city. He had elaborated a whole strategy: getting to know the city and the hosts' intentions, and NOT barging in like an idiot in the throne room, right into a possible trap.
So far, it had always worked.
He pulled his hood up to hide his recognizable features – though he doubted much people would recognize his high cheekbones and crystalline eyes – and rode past the bridge that crossed the castle's moats. He dismounted the white mare the bandit had kindly landed to him the day before entering the city. The guards at the gates did not even spare a glance at him, their normal brain only assessing him as one of the many merchants that made their way into the city. Idiots.
The Prince got into the lower town, pulling the horse behind him. The market was swarming with people. At first sight, everything seemed normal – the merchants peddling their wares, buyers negotiating with big gestures, children playing around the fountains – but there was definitely something off.
Sherlock could feel a subtle scent of magic in the air, swirling around the city and influencing the people somehow. He felt his anti-magic powers raising to protect him against that strange spell. He closed his eyes, and let down his first level of barriers. He took a step back – the magic had nearly blasted him off his feet. Whatever that spell was, it certainly was not friendly.
Eyebrows furrowed, he looked around. The people of Camelot were casually chatting, exchanging goods and gossips. But there was something…
He took one calm breath. There was only one way of knowing the purpose of the spell. Letting it through his protections. It was quite risky, but it was the only thing he could think of.
He let down his shields.
The magic blasted him off his feet and flew him into a hard stone wall. He collapsed.
Sherlock writhed on the ground, eyes wide, frantically gripping his throat. Tendrils of magic were shocking him, trying to invade his mind and manipulate it. He was blacking out - he realised that if he lost consciousness now, he might never wake up.
He closed his eyes and concentrated to pull the protection up again.
He succeeded at the last second and was left panting on the ground for several minutes.
When he got his sight back – the lack of air had temporarily blinded him-, he saw that no one had noticed his odd invisible fight. He let out his breath and propped himself up.
The spell had instantly tried to take over his mind, to modify his knowledge of the situation of Camelot's monarchy and control his very being.
He shivered.
From what he had felt, he knew that the people of Camelot believed King Arthur was a traitor and that Morgana Pendragon had saved them all from a civil war.
Arthur Pendragon was being held prisoner in his own cells.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
He visualized the confidential castle's map Mycroft had shown him years before, that included all the entries and ways to the dungeon of Camelot. He went through his memories and quickly found what he wanted in his mental archive.
There was only one passage that could be unguarded at this hour of the day. It was a tunnel starting in the forest and leading directly to the last cell on the left of the second dungeon corridor. He interiorly grinned and headed for the forest. He passed by the unobservant guards at the gate. They did not even wonder why the weird hooded merchant left Camelot so soon, without having bought anything.
He tied his horse to a tree by the entrance of the tunnel. It was closed by six thick metal bars that looked deeply embedded into the stone. He sighed.
He pulled the first bar with his full strength, expecting it to be firmly rooted in the wall, and landed flat on his back. The six bars were in his hands, dislodged from the wall as though it was made of butter – someone had already taken that entrance and camouflaged his passage.
Well, that went surprisingly well. Now I just have to get a King out of his own cells, break a powerful enchantment and win over an evil sorceress. Next time there is a diplomatic visit to do I'll force Mycroft to go.
He sneaked into the dungeons.
The cells were empty except for a slumbering guard.
He silently walked through them, looking in every cell for the king of Camelot. There was no one.
He was going back to take another look. His feet got caught into some material. He stumbled. There was a blue piece of cloth, dotted with dry blood, on the ground. He swiftly grabbed it. His breath got caught in his throat. It was a neckerchief, just like the ones Merlin loved to wear as a child.
Sherlock wavered and caught himself on a wall. He closed his eyes, took a long shivering breath, and blocked out his rampaging emotions.
He folded the cloth in his cloak's pocket and calmly let his focus switch again to the cells.
There was someone breathing on his neck.