He heard hounds baying in the distance. Though the forest was quiet, the trees made sound move strangely. They could have been closing in on him, or been leagues away, howling at their inability to find a trail. The only thing of which Merlin was certain was that no matter how far away they were, they were too close. He could not outrun dogs or horses, and for all his powers, greater numbers still could overwhelm him, and a single arrow could kill him.
He shivered at the thought. Or perhaps it was the cold water he splashed on his face that made chills course down his spine. He took a few sparing sips from the stream before striding through the shallow waters. Though the dogs would not be fooled by the false trails he had laid down, they could not track him through water, while the men might find some trace of his passage in the shallow stream. Either way, it was hardly a tenable situation for the warlock. Broceliande was still far away, and the hunters were too, too close.
He caught himself looking back toward Camelot instead of forward and paid for it when his foot found a loose stone that sent him sprawling into the stream. Another time, the cold water might have felt good. The day was hot and without a breeze, and the air was thick and oppressive. But the fall slowed him and his cold, sodden clothes only added to his misery.
His hand stung where the edge of a broken stone had caught it. Blood welled out of the cut in fat droplets, falling into the water and trailing a line of pink as they flowed away. Merlin's heart sank. Could hunting hounds catch the scent of their quarry's blood in water? He tried to recall Arthur's endless discourses on hunting and hounds, but nothing came to mind. His own knowledge was limited to the care and feeding of the dogs, not their tracking abilities.
'Maybe they'll remember that I was kind to them. . . ' As he thought it, Merlin knew it was a vain hope. Even if they were Arthur's dogs and not another's, it was useless to hang his hopes on the memories of dogs to recall his kindnesses. Whether he had been cruel or kind, a pack of hunting hounds would tear him apart all the same, and even if they did not their masters would not hesitate to bury an arrow in his heart. With a growl of pure frustration, Merlin tested his throbbing ankle, sealed the gash in his hand with a whisper of magic, and pressed on up the stream.
The hounds sounded more distant now. Perhaps the hunting party had taken the long way around the wide deadfall his own Mind's Eye had guided him straight through. At any rate, he had to get out of the stream. The water was growing deeper while the banks grew steeper and higher. If he kept going this way, he would be hard-pressed to climb back out.
Merlin scrabbled up onto dry land and took a moment to shake the water from his boots, wincing at the slimy squelching around his toes as he settled into a fast jog, his long legs eating up ground as he dodged around trees and rocks, taking note of the land's gentle rising. It should have been a dreary day bathed in a shadows and grayness; the forest should have been full of spidery trees and thorns, such was the warlock's mood. Instead, as he ran for his life, the forest bloomed with as much beauty as it could. Vivid flowers contrasted against the rich greens of the leaves and the shadows were broken up by speckled golden sunlight. A blackbird sang above him. Yes, it was too beautiful to be so terrified.
'If only. . . ' A thought took shape before he could stop it, 'If only Uther had just died last winter when he first took ill. Then Arthur would be king, and everything would be better.' It was a thought worthy of Morgana. His throat tightened in shame and he staggered to a halt, coughing and gasping as his lungs grabbed for the air he needed. Merlin held a shaking hand up to his face and knew only part of it came from the effort of his long run. The rest was fear. Fear for Arthur, fear for his friends. Even fear for himself, a feeling he thought he had buried long ago.
When that strange note of destiny sounded through him in the throne room, the words he had spoken had been for Arthur's sake, to give the prince hope through what trials lay ahead. But none of that hope was left behind for the messenger. Everything Fate worked through him was for Arthur. Always for Arthur, and never for the servant. Sometimes Merlin cursed Fate for being such a cruel mistress, for leaving him without answers or even with hope for himself. He had thought he had forgotten how to fear, but in truth he was so inured to its steady thrum that he had forgotten any other way to live, as when a body so long in pain forgets the freedom of good health.
Merlin swiped at his eyes and grabbed a low branch to pull himself up, shoving away those thoughts as best he could. If he survived this, then- only then- he would let himself wallow in misery. But he had to live through the day first. He let his Mind's Eye open again, the vividness of the forest brightening further, the sparks of animal life shimmering in and out of his vision as he sent his sight far afield to find the hounds and the hunters who followed them. His heart sank at what he saw. While the dogs had lost the trail at the stream's edge, the hunters had not. Some disturbed bit of moss or stone had betrayed the warlock's passage. The tale only grew worse when the lead hunter looked up, revealing himself to be Lord Pynell, a man who loathed sorcery even more than the king did, and who was known for his hunting prowess. Merlin had hidden from the man once before, in Broceliande before Arthur lifted his exile and brought him home. If there could be a worse man to have dogging his steps, Merlin could not think of one. The only bright spot in the picture was Leon's presence, standing on the bank above Pynell with the horses and the dog handlers. A tightness around his eyes betrayed the knight's nervousness. Arthur must have sent him along to delay Pynell as best he could.
He hoped.
Whatever the reason, they were too close. Merlin blinked the forest back into focus and took off again, heedless of the tracks he left behind. It was too late to worry about stealth. He needed speed now, and the land seemed inclined to cooperate as the trees gave way to a long, grassy meadow. Overhead, clouds were building. He felt the promise of a coming storm vibrate through the air. It would not come in time to wash his trail away, though. 'I can't be that lucky.'
The sun was falling low over the trees when the hounds started baying again. Pynell must have found the point where Merlin left the stream and let the dogs run ahead. There was little to stop them now. The land was too clear for that. Only a few rocks and a lightning-scarred tree trunk had blocked his frantic path as the land steadily rose higher. He tried to keep his breathing even as he ran. Giving in to the panic that ate at the edges of his mind would get him killed as surely as if he stopped now and waited for them.
The burning in his lungs and legs had dulled to a numb tingle. Merlin had been pulling strength from the land, but if he fell now, he was not sure that he would be able to get up again. The growing sound of the dogs pushed him on faster. He thought he heard hoofbeats now, and the calls of the men. He saw a shadow rising in front of him- Broceliande.
Perhaps twenty feet ahead the land dropped into a precarious rocky slope, and a quarter of a mile after the ground leveled out, the first shadows of that perilous forest darkening the landscape. Merlin skidded to a halt at the ridge's edge and risked a glance back. The hunters had pulled to a halt, and the hounds were putting up an unholy fuss as their handlers called them off. 'Why. . . ?' Merlin squinted, but the storm clouds had built high enough to drop the land into a murky gloom. Gazing from sunlight into shadow, he could not tell what they were doing. The shadows were catching up to him, though, and given enough time his eyes would adjust. He decided not to give them that time.
He turned his attention back to the ridge to find the best way down. It was not steep, but there was enough loose earth that a misstep would send him tumbling to the bottom and break bones, leaving him nearly defenseless against the hunters. 'And that would be the end of me,' was the giddy thought as he spied a series of rock ledges that looked promising and moved toward the edge, barely taking note of a strange buzzing behind him.
Something punched him in the back, high on his shoulder. A fiery jolt of pain blossomed through him and stole his breath away, turning his vision grey for a long moment. He blinked it clear in time to see the ground rushing up at him, too quickly for Merlin to react and grab at anything to slow his fall. His arms flailed out, one hand catching something hard- a rock, maybe- that wrenched his arm around before tearing out of his grasp. As the rest of him hit the ground and started sliding downward, he heard a loud pop. Another spike of agony shot through him, blurring his senses until he came to a sudden, grinding halt at the bottom of the ridge.
He lay still for a time, too dazed to move. His vision grayed in and out and back again until he finally focused on the sky above and his battered body drew in a choking breath. He tasted dirt on his lips, and blood, and as the throbbing in his arms gave way to a white numbness, Merlin felt the rocks at his back and the distant stinging of the cuts and scrapes he had collected on his way down the hill. He looked down at himself and saw a strange growth sprouting from his chest. 'An arrow,' he laughed, noticing a strange hysteria in the sound of it until the laughter turned into rapid gasps he could not quite control. 'That's why they stopped. You can't fire a longbow from horseback. . . '
It should have hurt when he moved his arm. It should have burned like the hottest fire and shoved him back into unconsciousness. He felt broken ends of bone grind against each other, knew that that was very wrong, but the pain was a distant thing. He grasped the arrow with clumsy fingers and wrenched it free. A short length of bloody, broken shaft came with it. He shivered. His breath came in shorter gasps as his hand dropped to his side. The arrowhead skittered away from his bloodied fingers. His head lolled back against the rocky slope.
He saw people at the top of the ridge, vaguely outlined against the sky. One had a long, slender something in front of him, his arm crooked back in a familiar gesture. Instinct told him it was a threatening movement, told him to flick his fingers a certain way and say a certain word to protect himself, so he did. Something buzzed and then clattered along the ground nearby. An angry shout sounded from above, then more words and the baying of hounds.
His magic flooded back into him. His head cleared enough for him to understand what was about to happen to him. The hunters had caught up to him. Broken as he was, he could not run or fight, and his magic would keep him safe only so long against a well-armed foe. And when they released the hounds, an arrow in the throat would seem merciful. Merlin doubted Pynell would grant him even that much.
A memory whispered in his ear, of Morgana screaming. In his mind, her screams were as loud as the hounds, her crimson dress as bright as the sky was dark above him. A tower fell. He remembered how Morgana had used magic to escape the collapse, sending herself and her sister far away to safety. 'You can do the same thing,' a voice not his own breathed, 'Just trust. . . '
Trust. . . Was there anything else he could do?
The first hound reached him. He felt the heat of its breath against his face, heard the huff of its breath and the snapping jaws.
Then he opened wide to his magic and let himself trust Fate. As darkness claimed him, Merlin gave himself to the wind.