~11~ You Can Run...
"Where is he? Where is the fourth?"
Wyvern, though not the brightest of creatures, could still detect the disappointed rage radiating from the sorceress of the Phoenix Feather, and they quailed fearfully under her power.
With a wave of her hand, and a brush of the Feather, the miniature dragons took wing and circled high above the courtyard, within the tower's inner walls. Some roosted in the nests they had built in the ancient stone. They weren't so difficult to control once Morgana found out that they, like so many other animals of magic, were creatures and slaves of the Old Religion. With the aid of the Feather, she was able to convince their simple minds that she had the right to command them. It was the same with dryads and sprites, and other small mythical beings. She has yet to try it with anything else wild that was smarter than a wyvern, like a hippogryph or gryphon, and she wouldn't dare try it on a dragon. The Archons, however...
Their near-human minds and hunger for liberty and power easily kept them under Morgana's rein. Archons of the Ancient Kingdom came before the Old Religion, but if they were more powerful than the Religion, how is it that the latter came into being? Her views made her see that the Old Religion was simply stronger than the Archon's magic, and the Phoenix Feather would keep them around her finger forever. So far, her assumption was proving correct.
Mėtû was a rebellious one, but with the Feather, she forced him to hold the defiance in check. Whether he knew what she was doing mattered little to her, only that he gave her complete and satisfactory obedience. Mordred, the druid boy, had warned her against this endeavour, but the sorceress pushed on regardless. His wariness prevented him from being with her now.
Morgana had given the Archons a promise, of course, that they would rule the land once more, as they did aeons ago. And they will rule, just under her utmost command.
"Pointless creatures," Morgana sneered, staring up at the circling wyvern.
Mėtû didn't reply. Reunited once more with his precious grey horse, his Night Mare, he remained mounted, and guarded the pentagram like a statue, his lance piercing the deepening sky.
Morgana stared icily at him. "You wish all four of your brothers to be free. Bring me the boy, alive. Rough him up if you have to. Inflict pain. But for this to work, he must have a beating heart. Go, Archon."
Fear and the haunting Ňocte'ĕquả finally shifted, mechanically turning towards the tower gates to do her bidding. As they went, Mėtû flipped his lance and stuck it, point-down, into the earth, and then unstrapped the wiry river net from his waist belt. The servant boy had no chance.
As though tasting the soon-to-be-had freedom, the other Knights of the Apocalypse each changed position a little bit in their lonely archways, behind the wispy veils. As for Morgana, she could already feel the throne of Camelot within her grasp.
† † †
"Noň dörmĭunt." His limbs ceased to shake and his eyes lost the throbbing as he whispered those two words. Merlin felt energy trickle through him again, and he was able to resume his quick pace to the tower. With no fear of wyvern, he made quick progress, hindered by nothing but the winding streets and the occasional pile of rubble. He pushed himself to exhaustion, yet did not relent for more than a moment. The tower seemed to be ever distant despite his speed, and with every pace he felt hope fade—at least until he forced it back to full fire; however, it wasn't enough. He was still human, and so eventually, even with the aid of magic, Merlin collapsed against a building, chest heaving for air. Sleep wasn't the problem. It was all about stamina, which he felt he lacked too much before and now no longer had. Not for the first time did he wish his fool horse had held its ground instead of abandoning him.
As though on cue, he heard the steady clip-clop of heavy hooves on cobblestone. Merlin pushed himself away from the wall, glancing hopefully up and down the street. He saw nothing, but the sounds distinctively came from the direction of the tower, from the road just around the corner. Eagerly, he stepped onto the path and made for the sounds. He rushed around the bend—
—And skid to a halt as Mėtû came into view, astride his demon horse.
Icy claws of fear squeezed his heart and chilled his blood. The dark knight Arthur had fought and triumphed over was unmistakable, and so was the Night Mare. The steel beast snorted and tossed her head with his scent, and a deep rumble rolled in her chest with distaste. She no longer had the sheen of a healthy beast, but was skinny and gaunt, her coat withered and lifeless. Her eyes were white voids, sunken into her skull. Merlin couldn't look away, and was frozen to the spot.
Mėtû kneed his horse onward, towards the fear-locked man, and Merlin could not unscramble his hurricane of thoughts. Why was he so afraid? It is normal, of course, to be afraid, but not like this!
The knight closed the gab between them, but Merlin's legs refused to cooperate. Even as Mėtû, Fear, drew level and reached down to grasp him behind the neck, he couldn't escape. Not, at least, until the Ňocte'ĕquả suddenly squealed and bit him.
Yelping, Merlin jumped back from the knight and the grey beast, grasping his nipped left arm. The Night Mare grumbled deep in her barrel and tossed her head up, teeth bared in hate. She reared, squealing, even as Fear pulled on the reins furiously to control her. Merlin ducked away and fled.
He just barely heard the contemptuous chuckle from Mėtû as he slipped into a side alley and kicked up his heels. He felt his heart was fit to burst from terror, but as he distanced himself from the knight, the fog in his head dissipated and he could think clearly.
It was obvious now that Mėtû is not just any ordinary man with an evil horse and dark intentions. There is a lot more to him than meets the eye, and Merlin intended to find out what. First, of course, he had to escape him.
No matter how he zigged or zagged down alleys and streets, the steady hoof beats echoed around him, taunting, terrifying. As he heard his pursuer close in behind him, he dodged into the nearest house and hid in the shadows beneath the front window.
Several moments passed as Merlin listened to the horse and rider draw abreast to his hideout. With one final stamp, the Night Mare halted not five paces from the window. She grumbled. Merlin peaked over the sill cautiously, holding his breath, eyes as wide as platters. Slowly, he slid down against the wall onto his rear, back to the window side. In the dark, he could make out a splintered desk, a one-legged table, and a thin, sad-looking bed. When the censer crept hissing from the shadows beside the bed, pincers clicking and stinger tail held threateningly, Merlin was at a loss for reaction – for a second, leastways.
With a cry, he jumped to his feet. The giant scorpion crept closer, pincers at the ready. Merlin dove for the door but tripped over the threshold. Mėtû's net flashed overhead where he would had been if he hadn't gone sprawling into the dust.
Fearing the lethal sting of the censer, Merlin scrambled to his feet and once more took flight. He immediately heard Mėtû right behind him. He rounded a corner and saw a very narrow space between two houses, too narrow for a horse. He slipped in and crouched behind a pile of torn roof shingles and other debris. Breathing heavily, he watched the entrance of the alley nervously.
...Meerrrlliiiiinn...
He didn't think his mouth could get any drier, or his heart race much faster. He was wrong.
The Olitiau crawled down the wall towards him from above, strings of sticky mucus drooling from gaping jaws of needle teeth. Merlin flattened himself against the ground and garbage pile as a drip of spit fell and landed on his cheek. Without feeling it, he brushed it away and scrambled upright. The Olitiau pounced down at him as he fled down the alley, but it hissed impatiently as its claws grabbed nothing but air.
This isn't happening! Merlin thought as he left the back street – and nearly ran into Aredian the Witch Finder. The mendacious man reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. "I don't deal with sorcerers," he sneered, smirking derisively and hoisting up a set of manacles. "It's time for you to confess."
"Murderer!" Merlin tore free of the lying snake's grasp and swung a fist at him. His knuckles pounded the wind. Aredian was gone.
Chest heaving for breath, Merlin turned in circles in puzzlement, but then, once more, high-tailed it up the street, towards the great tower.
He didn't really notice the fog until it completely surrounded him. And soon, it was too difficult to see around for more than ten paces. Even the tall tower was invisible. As though he was running in the dark, Merlin's instincts screamed at him to slow down, raise his arms and watch his feet. A louder voice ordered him to keep running at top speed, regardless of the danger. He listened to the latter, especially when many sets of hooves pounded over cobblestones, and the seven Knights of Medhir fell into pursuit. They were easy to evade, and soon Merlin left the fog behind as well.
This is too easy, he thought as exhaustion regained its hold on him, and he leaned against a house, legs shaking. Too easy to escape. It's like Mėtû's playing with me.
He heard the shriek of a horse not too far distant, and suddenly, his terror and weariness became impatience.
"You want me?" he said quietly, and then he stepped out into the middle of the road, fists clenched. "Then come get me!" he roared into the sky.
The Ňocte'ĕquả burst forth from the fog and galloped straight towards the warlock, Mėtû wielding his net in both hands.
If Fear was surprised when a spit of flame torpedoed in his direction, he didn't reveal it as he yanked the Night Mare to the right to avoid it.
Merlin's eyes flashed like golden doubloons and he sent a second jet of fire at the knight. The magic within him snarled at his enemy, hackles rising ominously as he prepared to attack once more.
When the Olitiau dove from the sky, Merlin waved a hand and the beast was caught in a mini twister. It was torn to shreds instantly, and vanished like it was never there – which it wasn't.
"That all you got?" Merlin sneered, as Mėtû ceased the Night Mare. The knight's laugh echoed from his dark helmet. "Stop with the games! Fight like a man, come on!"
Arthur charged from the left, swinging his sword. "Die, sorcerer!" he spat, and made to impale the warlock. A stone flew up and smacked the prince in the side of the head, and he fell with a crash onto his front. Merlin didn't look at him again as he disappeared like smoke into the ground.
"I expected more," Merlin snapped, trying to retain a strong voice. The Arthur hadn't been real, but it had still shaken him to do what he did.
There was a sudden air of uncertainty radiated from Mėtû, as though Fear was becoming frightened. Whether or not that was possible mattered little to Merlin. He concentrated solely on keeping his own terror in check.
Thunder roiled overhead, and the sky prepared to empty.
"Fŭlmęn!" A lightning streak blazed down from the heavens into his outstretched hands and arms. A ball of ultra-bright light swelled betwixt his palms, and he made as though to thrust the sphere forward. A continuous stream of lightning shot forth, striking the knight and his Mare full on. Merlin felt uncharacteristically pleased to hear the sound of another person's pain as Ňocte'ĕquả squealed, cringing and twisting, and Mėtû howled in agony.
It was a hollow, unnatural sound, the knight's cry was. It made Merlin hesitate after a few seconds, and the lightning flickered, before stopping all together. A crisp smell of hot metal wafted into his nostrils.
The Night Mare's legs were slightly spread, as though she was spent. Her head drooped and her breath shuddered. Mėtû was slumped in the saddle, gently smoking. They were alive, and in moments, already recovering. All Merlin succeeded in doing was make them angry. Very angry.
The knight Fear paralysed Merlin with his gaze as he nudged his grumbling horse forward. The warlock, hopelessness blossoming in his chest, struggled to think of a fresh attack, but panic soon started to set in again and take over. The hallucinations were nothing compared to what he went through now. It was a nightmare for true – he could not move.
Just a dream, he thought, gritting his teeth. That's all it is. That's all it's about. It's just a dream. Wake up.
Mėtû continued to stare mercilessly at the hapless warlock as he closed the distance between them.
Wake up.
Holding the Mare's head from slipping over and biting Merlin again, Fear used his free hand to reach down once more to capture him.
A dream. Wake up!
He didn't know he was running until he heard Mėtû's snarl of impatience behind him, and then the clatter of hooves on the road. Merlin lengthened his stride, but knew it was hopeless even as the net fell over his head and snared him. His limbs were instantly entangled and as he rolled into a mess. Mėtû had him, at last.
Ooooooh dear.
Rough Latin translations:
Non dormiunt: no rest
Fulmen: lightning
Have a nice day.