Despite being a warrior of great experience and substantial age, Uther Pendragon had been unsure of what to expect of the upcoming battle. He was a masterful strategist, and had spent many a year studying the battle tactics of the various Lords and Kings who ruled the lands adjacent to his. Cenred's battle tactics were very straight forward and relied on the sheer might of numbers to gain victory rather than careful planning and positioning. His soldiers were well equipped and expertly trained, so this approach was usually rather effective.
But Uther could guess none of this during the hard gallop towards Cenred's stronghold. The sword in his hand was cumbersome and unfamiliar, the ornate armor that encased his aging form, inscribed with a gilded Pendragon seal at the breast, was more a form of imprisonment than of protection. His mind was a swirling haze of rage filled sadness. Heaviness tugged at his eyelids, just holding back a flood of hot salty tears.
Arthur was dead. He was gone.
That fact alone dominated all others. Thoughts of Morgause and sorcerers and magic and Emrys, the one supposedly foretold to be some magic messiah faded into the background. None of that mattered anymore. Cenred's men had taken the life of his only son. Somewhere in the back of Uther's mind a voice screamed futility that this was just another of the horrific nightmares that plagued his sleep. But it was not so.
The fates, it seemed, were cruel mistresses indeed. First they had taken Ygraine, the love of his life, and the queen of his heart. And now they had seen fit to take the son she had died giving birth to. One of the two people he valued above the entirety of Camelot.
Vengeance would be his, and only when Cenred's blood stained his hands would his soul know any semblance of peace.
Whatever the king's state of mind, no military training nor intuitive sixth sense could have predicted what he found waiting at Badon Hill.
Alongside his knight-generals Uther pulled his horse to an abrupt halt as they approached the arch of trees that marked the grassy corridor that led to the hills base. Badon hill was Albion's central passage, the only passage through which a sizable army could pass with haste. Several similar forest corridors existed around the circumference, sprouting from the hills base to weave through Albion's plains to each of the five great kingdoms.
Behind them the legions of cavalry and infantry men stopped in their tracks. There were thousands of them; all armed with the finest weapons smiting could produce. The armies of Camelot were known for steadfast loyalty, and unfathomable might on the battlefield.
From miles away the clashing of steel on steel could be heard ringing through the air. Screams filled with terrified anguish echoed like larks song. The sky was stained a murky black. Clouds spun as serpentine coils intermingled with lightning and dim scarlet light, shaken only by the occasional clap of deafening thunder.
Uther narrowed his eyes. A battle had already begun? Here of all places?
A lone figure, features made indistinguishable by the distance, strode on to the hills summit. Then a voice boomed out over the landscape. A voice Uther recognized instantly as Morgause.
"Has the petty king come to avenge his son's bloodied remains?" she cackled shrilly. "Come then, Uther the murderer! Just know that I stand with Cenred, and my power fills their blades!" Still cackling, she stalked back over the hill out of sight.
"To arms!" Uther cried. He raised his sword and turned in the saddle to rally the troops, digging his heels angrily into his mounts sides. "To arms!" The soldiers roared in reply, brandishing their weapons and charging forth to follow the kings charge up the grassy hillside.
What they saw as they passed through the trees would forever haunt dreams. Of the survivors.
As soon as the ground began to elevate beneath the soldiers armored feet Badon's adjacent sides were thrown into view.
A sea of chaotic red movement swarmed around the hill, consuming the once lush vegetation that once covered the landscape. It rose and broke like the breaking of the tide.
Banners of various colors rose from the waves, trembling as those who held them were torn to ribbons by predatory talons and fangs.
This was not a sea.
These were the armies of the other four kingdoms, Uther realized with horror.
Every last fighting man in the land was here, and they were all dying terrible, painful deaths.
Cenred's army was immediately recognizable by its dark colors. Across each man's armor was painted a white 'M' that shimmered hauntingly in the twilight.
But Cenred's army was no long Cenred's army. Nor were its members human.
Obsidian black horns erupted from foreheads. Oily feathers sprouted from forearms, and blood dribbled from fanged mouths as the demonically enhanced warriors devastated all who stood in their way wicked and saintly alike. True hell had been unleashed upon Albion.
Amongst the red of blood and demonic moved a splash of green-brown. Two groups of sorcerers moved through the fight, one garbed in green, wielding sword and crude staves. The Druids. The others were hooded and cloaked. Morgause's agents and followers.
Uther felt terrified goosebumps begin to clam up his skin. Suddenly sweat soaked the fabric of his underclothes.
What was this madness?
Panic stricken, he snapped his reins urging his horse up the hills. His fear only grew as more and more of the war came into view. Bodies heaped in intervals along the plain. All forms of ranks had broken, and individual soldiers ran in all directions, bent only on their survival. No military goal mattered when Demons entered the picture. This was more a battle of beasts then of armies.
Demons can smell the sins of men you see. The flesh of the wicked fuels them.
Then, just as Uther crested the hilltop the hordes turned and closed in on Camelot's army, closing off the only way by which to flee. Wildly they turned to defend themselves. Swords and spears stabbed at the incoming attackers. Shields were raised, which demons hit with unspeakable force. The defense held for the moment. But only just.
"Aeros Iacio!"
A great gust blew over the hill. Uther found himself ripped from his horse and thrown roughly to the ground. His generals were forced back down towards the battle, still clinging desperately to their mounts.
"Magnificent isn't it?"
Raising himself on his elbows, Uther looked up to see Morgause walk haughtily to his side. The robes of the high priestess flowed lazily over the armored plates that shielded her torso. Held high, poised to strike, the staff that was once Nimueh's trembled with power. Black lines crisscrossed around its glowing tip. These wove themselves around the witch's body, shimmering faintly, as if a translucent spider's web was being spun around her. A similar thread appeared from Uther's own chest, only half visible, connected to the others.
Unknown to the king, it was this that anchored him to the demonic beasts, and them to him.
"With a simple but powerful enchantment Cenred's forces have become the perfect weapons. Living tools of death and destruction." She spread her arms in a wide gesture. "And it's all for you your Majesty. These creatures have been brought here for you and you alone. The other kings have come here to kill you, for these creatures will remain as long as you continue to draw breath."
"Hold your tongue, witch" Uther growled. He climbed creakily to his feet, raising his sword to a ready position. "Those who stand with my son's murderer will die. You are no exception."
Effortlessly Morgause sidestepped the king's charge. Sweeping her staff she sent him tumbling back to the ground with a pulse of telekinetic energy.
"Look at the pain and suffering your actions have wrought Uther. Your people cry out in agony. The whole of Albion is in ruin, because of you. Tell me, do you feel empathy for these people, as you did not for the thousands you murdered in the Purge? Will the screams of these men haunt your nightmares? Regardless of your feelings, it ends tonight. Every man woman and child unrightfully killed in your name shall be avenged at long last."
"I've murdered no one witch," Uther grunted, again rising to stand. "The same cannot be said of you. It was your actions, not mine that brought these creatures here. Today's blood is on your hands." A snarl curled his lips. Brows knitting together menacingly, he continued. "You wear the same robes a former friend of mine once wore. You were Nimueh's apprentice then, weren't you? She filled your mind with the poisons of magic, and now you stand here in her stead to avenge your people? Your mistress is the one guilty of murder, not I. T'was her actions that showed men the magic for what it was. The Devils hand. Not once did I think Nimueh a coward. Regardless, she shall die as well. If I am to accomplish anything great in my lifetime, it will be to purge magic from these lands forever."
"Nimueh was my foster mother, if you must know, and her absence here is none of your concern." Morgause drawled, drawing a sword to wield with the staff, sounding only half interested. "My father, Gorlois sent me to her when I was very small to hide me from you. I'm the daughter of perhaps the only real friend you ever had. He deceived you, didn't he? He sent me away when your law declared that all children showing signs of magic must be turned over to your guard for slaughter. Then again, you deceived him as well, impregnated his wife while he was away. Perhaps you're even. As for the men who will die today? Justice always has its cost. And your death is more than justified."
At the same instant the two opponents charged inward. Sword on sword, they began to fight.
During his youth Uther had been a prodigy with a sword. Ambrosius, his father, had thrown great tournaments in his honor simply to display his son's great skill. Arthur had shown the same early promise….
But years of sitting quietly on the throne with little to no chance to fight had worn his fighting edge down to a blunt stump.
Morgause's footwork was incredibly fast. Nimble as a dancer she quickstepped around the graying king.
Eyes fierce as those of a lioness, she struck. Up, down, left, left, right. Uther parried each blow. Each time the blades made contact his arm was shook to the bone. She was better than him. Younger. The black thread hung in his line of vision.
"What enchantments have you beset me with witch?" he demanded. He stepped forward on the offensive.
"Don't mind the thread." Morgause replied, blocking his slash with a precise wrist movement. "It's just an insurance policy."
"You are no daughter of Gorlois. He was a good and noble man. No child of his would weave such evil. You lie!"
"I do not," she quipped, ducking another attack. Spinning on the ground she swept up one of his legs. Taking this opportunity she lunged, bringing her swords hilt down on his chest. He crumpled to his knees. Morgause stood over him, watching pensively.
"As much joy as killing you would bring me, I've promised your execution to another. Sister dear, would you be kind enough to join us?"
"Gladly."
Then, as in a thousand of his nightmares, Uther watched in disbelieving terror as his daughter stepped onto the hill, surrounded by whirling black threads, wearing the smile of a mad woman. Morgana walked to his side, and knelt. A cold steel blade was laid against his throat.
"Hello,Father dear" she whispered. "How lovely to see you again." He moved to speak; she pressed a finger to his lips.
"No, no, don't speak, father. For once in your life, just listen to me. First of all, yes, I know I am your daughter. Do not ask how. It doesn't matter. Second of all, no, I am not enchanted. I am not Morguase's slave. She is my sister, and I care for her more than I ever did for you. Do you understand yet? I am a sorceress, Uther. Agnis"
A flame danced tween her fingers, tempering the blade of the short sword she held poised to kill the king.
"For all my life I've lived in fear of you. I watched as you burned the innocent and celebrated their demise. My dreams were plagued with visions of the future. Seers dreams. Gaius knew of course. He filled me with drugs, kept me quiet. He was always wiser than you. I feared your wrath above all else. What you would do if I were discovered? So I hid. I hid and I hid, until one day I knew what I had to do. Fight back. The day came when I could no longer stand idly by while you condemned my people to die for simply being. My sister showed me how to use my gifts. And for over a year now I've worked against to plot your death. Why have we gone this far you may ask? Why have we set demons lose in the world, and bound our own souls to bring them here and yours as well?" She motioned to the black threads that bound the three on the hilltop together.
"Because, Uther, simply killing you would not be enough. No, you had to suffer first. You had to watch your people die because of your arrogance. You had to understand the pain we feel. Were Arthur here, I'd take control of your limbs, and have you bludgeon him to death, and rip his body till his blood soaked your skin. But Arthur's not here is he? No one to save your miserable hide this time. No false Emrys to protect a genocidal maniac. Do you at last understand, father? I hate you beyond all comprehension. And now you die."
POP!
At the hills far side a group of six people and two Oderan's materialized out of thin air. Uther's back was to them, and he could only hear their presence. Morgana shoved him aside, sending a flurry of spells over his shoulder.
Two men ran into view. One was Merlin the manservant, carrying a long staff. The other was a man the size of a small mountain, wielding a claymore, followed by an equally large wolf. Together the sister witches moved to engage them in battle. They traded spells and clashed weapons. Another blade pressed to Uther's neck. The feeling of it was familiar, tingling to the skin. He'd felt this weapon before. It was the greatest sword he'd ever held.
Arthur's head came to rest on his shoulder. A gauntlet dropped to the ground.
"Pick it up," the Prince whispered.
Slowly, hesitantly, Uther took up the glove. He rose from the ground, still holding his sword, and turned to face his son.
"Ar-arthur!" he breathed, more relieved than he'd ever been. "You're a-"
"Yes father, I'm alive," Arthur cut him off. His hands were shaking. Excalibur trembled. His face was flushed, and angry and sad, all at once. "I was never dead. Nor am I a Necromancer's puppet. My death was fabricated to draw you into battle. Morgana planned it all. Now," he raised Excalibur, spacing his feet into a fighting stance. "You're going to answer all of my questions or I'll kill you myself. What started the great purge? What really happened? I need to hear it from you. Go on, ANSWER ME!" he roared.
Uther, torn between the desire to hug his son and weep, and the desire to fall over with exhaustion, answered.
"Your mother and I… we were unable to conceive a child. We were both devastated. Nimueh, the high priestess, a member of the court, and a close friend to us, offered magic to help. The…the spell was cast, and you were conceived. But then your mother died giving birth. Nimueh lied to us, she…she murdered your mother."
"NO!" Arthur screamed. "The rules were explained to you! A life for a life! You knew this, but allowed the spell to be cast anyway. You killed thousands of people because you thought such a spell would just bring about the death of a random person. But it killed your wife! . So you committed genocide to soothe your own guilty conscious!"
Excalibur fell. Tears streamed down the Prince's face.
"Please…father. Please, tell me why. Justify it somehow…just…just tell me that my father didn't murder so many out of his love for my mother and I. Please…" He choked the rarest of sobs. Uther didn't know what to say. Every secret he'd kept was out in the open.
"My son," he began. "Everything I have ever done was for you and for the kingdom. I brought justice to those who wronged us. To those who deprived you of a life without your mother. Magic is evil. You know this. I only ever sought to do what was right."
"…What is right?" Arthur seethed back. "All who do magic are evil because of a misconception of yours? …No, that's isn't what's right. Magic is just a tool, a weapon to be used. It's only as good or evil as the wielder. Merlin may be the worst servant I ever had, but he's the greatest friend a man could ask for. He is the epitome of what it means to be good. He loves where you and Morgana only hate. She's just like you. In seeking to end you, she became you…"
"You're wrong, Arthur." Uther told him. "Your head has been filled with lies. Whatever good your servant has done has been for naught. Magic corrupts all it touches. You've seen what magic can do."
"I'm not wrong. I've seen magic heal, call back the spirits of the dead. I've seen it do so many good things. You're the one who's wrong father…Do you know the hardest part of this for all of me, discovering all you did, what Morgana's doing now? It's the fact that Morgana's right. You do deserve to die. Every last bit of suffering that the people have felt for the last twenty years has been because of you. You're twisted, and evil, and yet I still love you…I cannot strike you down."
"DIE!"
Morgana spun away from her duel, and launched a spear of fire, not at Merlin, but at Arthur. Even when battling another, she was determined to bring about her father's suffering.
Merlin was too far away to do a thing. Excalibur was on the ground, and could not be used to deflect the attack. Uther didn't see it coming. It seemed Morgana would succeed in killing her brother.
A gargantuan shape moved across the sky. Two leathery wings beat the air.
A column of blinding white light shot down between Arthur and the spear, which found a target.
The Pilgrim, stood, weak and decrepit, with a smoldering hole in his chest.
"NO!"
Arthur leapt forward to catch the aged enchanter as he fell. He knelt, with the Pilgrim cradled in his strong arms. The twinkling blue eyes beamed up at him.
"Why, why did you do that!" Arthur demanded, the tears starting again.
"It is what I have always done," the old man murmured. "Protect you so that you would be king. My last enchantment has been cast...Morgana was always going to be the one to kill me. I knew it. Always. Arthur, I am so glad to see you just one last time before I go…my closest friend.
"No, we can stop this," Arthur blurted. "We can heal you…Why? Why for me? Who am I to you that you'd give your life so willingly for me?"
"My closest friend… Oh Arthur you royal prat. After all I've put up with for you, the imminent danger, the pathetic wages, the fruit pelting's, you think I would not die for you? Even now, do you not recognize me?"
The prince stared down at the man that was his mentor. The clues all fell into place. His heart was breaking.
Two pairs of blue eyes met, one young, the other old. Then, as suddenly as a storm on a rainy day, it came to him.
"Merlin…is…is that you?"
The Pilgrim smiled, and breathed his last breath.
Revan Knight: There you go, the confrontation scene, well, at least part of it. There's going to be more drama between father and son next chapter. Hope you liked what was here though.
Sorry this took so long, this was just a really hard chapter to write, cause I've had this scene in my head since the beginning. Stories almost over, and the epic battle for good and evil will finally be fought. Happy reading.