Chapter XVIII: Bloodcloaks and Balinor

"She is gone, right?" Merlin asked. "She didn't just make herself invisible?"

"She is gone," Kilgharrah confirmed. He sat, the wariness draining from his posture. "That was not supposed to happen."

"What was supposed to happen?"

"If you were willing, I would have set up a meeting between you and Nimueh. Then, at the prearranged time and place, we would have convened for this…discussion. Perhaps things would have gone better then."

"Do you think so?"

"No, I do not believe that Nimueh would have compromised."

"And neither would I," Merlin murmured. "Not on this." He met the dragon's eyes, his own gaze pleading. "You understand, right?"

"I understand. I do not necessarily approve, but I understand."

Merlin nodded. He bit his lip, hesitated. Then he squared his shoulders. "You never told me you knew my father."

Kilgharrah looked surprised. "Of course I know him. Did he not tell you about me?"

Tears pricked at the back of Merlin's eyes. He blinked them away. "I've never met him. He had to leave before I was born. Until just now, I didn't even know his name."

"That is most uncharacteristic of Balinor, to sire a child and then abandon him."

"Mother says he didn't know she was pregnant. She didn't even know when he had to leave. I knew he was a sorcerer and that's why he had to leave, but Mother never told me anything else. She was trying to keep me safe, me and him both." He had to swallow then. "But you know him?"

"I more than knew him." Kilgharrah lowered the entirety of his huge body to the ground, tucked his tail against his side. "He is the last dragonlord, the only survivor among my kin."

"Dragonlord Balinor Caledonensis," Merlin breathed. "Ah, what exactly is a dragonlord?"

If Kilgharrah hadn't been a dragon, Merlin would have said that he gawked at the question. Since his friend was a dragon, though, he decided that Kilgharrah's reaction was merely incredulity. "You truly do not know?"

"No. I never knew him, Kilgharrah."

The dragon's tail twitched. "It is not meet that I should tell you," he growled. "That is Balinor's right, Balinor's duty."

"So you can't tell me about dragonlords," Merlin said, disappointment panging in his chest, "but… could you at least tell me about him?"

The dragon's gaze softened. "Of course. What would you like to know?"

Merlin sat, leaning against his friend's side. "Everything."

They talked through the night. Kilgharrah spoke of a brave young man struggling to balance the loss of his father with his new duties and abilities. He told of Uther's Twin Genocide, how he had lured the dragonlords and their kin with honeyed words of peace, then blown the horn Dragonbinder to paralyze them all. Then Camelot's soldiers had come in, had slaughtered even the babes in arms and pregnant women, smashed the four eggs brought as a sign of peace and murdered their parents. He explained how one dragon and one lord had been left alive, bound and chained so that they might face a public execution in Camelot as a demonstration of Uther's power.

It was Balinor who had persuaded Uther to let the last dragon live. The king had wanted to murder Kilgharrah and Balinor personally. By then, Balinor's paralysis had worn off enough so that he could speak. Reeling from the loss of his kin, afraid and devastated and probably in shock, he'd still managed to talk Uther into letting them live, into executing them in Camelot rather than killing them then and there. For where there is life, the dragon explained, there is hope. Balinor had held out hope that they would both escape, and though only one had gotten away, Uther had left Kilgharrah alive and bound with every anti-magic chain in his arsenal. Before, those chains had been used on whatever unfortunate spellbinder Uther could get his hands on. Then Uther had ordered his smiths to refashion the enchanted metal into something that could bind a dragon. He'd needed bait, Kilgharrah explained, something to entice Balinor to return.

Merlin drank in the tales like a man dying of thirst. Then, when Kilgharrah fell silent, he told his own stories.

The warlock had much less to say than the dragon, of course, but he related everything he'd ever known about his father. "I used to dream that he was a prince, that he'd gone to his home kingdom to make it safe for people like me. I had this elaborate fantasy where he came back and took Mother and me to his home and we'd all live happily ever after." The boy smiled wistfully. "I haven't believed it for years, of course, but learning the truth, that he's a dragonlord, it just reminded me of that."

Kilgharrah chuckled. "I can see why. But now, young warlock, we need to part ways."

"What?"

"Look at the horizon," Kilgharrah instructed. The eastern sky was turning indigo instead of just black. The stars there were fading, but Venus, the morning star, blazed even brighter than Sirius. "I need to depart or risk discovery, and you could do with a bit of rest before your day begins. Farewell, young warlock." He crouched, prepared to launch himself into the skies.

"Is he still alive?"

The dragon stopped.

"My father. Balinor. Do you think he's still alive?"

The dragon leaned over until his face and Merlin's were less than an inch apart. "Balinor is my kin, the brother of my heart. I do not think he is alive. I know he is. And one day, I will bring him to you."

"You will?" Merlin whispered.

"Aye," the dragon confirmed. "But now I must make haste."

"There's time enough for this," Merlin said, and wrapped his arms around the dragon's neck for a quick but heartfelt hug. " Thank you."

Kilgharrah smiled. "You are very welcome."

"I met Nimueh last night."

Gaius nearly dropped his bun. "What?"

"You know that Kilgharrah's been looking for her, right? Well, he found her last week. She told him that she wanted to meet me, so Kilgharrah told her that he'd try to set up a meeting between us with him as the supervisor. Only when he was telling me about that last night, she showed up because she was scrying us."

"Are you all right?" Gaius demanded. He stood, strode towards his ward. The boy appeared unharmed, but he wouldn't be surprised if Merlin was hiding a grave injury.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Merlin tried to assure him. "We just talked a bit. I think she might have done more, but Kilgharrah was there. He'd have stopped her if she tried anything."

Gaius finished his inspection. It seemed that Merlin had been telling the truth when he claimed he was uninjured. His fears alleviated, Gaius's mood changed from concern to anger. "What were you thinking?" he demanded.

"I had nothing to do with it," Merlin protested. "She just showed up."

Gaius grimaced. That did sound like a situation Merlin would get himself into. "What exactly happened?"

Merlin told him, going over his conversation with Nimueh in exacting detail. He knew Gaius well enough to realize that the physician would demand as much information as his ward could remember. At the end of it, the youth confessed, "I'm just glad I didn't let on that I never met my father."

"I suppose he would have left before you were born."

The warlock smiled sadly. "It's more than that. Mother didn't tell me anything about him. She didn't want me to go looking for him, you see."

"I suppose that makes sense."

"I didn't even know his name," Merlin confessed.

A lump rose in Gaius's throat. He knew that Balinor had had to leave when Hunith was less than a month along, when neither of them had known about her pregnancy. Balinor didn't even know that he had a son.

"Balinor Caledonensis," the physician said. "Balinor, for names beginning with B-A-L are traditional in that family, and Caledonensis for the Celyddon Woods up north. They have—had—a small manor there, but the family spent most of its time in Camelot."

"Kilgharrah told me that," Merlin said. "He told me all sorts of things, and he said that you and my father knew each other. Do you have any tales for me?"

The lump doubled in size. Gaius had to swallow hard before replying. "Yes, I do."

"And Kilgharrah thinks that he's still alive," Merlin added. "He says that if my father were dead, I'd be a dragonlord." The youth frowned slightly. "Though he didn't explain what exactly a dragonlord is. All I know is that they're kin to dragons, somehow, and that means they were affected by Dragonbinder." His frown deepened. "Say, what happened to it?"

"Dragonbinder, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"The horn broke after the Twin Genocide," Gaius explained. "Its remnants are in the lower vaults with the other magical objects."

"Wait." Merlin had gone rigid, his eyes wide. "What do you mean, 'with the other magical objects'?"

"Over the years, Camelot has acquired quite the collection of enchanted paraphernalia."

If Merlin's eyes grew any wider, they might just fall out of his head. "You're joking."

Gaius frowned. "Why would I be joking?"

"I don't know, because it's a terrible, terrible joke, but I really want it to be a sign of your terrible, terrible sense of humor, because that's preferable to the alternative."

Gaius's dreaded eyebrow began its ascent.

"You just told me that Uther Pendragon—Uther, the guy who likes burning people alive—has access to a bunch of highly magical objects that he's been using to kill my people."

"How else did you think he carried out the Purge?" Gaius asked, genuinely curious.

"I don't know," Merlin admitted, "but I obviously didn't realize that he had an entire vault full of things that help him kill people and imprison them and things like that."

"Well," Gaius said, "he does."

Merlin stood. "Where exactly is this vault?"

"Why do you need to know?"

Merlin didn't answer.

Gaius glared. "Tell me that you aren't thinking of stealing Uther's treasures."

"Not all of them," Merlin grumbled. "Just some of the more dangerous ones."

"You can't do that, Merlin."

"Well, if the alternative is letting Uther use them to kill more sorcerers—"

"And what do you intend to do with the items, Merlin? Hide them under your floorboard?"

"Maybe. There's still space under there, you know."

Gaius groaned. "That was not a suggestion."

Merlin scowled. "Am I just supposed to leave them there so he—"

Arthur Pendragon burst into the room. His manservant's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. His face had gone the color of old porridge; doubtless he was just as worried as Gaius was that the prince had overheard their conversation.

Fortunately, their worries proved unfounded. "Where have you been?" the prince demanded. "You were supposed to get me my breakfast!"

"Oh, right."

"You do have an actual job, Merlin. It wouldn't hurt if you did it once in a while."

"But I do."

Arthur snorted.

Gaius watched as the boys went on bantering, glad that Arthur's appearance had made Merlin forget about Dragonbinder and Uther's other highly dangerous objects, things that could kill anybody who touched them wrong and would be noticed immediately if they were to disappear.

At least, he'd forgotten them for now.

Mordred had never been to Camelot before. Quite frankly, he wished he wasn't there now.

Stay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect.

Why, oh why did it have to be Camelot? Camelot was Uther's seat of power, the base of the bloodcloaks, the place the bounty hunters went to sell their human wares. It was a beautiful city, even he had to admit it, but it was built on bone and ash, stained with the blood of people just like him.

But he and the man he called Father had to get their clan's winter supplies from somewhere, and Cerdan had a contact, a traveling merchant, who could get them those supplies. The only problem was that the merchant was in blasted Camelot.

The druid boy couldn't help but fidget as he and Cerdan waited for the bloodcloaks to let them through the gates. No, he reminded himself, it's only magic folk who call them bloodcloaks. They're guards. Think of them as guards.

"Steady," Cerdan murmured. "Let me do the talking."

"Yes, Father."

The bloodcloak—guard—ran a disinterested eye over Mordred and his father. Mordred barely kept himself still. His triskel, the sigil that marked him as a druid, prickled and burned. He reminded himself that it was safely hidden, that he had nothing to worry about.

Stay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect.

"We're here for winter supplies," Cerdan said, which was true enough.

"You and a million other peasants," grumbled the guardsman. "You do realize that the leaves haven't even turned yet, right?"

"I've seen a few yellow birches," Cerdan countered. He was light and airy and apparently completely at ease. If his jaw was a bit too tight, if the cords in his neck were too defined, then only Mordred noticed. "Besides, I'd rather get supplies too early than too late."

The guard shrugged. "You and a million other peasants," he muttered, but he waved them through.

Surprisingly, Mordred was less terrified now that they were in the monster's den. It was probably because they'd gotten past the bloodcloak without incident. Now no one was paying any attention to him and Cerdan; they were just two more peasants, two more faces in the crowd, glimpsed and quickly forgotten. But just because his terror had lessened did not mean he wasn't afraid. It was just easier to focus on his mantra now, that was all.

Stay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect.

Cerdan led his ward through the streets, ignoring vendors and shopkeepers, once twisting away from a startled pickpocket. Mordred followed as closely as he could. The city was so crowded he worried about losing Cerdan. If he and Cerdan got separated…. No, they had planned for that. All he had to do was make it back to the gate and Cerdan would find him again. There was nothing to worry about.

Stay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect.

"There he is," Cerdan said. "Do you see him, Mordred?"

"I do."

The man in question was a fellow in his middle years. He had an unremarkable face and was getting a bit soft around the middle. Mordred had passed dozens of men like him in his trek through the city.

Cerdan appeared perfectly calm. Mordred knew that his mask of serenity wasn't as good as his guardian's, but he felt like he was doing a decent job of keeping his fear under wraps. They'd made it this far, hadn't they? Now it was just a few minutes of haggling with Cerdan's friend before they could go home. The elders said that the bloodcloaks didn't pay any attention to people leaving the city unless Camelot was on lockdown. The worst part was over, so Mordred found it much easier to stay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect.

The merchant, on the other hand, was plainly nervous. He fidgeted even worse than Mordred had at the gates, shifting his weight from foot to foot and wringing his hands. His eyes darted constantly over the crowd, scanning the mass of humanity for a familiar face. When he saw Cerdan, his eyes went wide and his entire body jerked.

Mordred could have groaned. He was just ten years old and he was doing a better job of staying calm than the merchant, who was a full-grown man. While part of him was pleased by his own acting skills, the rest was annoyed, exasperated, and anxious in equal measure. He wondered what the merchant would do if a bloodcloak came up and asked what was wrong. He'd probably break, the druid concluded sourly.

Cerdan glided through the crowd, his hand raised in greeting. His contact smiled the most painful-looking smile Mordred had ever seen and lifted his own shaking hand in response. "Cerdan. A pleasure."

"You have the supplies?" the druid asked.

"Yes," the merchant mumbled. Perspiration glimmered on his forehead, and his shirt was damp under the arms. He positively reeked of sweat.

"Easy," Cerdan murmured. "You won't attract attention if you just remain calm. If you keep this up, someone will notice."

"Someone other than us," Mordred piped up.

"Is that your ward, Cerdan?" A bead of sweat trickled down the merchant's nose, where it hung suspended.

"Yes. This is Mordred." Smiling, Cerdan placed a hand on his foster son's shoulder.

The bead of sweat was joined by another drop. Now it was heavy enough to fall onto the merchant's shirt. "I didn't know you would be bringing a child." There was something odd in his tone, something like guilt. It made Mordred's hackles rise.

Stay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect.

"I needed someone to help carry our purchases," Cerdan explained. "Speaking of which, where are they?" He patted his coin pouch. "I have more than enough money."

The merchant swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "I didn't bring them," he confessed.

Cerdan frowned, finally realizing that something was very wrong. "Why didn't you?" he asked.

The merchant just shook his head. "I'm sorry, Cerdan. They—I didn't know you were bringing a child!"

Mordred's blood turned to ice. He spun around, searching the crowd for a flash of color.

There they were. Four bloodcloaks, tall and armed and armored, striding purposefully towards the merchant's booth. They were looking right at the druids, so they noticed Mordred's attention right away. Their pace quickened. Their hands inched towards their swords. And one of them smiled a slow, terrible smile.

"I'm sorry," the merchant whispered.

Mordred was frozen, paralyzed, terrified. A traitor, Cerdan's contact was a traitor. He'd turned them over to the bloodcloaks, who would probably torture the camp's location out of them before they burnt. Then the bloodcloaks would gather more of their kind and march on the druids, raining down fire and arrows on every innocent man, woman, and child in the clan. They would all die.

Then Cerdan grabbed his charge's arm. He yanked, forcing Mordred to run or fall, snapping the boy out of his fear. "Run," he hissed unnecessarily.

Mordred ran.

Cerdan was still holding the boy's arm. He charged into a crowd of startled, mildly confused citizens, pushing and shoving and jostling as he tried to put as many people between himself and the bloodcloaks as possible. "I'll distract them," he said in thought-speech. "You need to hide in the crowd, do you understand? Keep yourself surrounded by people until you get out of the city. Then go to the camp. Don't wait for me at the meeting point, just go back."

"I can't leave you," Mordred protested.

"I'll be fine," Cerdan promised, "but if we stay together, we'll both die."

"…I understand."

"Good." Cerdan released his grip on Mordred's arm. He shoved his charge away, knocking him into a trio of alarmed shoppers.

The bloodcloaks had reached the edge of the crowd. "Step aside!" bellowed the smiling one. "King's orders. Step aside."

The crowd parted like he ordered, though whether it was out of obedience to Uther Pendragon or fear of the men waving naked steel around, Mordred didn't know. He supposed it didn't really matter.

Cerdan pushed aside the last person in his way. He broke into a dead sprint, aiming for one of the citadel's many streets. Cursing, the guards stepped out of the crowd and ran along its edges.

The man they were pursuing halted, flinging out his arms to keep his balance. He skidded a bit, then spun on his heel and made for a different street. Three seconds later, Mordred saw why. Another quartet of bloodcloaks entered the market square from the first street Cerdan had aimed for. The boy looked around frantically. Sure enough, more bloodcloaks were blocking the roads to the north and the east.

They were surrounded.

Cerdan had apparently reached the same conclusion. Eyes wide and wild, he jerked his head back and forth, searching for an exit that wasn't blocked by bloodcloaks. There wasn't one. Uther had sent in twenty of his soldiers just to kill one druid (and his ward, but they hadn't known about Mordred): sixteen to block each of the four streets that branched off of the market square, and four more to perform the actual capture.

Then the soldiers were there, their red cloaks billowing in the breeze, swords gleaming in the sunlight. The smiling one was in the lead, his teeth bared in a perverse grin.

Cerdan's face hardened. He drew himself to his full height, thrust out a hand at the rapidly approaching bloodcloaks. " Astrice!"

The bloodcloaks went flying. They crashed to the ground ten feet away, their bodies bouncing against the cobblestones.

The people of Camelot panicked. Before, they hadn't realized that Cerdan was a sorcerer. Now they knew that they were in the middle of a sorcerer-against-guardsmen duel to the death—perhaps their death. One man without magic could be apprehended by twenty trained guards without doing harm to the bystanders. Give him a few spells, though, and sticking around to watch the show suddenly became a lot more dangerous.

The crowd surged towards the nearest exit. Mordred, caught up in the rush, had no choice but to go with them. The four guardsmen in the mob's path, not wanting to be trampled, lunged out of the way.

Hope surged in Mordred's chest. He was going to make it. He was five feet—four—three—two—one.

He burst out onto the street, a smile rising to his lips. He was safe and the bloodcloaks' barricade had been broken. If Cerdan was quick and clever, he would be able to follow the mob before the four men it had forced aside could get back into position.

Then someone grabbed Mordred's arm, nearly wrenching it from its socket. "Guards!" the boy's captor screamed. "He's with the sorcerer!"

The guards turned. Mordred ducked his head, instinctively hiding his face. He stomped down on his captor's foot with all the strength he could muster. Yelping, the man released him.

Mordred ran.

He had always been a quick boy, swift and agile, but he was just that—a boy. The men behind him were men, with long adult legs and greater speed. They had other advantages, too. Mordred had never been in Camelot before, but they knew the city well. Mordred had to push people aside, but everyone got out of the bloodcloaks' way. Even worse, an awful stitch was growing in his side. He was sprinting full-out. His lungs burned, his legs felt like jelly, his throat was dry and raw.

In short, he was losing ground. Another two minutes and they would have him.

"Help me! Please, somebody help me!" Mordred silently screamed. He threw the words into the ether, not caring if they reached Cerdan or some random hedgewitch just so long as they reached somebody.

"Oh, Mordred," Cerdan whispered in his mind, "I'm sorry. May the gods go with you."

No. No no no no no. That didn't mean what he thought it mean. Cerdan wasn't going to die. He was going to escape and get back to the druids and, and—

A man screamed for three long, agonizing heartbeats. Cerdan was in pain. Then his scream stopped.

No.

"Goodbye, Mordred."

The guards were getting closer. Cerdan was dead. Barring some sort of miracle, Mordred was doomed.

"Someone!" he cried. "Anyone! They're going to kill me!"

An unfamiliar presence blossomed in Mordred's mind. It crackled with power, but there was a warmth in it, too. It was the sun and the storm, a herald's horn and the endless sky and the strong stability of a mountain. It was a falcon's eyes and a babbling brook and molten gold, and most of all, it was hope.

"No," said the golden presence, "they will not."

And Mordred dared to hope again.

The bloodcloak nearest to him put on a burst of speed. He lunged, his fingers grasping at Mordred's cloak.

The druid boy swerved. His pursuers were larger and heavier than he was; they couldn't turn as quickly. His maneuver bought him a few seconds, but that wasn't enough.

"Hurry!" the boy silently screamed. Out loud, he panted a spell. "Scildan!"

His shield wasn't particularly strong, but it crafted well enough. The guardsmen slammed into the faintly shimmering barrier. They bounced back, two falling flat onto their backs. The shield flared green and cracked. Another charge would break it, and even if it somehow held, it was only a few feet wide. The bloodcloaks could easily go around it. But for the moment, it was the only defense Mordred had, so he pumped magic into it as he churned his legs faster and faster in one last desperate burst of speed.

The druid boy expected the bloodcloaks to do the smart thing, to walk around a barrier only a few feet in width and finally capture their fleeing prey. Fortunately for Mordred, though, these were Camelot's guards. With a few (okay, maybe just the one) exceptions, they were completely incompetent. Instead of going three feet to their left, as any sensible person would do, they charged into the shield. It blazed green. Cracks spiderwebbed through it like forks of green lightning, but somehow, some way, it held.

"Again!" bellowed one of the bloodcloaks. He and his comrades slammed once more into the green barrier, which shattered and disappeared.

But the short-lived shield had fulfilled its purpose. Mordred had managed to slip around a corner. He scanned the street for a place to hide. This one wasn't so crowded, so maybe no one would see him. Okay, that was asking a bit much, but—

Someone grabbed his arm, jerking him to a stop.

Mordred yelped, twisted, struggled, but his captor didn't release him. Instead, he said, "Don't worry. I've got you."

The druid boy froze. He hadn't heard those words with his ears. He'd heard them with his mind.

Mordred looked up.

The man was tall and slender, with a mop of messy black hair and sharp, angular features. His eyes were bright gold, and his presence in Mordred's mind was bright gold, too.

"You're safe now," the man—the warlock—said.

"But I'm not," Mordred protested. "The guards will be here any second."

The man grinned. "Look around us."

Confused, Mordred obeyed. And gasped.

It was like he had stepped into a painting. Everything was completely still. Men and women were frozen in midstride. Two children were wrestling, their bodies trapped in an unnatural pose. A few pigeons hovered in midair.

"You stopped time," Mordred whispered.

And he knew, knew who this must be.

"Yes, but I can only keep it this way for a few more minutes," his savior said. "Just come with me."

"I will," Mordred vowed. He would follow this man to the end of the earth.

The man led him through the cobbled streets into an alley. "Give me your cloak," he ordered. Mordred obediently removed it. His rescuer shoved it into a basket of dirty laundry that had inexplicably been waiting there and pulled out a scrap of red cloth, which he tied around the druid's neck. "I'm going to release the spell now, okay? But don't be afraid."

"I won't be," Mordred replied. And he wasn't. He knew that Emrys would keep him safe.

*bows in apology* I know, this was supposed to be up yesterday. I completely forgot. In reparation, I shall post a short one-shot within the fortnight.

Any guesses where I got the idea (okay, shamelessly stole) Dragonbinder?

Next update: January 29. How Merlin handles his new charge.

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein the Guardsmen of Camelot Fail in Their Duties Yet Again, Prompting Everyone to Wonder Why on Earth Poor Lancelot Puts up with Them"

-Antares