Chapter XXVII: Sword and Stave

"Right, that's it. Knighthood is stupid."

"Merlin!"

"Well, it is!" the servant protested. "I mean, first you can't knight Lancelot because he wasn't born to some spoiled minor lordling, and now Sir Owain has to fight someone to the death because that someone chucked a glorified metal glove at him?"

Arthur grit his teeth. "There are several things wrong with that statement," he growled. "First of all, knighthood is not stupid. Secondly, that's not how the challenge has to work. The challenger gets to name his conditions, so fights aren't always to the death. Third, it's called a gauntlet, which you would know by now if you ever bothered cleaning my armor."

"I keep your armor very clean, and I still think that it's completely stupid to make someone fight to the death if some random person in a visor chucks his gauntlet at him and says so."

"It's part of the Knight's Code."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "I think that the Knight's Code is in serious need of revision. I mean, that guy broke through the window and interrupted this hugely important ceremony, and he just gets to stand around because he threw his glove at someone? For all we knew, he'd killed five guards on his way into the throne room!"

"He didn't kill anyone, Merlin."

"Well, it's not like anyone knew that at the time. Does the Knight's Code mean that this Black Knight fellow could off Uther in front of everyone, then throw down his gauntlet and be free?"

Arthur glared. "He would be tried and sentenced after the combat, assuming he survived."

"Ah," said Merlin, "but why would he stick around for the combat? Stick a sword in the king, throw a glove at some random hedge knight, and walk out the door while everyone's preparing for the fight."

"Just shut up, will you? We're almost there."

Arthur Pendragon did not often knock. As a prince, he didn't need to. But he knocked today and waited patiently at the door until Sir Owain's squire opened it. The boy's eyes went wide when he saw who had come to call. He ducked into a hasty bow and stammered at them to come in, please, sire.

Owain was rising from his bow as Merlin entered. Naturally, the prince and knight ignored him.

"I'm not going to insult you by asking if you're certain you want to do this," Arthur began. "All I want to say is that fighting to the death is… it's different from the training exercises I've put you through."

"I know," Owain said.

"But you don't know," Arthur protested. Ignoring Owain's frown, he continued, "No one has any idea who this person is or what he wants, other than public combat. More importantly, you don't know his style, his strengths, his weaknesses."

"He doesn't know mine either," Owain pointed out.

Arthur nodded. "That's true."

Some of the confidence seemed to leave Owain's frame then. "You've seen me fight," he began. "Do you think…?"

"I think," Arthur assured him, "that there is no one braver in Camelot. I think you have a good chance of beating him. Remember, it only takes one well-aimed blow to kill a man."

"Aye," Owain said, nodding resolutely. He drew his sword, knelt. "I'll not let you down, my prince."

"I know you won't, Sir Owain."

There was such confidence in Arthur's voice that Merlin believed him, at least at that moment. When they went out to the hastily assembled stadium where the fight would take place, his assurance drained away. They knew nothing about this knight, nothing about his strengths and weaknesses, nothing except that his armor looked quite strong.

It was a quick, brutal fight, with neither man holding back. Merlin watched with bated breath, staring paralyzed at the clash of blades.

And then Owain struck a blow.

The knight's sword sank deep into the gap between the stranger's helm and gorget, slicing into the other man's jugular and several important blood vessels. If the hit had been any stronger, it might have lopped the stranger's head clean off.

It should have been over then. The stranger should have toppled, blood spurting from the enormous cut in his neck. Owain should have stood tall and triumphant, basking in the cheers of the crowd at his defeat of the mystery knight who had sought to fight and kill Arthur Pendragon.

That is not what happened.

The stranger didn't even seem to notice the blow. He kept moving, serpent-swift and serpent-deadly, his blade flashing in the morning sun. Then the blade vanished, obscured by the armor and flesh and blood, so much blood already pouring from that wound.

Owain staggered.

The mystery knight kicked his opponent's chest, pulling his sword free with an awful squelching sound. It was red to the hilt, the red dripping down the pommel onto the stranger's gauntleted hands. Owain—the gushing corpse that had been Owain—thudded to the ground.

Then all was chaos. People were shouting, and Owain's blood was staining the sand, and Arthur was rising to his feet with an expression of murderous fury, and Gaius was shouting his ward's name as he ran into the stadium, moving surprisingly quickly for such an old man. Merlin obeyed him by instinct, launching himself out of the stands past the stranger over to Owain, because he could save him, him and Gaius, and—

Gaius shook his head, grief clouding his face. "Dead," the physician pronounced.

"But he's getting married next month," Merlin protested stupidly.

"Not anymore."

"Who will take up my challenge?"

Merlin's head whipped around. It was the stranger who had spoken, the killer who had just widowed a girl before her wedding day. He held a gantlet in his hand, and that gauntlet was stained with red. Even as Merlin watched, the mystery knight threw it down.

Arthur's face was red with rage. He took a step forward, mouth opening in a furious retort, when one of his knights knocked him backwards. "I will!" the knight called. "I, Sir Pellinore, will fight you!"

"Tomorrow, then," the stranger proclaimed, "we fight to the death."

Pellinore bared his teeth. "I look forwards to it."

The stranger laughed. He was standing there with a dead man less than ten feet away and blood dripping down his blade, and he laughed. "So do I."

"You require my aid, young warlock?"

"Yes!" Merlin ran a hand through his hair. He had been pacing since he called for Kilgharrah, but now he forced himself to stop. "I need a huge favor from you."

Kilgharrah tilted his head, waited in silence.

Merlin took a deep breath. "There's a wraith in the castle. Tristain du Bois, apparently. His tomb is empty and he's got the same device. He's challenged Arthur to single combat to the death, but the only way to defeat him—or it, I'm not quite sure—is to stick it with a sword burnished in a dragon's flame." He picked up the blade at his feet, presented it to his scaly friend. "This wraith has already fought two knights. One died on the battlefield, and Gaius doesn't know if the other is going to make it through the night. Tomorrow is Arthur's turn."

Kilgharrah stretched out his neck, ran a critical eye over the blade. "Fine work," he observed.

"My friend Gwen's father is a blacksmith. I asked her for his finest sword, and she got me this. Well, not right away, as she had to go home and negotiate a price and whatnot, but she got it for me."

"Fetch your staff."

"What?" Merlin pulled up short, blinked rapidly.

"Fetch your staff," Kilgharrah repeated.

"Why?"

"So that I may burnish it as well."

Merlin's brow crinkled. "But it's made of wood."

"So it is," Kilgharrah agreed.

"…I don't think that wood and fire mix very well."

"My flame will not burn it, Merlin. You have my word. Now go retrieve it."

Fifteen minutes later, the warlock presented his Sidhe stave to his dragon friend. Kilgharrah leaned in to inspect it. "Powerful already," he murmured. "Earth magic, and water magic as well. Good."

"Like the afanc?" Merlin frowned. "But I used fire and wind to destroy the afanc. Won't your fire breath do the same thing?"

"Much of magic involves intent," Kilgharrah reminded him. "You intended to destroy. I intend to empower, to complete, to create balance. Now, levitate the staff and sword together."

"Okay," Merlin muttered, "but if something goes wrong, you'll owe me a new Sidhe staff."

"Nothing will go wrong," Kilgharrah assured him.

Merlin wrapped the stave and sword in his magic, lifted them into the air. A golden barrier appeared behind the weapons, extending from the ground to the height of the tallest tree. It wasn't quite as bright as usual, as he didn't want to draw attention in the night, but that didn't make it any less powerful. None of Kilgharrah's fire would make it past that shield.

The dragon opened his mouth. Red flames danced behind his teeth, blood red tipped with sunny yellow and campfire orange, held in place by small curving pillars of white. Kilgharrah drew in a deep breath, sucking his flames into his chest, to his heart. His sides swelled.

For a long, long moment, the dragon held his breath. The hairs on the back of Merlin's neck prickled. He could feel it, a great gathering of energy like lightning preparing to strike. He, too, was holding his breath, though unlike the dragon he had no need to do so.

Kilgharrah blew, red and orange and gold and white gushing from his mouth, lighting up the night with a noon-bright blaze. Merlin had to close his eyes, had to blink rapidly to see the brilliant stream of fire. Yet it seemed to him that the fire was not the brightest thing in the clearing. No, that honor belonged to two things shining white in the center of the inferno, two things that radiated magic as the flames radiated light and heat.

And then Kilgharrah closed his mouth, settling himself onto his haunches. "It is done," he proclaimed. "Behold Excalibur, sword of kings and heroes. Behold Beóthaich, the stave of magic's champion."

"Excalibur," Merlin murmured, slowly lowering the sword and staff to the ground. "Beóthaich." The words were like spice on his tongue. "They're… they're amazing, Kilgharrah. Thank you."

"You are very welcome, young warlock."

Merlin took Excalibur from the air first. The sword was hardly recognizable. A streak of gold ran down the blade, gleaming like sunlight between twin moonbeams. Runes glimmered along the metals, strange twisting shapes that Merlin could almost read. The hilt was leather wrapped with gold-threaded twine, with an elegant tapering crossguard and a sunburst on the pommel. It was strong and light and beautiful, palpably magical, all Arthur's. He would do great things with this blade. Merlin knew it in his bones.

But while Excalibur was amazing, it was not the sword that attracted Merlin's eye. It was Beóthaich from which he could not tear his gaze, Beóthaich that he itched to hold. Now that Excalibur was safely returned to its sheath (for he could not neglect the sword, not even to grasp his transformed stave), he reached out with trembling hands to take the staff.

Beóthaich fit into his palms, inside his fingers, as though it had been made for his hands. It was warm to the touch, and smooth despite the gleaming golden runes that covered its length. The crystal atop it, once blue, shone gold like the light of the harvest moon. It seemed to shimmer with its own light, its own tiny star.

"Beautiful," Merlin heard himself whisper in soft awe.

"It is," Kilgharrah rumbled. He had remained silent while his human friend observed the renewed stave, turning it over in his hands and reveling in the pulse of magic that flowed through the wood. "Beautiful, and mighty as well. Merlin." And Merlin looked up, for the dragon rarely called him by name. "No man but you may wield Beóthaich, and no man save Arthur Pendragon may wield Excalibur. You must swear it to me thrice."

"I swear it," the warlock replied, and the crystal atop his staff flashed. "I swear it. I swear it. No one but Arthur and myself will use Excalibur and Beóthaich."

Kilgharrah's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but he dipped his head nonetheless. "So mote it be."

Merlin's fingers tightened around the warm wood of his staff. "So mote it be."

The king did not often come to his court physician's chambers. On the rare occasion he felt ill or had been injured, he would summon Gaius to his own chambers. It was his right as king, after all, and he disliked the thought of the commoners knowing that he felt anything but perfectly healthy.

So when Gaius looked up from his herb grinding to see the king standing hesitant in his doorway, the physician stood, then immediately dropped himself into a shallow but respectful bow. "Your Majesty," he said. "How may I be of assistance?"

Uther stepped fully into his friend's room, closing the door behind him. "Tell me about the knight."

Gaius was not surprised by Uther's demand. He had expected it. "Merlin and I have been investigating. We went to the tomb of Tristan du Bois."

"And?"

"….Empty, sire. It had been broken through from the inside."

Uther swallowed hard, sank into a chair. His eyelids fluttered shut. The king looked his age or even older, the lines of his face deep, the shadows beneath his eyes big and dark. Even his hair seemed to have more silver and gray in it than it had had yesterday. "It is one of Nimueh's tricks," he said softly. "She was here, Gaius."

"In Camelot?" Merlin would have to know of this.

"In Camelot," the king confirmed. "I thought of striking her down when she appeared before me, but that was foolishness. I knew that I could not. But she was here."

Gaius closed his eyes. "Ah. I had wondered what her next move would be." He smiled sadly. "She never was the type to give up easily." And while that had benefited Uther Pendragon in his quest to reclaim Camelot, it was not quite such a good thing now. "Did she tell you what she wants?"

Uther's laugh was harsh and bitter. "What does she ever want? Me dead, Arthur as well, and magic returned to the land… though not necessarily in that order."

"I suppose not."

The king sighed, gazed off into the distance. "The thing she has made of Tristan cannot be killed, and my son means to fight… him, it, I know not… to the death tomorrow. His death, not the wraith's."

Gaius was silent, waiting for his friend to continue.

"Yet in life, Tristan blamed me, not Arthur, for Ygraine's death. It was me he wanted to kill, me he wanted dead. Gaius… how likely is it that something of Tristan remains within the wraith?"

"From what I have been able to determine, wraiths retain—or perhaps regain—the desires of their living selves."

Uther smiled, but it was a bleak expression, grim relief rather than joy. "I had hoped so." His shoulders straightened as he held himself a bit higher. "Arthur is my only son and heir. I will not let him die. Yet if he reaches the field tomorrow, he will. He will die before my eyes." Uther's hands clenched into fists. His lips pressed together in a hard thin line. "I will not let him die."

"What would you like me to do, sire?"

This time, the king's smile was a little less bleak. "I need you to stop him from reaching the field. Give him a draught of some kind, something that will keep him unconscious until the fight is over. And then…." He swallowed hard. "I have written letters, one for Arthur, one for Morgana. My son and the daughter of my heart. Make sure that my children get their letters."

"Of course," Gaius vowed, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.

"Good. Thank you."

The two men sat there in silence for awhile, each lost in his thoughts. Uther's eyes were closed, but Gaius's were open, glued to the king's face. He knew full well that it might be the last time he would ever see that face so close.

Finally Uther stood. The sound his chair made as he pushed it back seemed obscenely loud after the quiet. It nearly made Gaius jump, but he restrained himself at the last moment. "I suppose that I must leave now. Even kings need rest…." His gaze hardened. "And though I can't win tomorrow, I won't go down without a fight."

Gaius could hardly breathe. It was at times like this that he remembered the man Uther had almost become, would have become if Ygraine had lived, a chief dragon in truth as well as in name. This was the king buried beneath layers of bitterness and impotent rage, the iron core that had not entirely rusted away.

That king was waiting for his response, gazing back at him with stern agate eyes, so Gaius swallowed and choked out, "Yes, you will. I know you will."

"And I know that you will take care of Arthur. I know that you will guide him and protect him."

"I will," Gaius vowed.

"Good." Uther clasped his friend's shoulder. "Thank you, Gaius, my truest friend. Thank you, and goodbye."

"Goodbye," the physician whispered. It was all he could do to speak, all he could do to suppress the tears. And when the door closed behind his departing friend, he couldn't do it anymore. The physician blinked tears from his eyes, wiped at them with his shaking hands. He shed but a few, for tears did not come easily to him, but the few that left his eyes left trails of red down his cheeks.

When he regained control, the physician washed his face. He scrubbed away the tear tracks and the sorrow, inspecting himself in the mirror for signs of anything but his accustomed professionalism. When he looked impassive enough, he made his way to his medicine shelf.

He had sleeping draughts aplenty thanks to Lady Morgana, and he used one of those potions as the base for Arthur's drug. He strengthened it, adding herbs to increase the duration and to deepen the sleep. Then, when the concoction was complete, he made his way to Arthur's room.

The prince (soon to be a king, but Gaius tried not to think about that) was preparing for bed when Gaius arrive though Merlin was nowhere in sight. "I don't suppose you know where my idiot manservant ran off to?"

"I'm afraid not, sire."

Arthur nodded, unsurprised. "How fares Sir Pellinore?"

"As well as can be expected," Gaius sighed. "If he makes it through the night, he will survive. For his sake, I'd like to make this quick."

"What do you need?"

"A sleeping draught," Gaius told him, pulling it from out of his robes. "You'll need all your strength for tomorrow."

Arthur smiled wanly. "You're right, of course." He accepted the offering and gulped it down in one swallow.

And then he collapsed.

Gaius grinned as he rearranged the prince's prone form into a more comfortable position. It wouldn't do for him to wake up with cramps. He would suffer enough tomorrow, and there was no need to exacerbate it.

That thought made Gaius's grin fade.

The physician needed a sleeping draught himself that night, he tossed and turned so much. Still, he felt he'd hardly slept a wink when morning arrived.

"Tired, Gaius?"

"Very. Did you manage to sleep last night, Merlin?"

The boy grinned. "Yeah. I got to bed a bit late since I had to talk to Kilgharrah, but I slept pretty well after that."

"I'm surprised. Aren't you worried?"

"Not anymore," the warlock announced. "Kilgharrah burnished a sword for Arthur. All he has to do is land one cut and the wraith will die."

"You did?"

"Kilgharrah did," Merlin corrected him. "He burnished my Sidhe staff, too, and all he asked in return was my oath that no one but Arthur and me would use our weapons."

Gaius's smile plummeted. "Ah." He thought of Uther. "That might be a problem."

"Why would it be a problem?"

The physician explained.

When his mentor was finished, Merlin remained quiet for a long moment. Finally, he said, "You're right. That kind of is a problem."

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin is Justifiably Skeptical about the Compatibility of Wood and Fire"

*gawks at own writing* Did I just... create a semi-decent Uther? Wow. I think I just did. Why can't he be like that all the time, instead of the crazy genocidal tyrant we all love to hate? And yet, that is what the creators created. I guess they had to get the anti-magic laws from somewhere... And also, Arthur and Morgana bring out the best in their dad. Usually. Just don't expect this Uther to last.

On another note, now you finally know why the crystal on the cover is yellow instead of the original blue: It's because Kilgharrah made it even more awesome. You'll be seeing a lot more of Beóthaich in the future. Speaking of which, the name is Celtic (Scottish, to be exact) and doesn't have an exact translation in English, but its meaning is something like 'revival,' 'enliven,' 'kindle,' or (wait for it) 'quickening.' I named it that because I couldn't find a name for Merlin's staff in the legends (though if anybody knows one, feel free to tell me and I'll tell the rest of you!).

Next chapter: July 30. Merlin has a problem to solve, Arthur does not like being drugged, and the Dreaded Hug of Doom occurs.

-Antares