Chapter XXXI: Bandits and Bullies

"Are you sure that you're doing this for entirely altruistic reasons?"

"Course not," Merlin replied breezily. "I'm doing this whole poison thing so no one knows I have magic, just like Father was training people in weapons and whatnot rather than nicely asking Kilgharrah to roast the bandits."

"Not what I meant," Will told him.

Merlin arched a brow. "What other possible non-altruistic reason could I have for getting up at an ungodly hour of the morning, sneaking into a bandit camp, and floating my poison into their breakfast?"

"Avoiding Arthur."

"…Oh." Merlin's ears reddened. "I suppose I can see why you would think that. But I'm not avoiding him. Of course not. Why would a mighty warlock like myself cower before a mere prince?" The mighty warlock snootily lifted his nose into the air. Unfortunately, this resulted in him taking his eyes off the uneven ground and immediately tripping over his own feet. His eyes wide, arms windmilling frantically, the mighty warlock went down.

"That," Will told him. "That is why."

Merlin's face turned the color of his neckerchief. He was almost glad it was so early, for Will couldn't make out his blushes in the predawn gloom. "I think he's going to yell at me about Mordred."

"You think?" Will offered his friend a hand, helped him to his feet.

"Yeah. But I'm pretty sure it's only because he cares."

"How sure is pretty sure?"

"Dunno. Maybe seventy percent?"

"You're the one who knows," Will reminded him. "But we're getting close. We need to stop talking now."

Merlin mimed sewing shut his lips—there was light enough for that, at least. Will just rolled his eyes.

Still, they remained quiet as they approached, slowing their pace and slipping behind trees. Most of their reduced speed was probably for Merlin's benefit, he knew, for Will was quite the talented hunter—perhaps better than Arthur, who hunted for sport and not for survival. They probably would have become friends if they hadn't taken an immediate and irrational dislike to each other for reasons that Merlin couldn't begin to fathom. (Gwen seemed to know, but she'd just shaken her head in fond exasperation and muttered something about men when he'd asked, Morgana nodding her agreement.)

The camp was easy to spot, mostly because the bandits weren't exactly trying to hide. They knew as well as Ealdor that Cenred wouldn't lift a finger to protect such a small village, and they had no way of knowing that the people would fight back. They knew nothing of the training or the Camelot-forged weapons or the young spellbinder crouching in the bushes staring at their fire—or, more specifically, at the cook-pot suspended above the fire. Occasionally the bored-looking fellow sitting beside it would give the contents a stir.

Merlin signaled Will to step back. Once they were far enough away, the warlock murmured, "I can't let that man see the bottle."

"I thought you could just make things invisible?" Will asked, frowning. "Didn't your Blaise fellow teach you that?"

"He did," Merlin admitted, "but have you ever tried to levitate something invisible with any degree of precision?"

"Can't say I have."

"Well, I have, and it's really difficult. We either need to make a distraction or I have to go invisible and walk in there myself."

"…So how should I distract him?"

They quickly decided that Will ought to make some noise on the other side of the camp, then run before anybody noticed him. It was not, admittedly, a particularly complex plan, but sometimes simplicity is the best. Except Will didn't need to do anything, for when they arrived back at the camp, it was to discover that two other men had joined the first around the pot. They were talking and laughing uproariously, completely ignoring their (probably burnt by now) breakfast. Not being one to look such a convenient gift horse in the eye, Merlin shrugged his shoulders and levitated the potions vial over the pot. When he had emptied it out (and risked stirring the spoon around a couple of times, just to make sure there wasn't a painfully obvious puddle of foreign material on top of the food), the warlock dumped the vial into the fire.

"You know," Will said, "that was a lot easier than I expected."

"Same here," Merlin had to admit. "But I'm not going to complain, you know?"

Will smiled. "Yeah. Me neither. So how long until that stuff takes effect?"

Merlin smirked. "Normally it would vary a bit."

"Normally?" Will repeated, sprouting a grin of his own.

"There's this old healer's trick that Gaius told me about. It's a spell to make sure that a potion acts when the spell caster wants it to act. Normally it's used to speed up medicines, like making a potion that takes two hours to take effect start working as soon as it's downed. But it's possible to use that same spell to prevent the potion from taking effect until the spell caster—namely me—wants. So basically, they're going to get sick when they're in the village."

Will nodded. "Because we don't want them getting sick and staying home to attack another day."

"Exactly."

"You know, Merlin, you're kind of useful to have around."

"Thanks. Would you mind telling that to Arthur?"

"I thought you were avoiding him?"

"You're not."

"Good point. I'm guessing you want me to mention this before he yells at you?"

"That would be appreciated, yeah."

"Well," Will drawled, "I suppose that since you are a bit more useful than you look…."

"Thanks," Merlin said. Then, "I've really missed you, Will."

"You too," his friend sighed, the expression of sardonic amusement falling from his face. "Are you sure you won't be staying?"

"I'm sure," Merlin replied. "It's like I told you. This might be the only chance anyone gets to change Arthur's mind about magic."

"And how's that working for you?"

The warlock huffed. "It's going slower than I'd hoped," he had to admit. "A lot slower. But I think I'm making progress, you know? He's started questioning Uther's policy towards druids, and Gaius finally disabused him of this weird notion he had that magic turned you evil like some kind of soul poison."

"But if you think about it, that's still more progress than anyone's made in… um, he's twenty-one, right?"

"Yeah. He just turned a few weeks ago."

"Okay. That's still more progress than anyone's made in twenty-one years, then."

"I know," Merlin sighed. "And I know that I just have to be patient. It's just hard sometimes."

Will laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Yeah. I bet it is. But think of it this way—won't all the waiting make the payoff even more worthwhile?"

Merlin's lips twitched. "Yeah. Maybe it will."

"Just don't forget that Arthur isn't your sole purpose of existence, okay? And come and visit once in a while."

"Gotcha."

The rest of the trip passed in silence, each youth lost in his own thoughts. But Merlin knew that Will's thoughts hadn't strayed far, for when they arrived back at the village, he gave the warlock's shoulder a tight squeeze before making his way to his position. Merlin headed to the forge, the impromptu headquarters for the defenders. Arthur, Gwen, and Morgana were there, as were several other villagers.

"Did it work?" Balinor asked.

Merlin nodded. "It worked. They didn't even have sentries, they were so arrogant."

"Any sign of them moving?"

"No. They seemed pretty relaxed. I'd say we still have two hours or so."

"Good," Arthur said. "That means we have time to finish the second barricades." He gestured to some of the younger, bulkier men. "Come on."

The forge felt a great deal less crowded with Arthur and his workers gone. "Does everyone have weapons?" Gwen asked. "I still have a few swords left over."

"Merlin doesn't," Morgana observed.

The warlock flushed. "I told you, I'm supposed to be a healer here."

"That doesn't mean you won't be attacked," Morgana pointed out.

"She's right," Hunith agreed. "Take a sword, Merlin."

"I'm better with the stave," he muttered, but took one anyway.

"Is everyone clear on the plan?" Balinor asked after ascertaining that no one else needed to be armed. There were nods all around. The dragonlord grinned. "Good. If that's the case, we should spend the next couple hours resting and making sure our weapons are in good shape. Gwen, Sean, you two stay here in case there are problems that need smithing."

The two nodded their assent. Sean tossed another log into the fire.

"Try to be in position in an hour and a half," Balinor instructed. "We don't want to have to scramble when the sentries give the signal."

Merlin followed his parents out of the forge. His stomach was doing strange things, which it really shouldn't because he knew that if anything went wrong, he could use magic to save the day. Then the warlock realized what he was thinking. A rueful smile appeared on his face. Maybe the thought of using magic was responsible for the twisting in his belly.

"The waiting is always the worst part," Balinor said. Merlin started, looked questioningly at his father. The older man had an understanding smile on his face. "It's completely normal, Merlin. You'll feel better when the battle starts and you can actually do something."

"If you say so," Merlin mumbled, not entirely convinced.

Balinor rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "Everything will be fine, Merlin," he promised quietly. "The villagers aren't professionally trained knights, but they're competent with their weapons, have a plan, and are fighting for their families. The bandits think that this will be an easy conquest, but they're going to be vomiting all over themselves in just a couple hours and don't know anything about our other defenses either, not if they were truly arrogant enough to not post sentries."

"But people will die," Merlin said softly.

Balinor sighed. "Everyone dies," he murmured, eyes going distant. "But not today."

"Not today," his son replied. The words, the defiance, made him feel a little better. "I should probably go to Moira, make sure that everything is ready."

"I'm sure she would appreciate that."

"Not really," Merlin answered dryly. "She never liked me or Mother, I think because Mother had Gaius attend her when I was born. She's the sort who sees that as an insult. But she is the only healer Ealdor has."

"No, she isn't," Balinor pointed out.

"On a permanent basis, I mean," Merlin amended. "And she does know her herbs, I'll give her that. She knows them a lot better than I do. She's just so bloody slow…." He grimaced. "Another reason that I'd best go help her."

"You sound so enthusiastic," his father teased.

"That's because I am," the warlock sighed.

Still, it did need doing, even if it meant spending his supposedly restful final hours under the direction of an old crone who actively disliked him, his mother, and (surprise, surprise) his father too. Her rebuke's weren't like Arthur's. The prince's voice was laced with fondness whenever he called his manservant an idiot. Moira, though, was nowhere near as fond.

Merlin was almost glad when the battle began.

Arthur's focus narrowed. His hand gripped tight his sword as his eyes zoned in on the rapidly approaching bandits, none of whom, he observed sourly, appeared to be ill.

Then one leaned over and threw up all over his comrade's shoes, forcing Arthur to reassess Merlin's success.

As if the first man's vomiting was some sort of signal, the others started to double over, gagging and retching. Perhaps the sight of their fellow bandit's sick was enough to make them give into their own nausea. Whatever the reason, they were very conveniently hesitating just within the archers' range.

"Archers, nock," Arthur ordered, placing an arrow on his own bow. Archery was one of his least favorite techniques—give him a good spear or sword any day—but while he wasn't fond of it (or, if he was painfully honest, quite as good at it as he wanted to be), Arthur was more than capable of handling a bow. "Aim," the prince commanded. "Go for the ones who look less debilitated. Now hold… hold… fire!"

The villagers released their grips on their bowstrings. Arrows zoomed out towards the bandits. Not everybody aimed true: several arrows fell well short of their mark. Yet enough projectiles connected with arms or legs or torsos that a great cheer went up from the villagers. Arthur didn't join in—the battle wasn't over yet—but he allowed himself a smile of grim satisfaction.

"NOCK!" the prince bellowed, grabbing another arrow. The bandits were running at them now, pinned in by the hastily assembled barriers of earth and wood now surrounding Ealdor, staggering from nausea and injury but still armed and dangerous, and soon it would likely be time for hand-to-hand. Hopefully the thieves would see sense before that, but Arthur wasn't willing to bet anybody's life on it. "AIM! FIRE!"

They got two more rounds off before the bandits (greatly reduced in number, with some having fallen and others having fled, but the remainder were furious, more deadly than before) were on them. Arthur tossed his bow aside, drew his sword from the sheath. In the sunlight, the blade almost seemed to glow. A familiar battle cry rose to the prince's lips, but he bit it back. This was not Camelot.

"FOR EALDOR!"

"EALDOR!" the villagers screamed, and charged the bandits.

The first bandit to face him had no armor but a jerkin of boiled leather, and his sword was chipped and dented. It was almost pitifully easy to sidestep his clumsy blow, to strike back. The sword went flying, and Arthur's blade circled around to graze the bandit's throat. "Surrender or die," the prince snapped.

"I surrender," the bandit whimpered. His eyes were very wide, the whites showing all the way around.

Two more thieves, perhaps wishing to save their fellow or maybe just thinking that Arthur was distracted enough to kill, came at him. These two were better equipped than the first: a shining breastplate for the first, greaves and vambraces for the second. Their swords were sharp and shining, the blades perfectly smooth.

Arthur spun, slipping between the two bandits. Carried by their momentum, the two bandits passed him, but they quickly turned themselves around. In doing so, the one with greaves and vambraces overbalanced slightly, whipping his arms out in a vain attempt to catch himself. Arthur stabbed him, blade sliding easily between his opponent's ribs, piercing his withered heart.

The first bandit, enraged by the death of his comrade, roared his fury. He hacked wildly at the prince. Arthur dodged, jerking for his own sword, but it was stuck. The prince spat a curse. He dropped his blade (and, more importantly, the corpse attached to it) and rolled under the bandit's next swing. Still on all fours, Arthur grabbed the other man around the knees. He yanked, and the bandit fell, his arms windmilling around him. He nearly dropped his sword.

Arthur pushed himself to his feet, aimed a kick at his fallen opponent. His foot connected with the thief's nose. Blood streamed from both his nostrils, and he instinctively raised his hands to his face. Arthur took advantage of his distraction to go for his sword. Keeping one foot on the corpse's chest, he drew with all his might. This time his sword slid free, rising from the dead bandit's heart in a spray of red. It was easier than Arthur had expected, so he overbalanced slightly—a weakness that his opponent was quick to press.

The first bandit—not the one with the breastplate and the broken nose but the very first, the one who had surrendered—swung at Arthur's arm. He had a different blade, the prince noted, probably one picked up from one of his fallen comrades. That different blade connected. It wasn't high-enough quality to break through Arthur's armor, but it unbalanced him just a little bit more. The bandit lifted his sword to strike—

-and promptly threw up.

Well, that was good timing.

Arthur had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. In a split second he had regained his balance and landed his own blow. The bandit's head went flying. Without stopping his momentum, Arthur whirled on his heel, dripping sword aimed at the bandit with the breastplate.

But the bandit with the breastplate was running away, him and a good dozen of his fellows. This wasn't an effort to regroup but a panicked retreat. They hadn't expected a bunch of peasants to put up such a fight. They had expected to go in and out without repercussions, much less casualties, because they knew that the people of Ealdor were too weak to fight back. Now, faced with someone they couldn't bully into submission, they revealed themselves as the cowards they were.

But however cowardly the majority of Kanen's men were, there were still a few fighting in the streets of Ealdor. Blood and puke ran down their fronts, but they held their blades in unwavering hands.

Arthur charged.

Two bandits had cornered a trio of women. They were putting up a fierce fight—each held a weapon stained with red—but it was painfully obvious that they were injured and inexperienced, not to mention that the bandits they were fighting actually had decent armor. Arthur barreled into the one, his own red blade making short work of the rogue. By the time he was finished, the women had dispatched the other bandit.

"Thank you, Prince Arthur," one said, her voice hoarse with thirst and exertion.

Arthur smiled back at her. "No, thank you."

And then he was away.

The battle was essentially over by now. The few bandits who hadn't fled were vastly outnumbered, and about half of those flung down their weapons and cried out for mercy. The others were falling rapidly. Over there, Hunith and Bael had trapped a desperate filthy man between them; over there, Will and two girls who could only be his sisters searched for another target. Their searching eyes couldn't find one.

Ealdor had won.

The villagers seemed to realize that all at once. They let out a cheer, ragged at first, but rapidly gaining volume and spirit. They were laughing, whooping, hugging each other and chattering excitedly.

"Did you see me take that one with the beard?"

"That was awesome!"

"I can't believe we actually did it!"

"We did it!"

"We won! We won!"

"Arthur, are you injured?"

It took the prince a moment to realize that the last statement didn't come from the cacophony of background noise. "No, Morgana, I'm fine."

"Good," she said, "because Merlin and Moira have enough to do."

There were two casualties among the folk of Ealdor. Arthur didn't look at them. Instead, he helped first one, then another wounded man over to the healers. Merlin moved with surprising competence, deftly binding wounds in the clean cloth he'd cut beforehand. The other healer, a positively ancient woman called Moira, was almost painfully slow in comparison. Apparently, Merlin really had been needed as a healer.

Thanks in part to his apparently-not-so-useless-after-all manservant's quick hands, the two villagers who had died in the battle itself were the only ones to perish. They were burnt that night, their bones buried in the village lichyard as their friends and families wept. The dead bandits—and Arthur was viciously glad to see that there were more of those than deceased villagers—were burnt as well, though they did not have mourners or eulogies, nor did they have a specially marked grave. The twelve dead bandits were buried in an unmarked pit.

By the time true darkness had fallen, Arthur was exhausted. He, like Hunith and Bael's other houseguests, collapsed into a heap.

He dreamed of the knights of Camelot, valiant men in red cloaks and iron mail, their cloaks shining as they fought bandits. He dreamed of grateful, safe, happy villagers who knew they were protected and cared for, who didn't have to be afraid like Ealdor had been afraid. He dreamed that he was the king who freed his people from fear.

When he woke up, he was smiling.

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Arthur and a Bunch of Half-trained Villagers Pwn Kanen and his Thieving Bullies"

Boring alternate title, I know, but it's to the point. Succinctness is funny, right?

EDIT 11/10: I accidentally stated in the first version that Arthur was 20, not 21. Then I remembered that oh, right, the wraith thing started at his 21st birthday bash. So I changed it, because even if it's kind of a minor detail, it bothered me.

Everybody, thank you for being so understanding about school. You guys are great and probably more forgiving than I deserve. I'll do my best to update regularly, but it looks like I won't be able to post something every 3 weeks like I'd wanted to. I'm going to try to get something posted every fourth Friday (Thursday being my busiest school day). Hopefully that can be a regular thing from now on until I can return to something more frequent. Once again, thank you for being so understanding. You guys rock!

Next update: Dec. 4. We return to Camelot and meet a pretty prancing unicorn.

-Antares