~31~ Bloody Evasion

Argus Vane, master of the Blackhand cult, waited impatiently as the scout caught up at last, his horse heaving for breath, head sagging low. The scout hastily dismounted and gave a rough salute.

"Out with it, man," Claudius the soothsayer snapped impatiently from beside Vane. "What news of the civilians?"

"They are relentless, sir," the scout gasped, almost as tired as his horse. He was wavering on his feet. "They seek the beast, intent on hunting it down. But now that we have it, they'll be coming for us, next."

Argus Vane sighed heavily through his nose. "This does not bode well for us. They must be stopped."

"Yes, my liege. But how?"

The cult master glanced meaningfully at the scout's longbow.

"Use your imagination."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

The knights were bound, gagged, and roped to their horses. They couldn't so much as turn in the saddle without cutting the circulation from their hands. Their wrists were rubbed raw from constant chaffing and their mouths tasted like cloth. The reason they were on horses at all was because the Blackhands were moving as fast as they possibly could, making for the southern border of Camelot.

Gwaine tried to chew through his gag, all the while looking like he was just suffering his fate in silence. His eyes constantly flickered to the mounted Blackhands captors who guarded him and his companions down the forest road. They were all moving at a quick pace, distancing themselves from the mob of civilians and hunting dogs that Gwaine had overheard from a scouting cultist. They were hunting for the beast, not knowing that that beast was their king.

And that king was currently in a barred waggon in the middle of the Blackhand procession.

Gwaine was helpless to do anything when they found Arthur, lying mortally wounded in a ditch. They had been following the destructive tracks all night, and though Gwaine had hoped against the odds, the king was found and captured.

He wondered how Arthur fared now, stuffed in that waggon while bleeding out of every inch of his body. There had been a physician to look at him, but Gwaine had seen his wounds – how could anyone survive another hour like that?

His jaw cramped from gnawing at the gag, and he couldn't even massage it when he finally stopped chewing. He stared down at his bloodied wrists, the skin torn and worn away by his efforts of liberation. When he glanced at the other knights' arms, he saw them in the same boat. The same leaky, capsizing boat.

Why has it come to this?

Morning stretched into afternoon, and evening dragged its feet. The moon paid an early visit with the sun, rising as a wide crescent before its brighter and warmer brother had time to sink below the mountains. Gwaine dozed, dreaming of a warm bed and hot food. And mead. It seemed like ages since he had that last...though it couldn't have been more than a day.

By nightfall, the caravan had settled in a disclosed clearing, a deep, slow-moving river slipping out of the trees in the west before diving back in. Gwaine and the knights were hauled off their horses and dragged over to the middle of the camp, where they were tied up once more, back to back and gagged. Gwaine saw Sophia once, similarly bound and silenced, and she looked mighty beat up. Gwaine felt a swell of anger.

She's their family, he growled inwardly, distant or not. Just wait until I get my sword again...

The knights were forced into complete silence and robbed of all opportunity to communicate. They had their gags removed to eat, but then the cloths were replaced and guards were stationed to prevent the knights from exchanging any form of communication, including body language or writing things in the dirt.

It was adding insult to injury when Gwaine overheard a Blackhand reporting to the cult master, Argus Vane – the mob of Camelot civilians had been evaded completely. How the Blackhands managed to lose their scent was a mystery, but Gwaine wondered whether if it had less to do with clever track elimination and more to do with bloody confrontation.

Gwaine tried to pull his bonds just a little, not so much to escape as to get more comfortable. He sagged when he realized that it was fruitless. Every thirty or so minutes, a Blackhand would come by and loosen the knots to let the circulation run its course for a little while. It was a small thing, but the knights of Camelot were grateful for it. If they continued to gain their captors' trust in that they wouldn't try to escape during such periods, perhaps a chance would eventually present itself. For now, though, Gwaine felt mighty sleepy...

He didn't realized that he'd dozed off until he heard the distant howl. Gwaine just managed to keep his eyes closed, opening them a mere slit in order to observe without letting people know they were being observed. The moon lit up the silvery crowns of the trees ringing the camp, leaving bottomless shadows below for prowlers to stalk in.

Fires had dwindled to mere pulsing embers, the dying hearts of once proud flames. Most of the cultists were sleeping, but the guards were vigilant, pacing up and down a small stretch and not showing an ounce of exhaustion or boredom. Picketed horses muttered, tails swishing in the darkness. A swarm of fluttering, tittering bats swirled overhead, blocking the moon for a few seconds before vanishing beyond the woods. Such limited action was gradually lulling Gwaine back to sleep, and his head rolled back to his shoulder, eyes heavy.

Ah-roooooooo!

There it was again. Howling. And the ruffian knight wasn't the only one to hear; he saw all of the sentries protecting the prisoners stiffen, scanning the surrounding trees. Many had an arrow to recurve or longbows, no doubt silver-tipped. Gwaine hoped they were good shots.

A flash of movement caught his eye. But when he glanced at the offending shadows at the edge of the camp, he saw nothing.

Gwaine shifted his feet uneasily. Must have been a whiff of cloud passing before the moon. Yeah, that's it.

A cool breeze whistled through the clearing, mournful, a choir of wraiths. Gwaine tried to duck his head into his collar to ward off the cold, with little success.

Ah-roooooooo...

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Gwen, Baldwin and Tiberius had left their horses back in the trees, choosing to approach the knoll overlooking the valley on foot. The moon outlined faint wisps of smoke trickling up from the trees below, betraying the Blackhands' location to their pursuers.

"They do not know we are here," Tiberius said softly, eyes shifting about cautiously, "else they wouldn't have risked fires."

Baldwin's lieutenant had been requested to join the queen and Silverblood captain, having the Sight as pure as Baldwin's and with an excellent eye for archery. He made good backup, and was as equally determined to stamp out the Blackhands as much as his superior.

"They are confident because they believe that they have eluded all of their pursuers," Gwen hissed, salt spiking her words vehemently.

Someone, or rather, several someones, had lain down an ambush earlier that day. When the hunting mob of Camelot's civilians stepped through the middle point, the gauntlet closed – arrows from unseen bows shot down every last hound the hunt possessed. The unfortunate creatures weren't the only things harmed though. A couple of men howled as they felt the arrows pierce their legs. Some fell without a sound.

Gwen had been close enough to see men die. Shock claimed her, then despair, then irrepressible rage. The Blackhands had done this, effectively eliminating the hunt's prime trackers and causing panic among the people. She knew they did this with no regret or conscience. And they were going to pay for it.

After viewing the hound-massacre, Gwen, Baldwin, and Tiberius skirted west and then continued south, out of the way of the retreating hunt. When the trio felt that there was no chance of being seen and that they had bypassed the ambush point, they cut straight back east. They found the trail again, and they followed the Blackhands incognito.

"We must be careful," Baldwin continued. "They have the Heart and the king. If they find out we're here, they may very well use him as a hostage. Or a weapon."

"How do we get him out of there?" asked Gwen, her voice equally soft. "He'll be hurt and weak."

"Don't let him hear you say that. I did once. I thought he was going to bite my head off."

Gwenevere whirled around. "Merlin!"

The servant grinned through the darkness, but it was a pained grin. "In the flesh."

"Beast!" Baldwin roared, standing and drawing his sword. Tiberius drew his longbow and aimed right at the servant's forehead.

"No!" Gwen leaped up and stayed their hands as Merlin tensed, preparing to spring back. "Don't hurt him!"

"He'll kill us all! He'll—"

"Shh!" she hissed, and the Silverblood quickly fell silent, but he still glowered at an equally distrustful Merlin. "You fool. Think about what's at stake, here."

"She's right," said the servant coolly, eyes glancing from Baldwin to Tiberius and back again. "Put your hatred behind you for now. We have to work together to get Arthur and the knights out of there."

"The knights?" said Gwen, puzzled. "What happened—?"

"I think they've been captured. Their scent coincided with the Blackhands' at one point, and never separated."

Gwen nodded in understanding, struggling to conceal her unease of how Merlin could smell as intensely as any wolf. "What's the plan?"

"We must get the Silver Heart. That's vital. Even if we get Arthur free, we will be condemning him to death without it," said Merlin, and he winced.

"Are you hurt?" Gwen passed a hand over the servant's chest in mounting concern, but snatched it back when he flinched violently.

"I'm fine. But we need—"

"Why do we need the Heart, besides the obvious reasons?" Baldwin demanded, looking like he wouldn't be more pleased than to lop off Merlin's head where he sat. Tiberius never took the arrow away from his bow. "Or are the obvious reasons the only reasons?"

Merlin's eyes flickered to the right just for a moment, and Gwen knew he was going to lie. "No other reason than the obvious."

Baldwin sneered. "I can See your emotions, beast. You're lying."

The servant barred his teeth, and Gwen suddenly felt afraid of him. He was a werewolf, after all.

"I'm not trusting you with the information," he growled.

"And I'm not trusting you to lead the mission."

"Then don't. Just listen to my plan."

"As soon as you tell me what the hell you've done to the Silver Heart."

"What makes you assume—?"

"You're uneasy, anxious, scared. Your emotions run as strong as the River Tiber. You did something. And you're going to tell me what."

Gwen fumed with impatience, but she was equally determined to find out what Merlin knew. His hesitation could mean anything, but to keep his silence now of all times...

She blinked in realization. "The Heart can cure Arthur, can't it?"

Merlin glanced at her in astonishment. "How did—?"

"Preposterous!" Baldwin snapped, but remembered to keep his voice down. "The curse cannot be cured! We have searched for decades, centuries. Rowan would have been cured if anything was found."

The servant stared calmly at him. "You were searching in the wrong place." He turned back to the queen. "I guess there's no point in hiding it now. Yes, the Heart is vital if we wish to lift the curse from Arthur. You must give it to him."

"Me?"

Merlin nodded. "I don't trust them—" He flicked his head at the Silverbloods. "And I can't touch it, not without taking the cure myself."

Gwen stared at him, but her throat closed as she realized what he meant. "So...you will remain a werewolf, when all is said and done. Oh, Merlin—"

The servant hastily shook his head. "Don't worry about me. I'm not important. We must cure Arthur."

A howl rose in the distance, and Merlin flinched, eyes widening. "Oh no. Rowan. Damn, I forgot about him..."

"Could the Heart cure Rowan?" Baldwin demanded, grabbing the servant's arm.

"No," he replied too quickly, and yanked his arm free. "Not now that he's stuck a werewolf. It...it won't work."

The captain's silver-edged sword was out and pricking Merlin's throat before Gwen had time to intercept. The servant yelped as the silver touched his skin, falling over onto his back. He tried to escape, crawling backwards and away from the sword, but Baldwin followed doggedly, clearly enjoying himself.

"That's the last lie that shall pass over your tongue, beast." The blade fell.

Merlin's head dodged to the side to avoid the sword, and his right hand lunged up, catching Baldwin by the throat. The man choked, grasping frantically at his neck as the servant squeezed mercilessly.

"Merlin, no!" Gwen and Tiberius shot forward and tried to pry his hand off Baldwin's throat together, but his gaze was locked on his enemy as he slowly throttled him to death. "Look at me, Merlin. Look at me!" Gwen slapped him, and he flinched out of his trance. For a moment, he appeared confused, but as realization dawned in his eyes, he threw Baldwin away, letting him fall back into the foliage, coughing and gasping.

"I...I'm sorry, Gwen," Merlin said softly. "It's the beast blood. Sometimes...sometimes it gets out of hand..."

"It's all right," she said, trying to hide her wariness. "He attacked you. What else were you going to do?"

"Don't listen to his snivelling!" Baldwin hissed, recovering quickly. "He'll kill us when we turn our backs. If he has any honour, he will grant me the pleasure of cutting out his heart!"

"Shut it, you git," Merlin said blandly, turning away. Then he stiffened as Rowan howled again. "We don't have much time. Their security will double if Rowan gets any closer."

"What's the plan?" asked Gwen intently, and Merlin grinned.


"Always assume an enemy knows you're there and that he will attack you. That way, you tend to avoid unpleasant surprises." ~ Halt (Ranger's Apprentice)