Yay! I found a new name for the Wolverines! :D It is...*insert suspenseful drumroll here* Blackhands! ...Euh, I know. It's not much better but my brain hurts and I just wanna finish this damn story with some level of pride -.- I was going to explain the meaning of the name but when written down, it sounds lame. So, yeah.
And now I've gotta go back and fix...all...31 chapters... *eye twitches*
~32~ Shadow Bender
Gwaine heard the howling, and thought his heart would hammer its way out of his mouth. Was it Merlin? Was it Rowan? Either way, he was sure the Blackhands wouldn't care too much to protect their prisoners from a hungry werewolf.
The cultists had been giving each of the knights water when a particularly loud howl startled them to a standstill. They turned away, towards the trees, forgetting to replace the gags of their prisoners.
It was impossible to see much past the dull glow of the fires surrounding the knights of Camelot, but Gwaine tried. He strained his vision, yet saw nothing but patrolling Blackhands. He realized that he'd been holding his breath, and released it all at once, making Leon beside him jump.
"Scare the flipping daylights out of me," he growled.
"Shh!"
Leon fell silent, cuing yet another werewolf howl. He shifted uneasily.
"Who is that, d'you suppose?"
"Does it matter?" asked Gwaine softly. "Any of them would be happy to rip your throat out and satiate its thirst with your fluids."
"Always an uplifting speaker, Gwaine."
Thud.
The two knights jumped as the rock hit the earth and rolled a few feet before coming to a stop. They stared at it, not understanding its significance.
"Um, who threw that?" breathed Leon, barely moving his jaw.
Thud.
A smaller rock this time, and further away. The Blackhand sentries glanced at the projectiles curiously and anxiously, then looked out of the ring of fire pits, trying to pierce the shadows cast by the dense trees.
"Who goes there?" one near the outer rim demanded, bow drawn and aimed into the darkness. Of course, there was no reply. Then a cultist yelped as a pebble contacted his skull with a light crack.
"Someone's creating a distraction," Elyan said from a few feet away, back to back with Percival. The larger knight craned his neck to see upwards, wary of more falling stones.
"...With...rocks."
Thud. Thud—thud, crack!
"Ouch!"
More than one Blackhand, awake and asleep, gasped and exclaimed their pain as the thrown stones hit some part of their anatomy. The blows appeared to be at random, preventing the Silverblood turncoats from finding even a vague target point. Some went so far as to shoot arrows into the darkness of the trees, hoping to catch their assailants that way. It was a waste of arrows.
The whole camp was awake now, and most forgot about their Camelot prisoners in anger and fear. At least a score of them entered the trees with torches, while others simply fanned out to cover as much ground as possible within the clearing.
None of them even suspected the river.
Merlin surfaced, trying not to gasp as he let only his nose rise over the numbing water to breathe. He saw the Blackhand camp before him, the inhabitants all facing the woods and away from the river. The fading fires cast a faint glow, the smoke thick and pungent in Merlin's nostrils.
Beside him, Gwen also emerged, rivulets of water running down from the top of her head. He could smell her fear. He took her arm and gently led her to the shore, smiling in reassurance. She tried to smile back, but the mixture of anxious malaise and limb-locking cold prevented anything more graceful than a grimace.
The pair of them inched their way up the land on their bellies, grateful for the meagre light granted by the crescent moon. With their eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the Blackhands' only to the firelight, their advantages continued to mount.
"Make ready," Merlin said softly, tensing on his stomach in the grass. He sensed Gwen shift beside him, heard her draw a knife. He himself felt the werewolf stirring in his gut like a pit of restless serpents, prodding at his restraints experimentally. Its time would come.
More of Baldwin's and Tiberius' thrown rocks bombarded the Blackhand camp, bamboozling the inhabitants and distracting them from their prisoners, the knights of Camelot. A few guards remained near them in the centre of the clearing, but all were facing away from the two intruders, believing that quarter to be protected by the river.
Somewhere to the north, Rowan howled once more. Merlin wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he was closer. What if he was following the king's trail?
"Where's Arthur?" whispered Gwen, as though she were thinking the same as her companion. Merlin pointed.
"There are a few carriages over there. He's probably in that one, with the bars."
"What about the Silver Heart?"
That, Merlin didn't know. Gwen wouldn't expect him to, of course, and he couldn't pretend that the issue hadn't crossed his mind. When they were formulating the plan, he'd hoped that perhaps one of the knights or Sophia Silverblood would know.
Finally, the cry he'd been waiting for arose, and several Blackhands dashed into the trees to root out their discovered assailant. The three that remained with the knights stepped further away from them, eager to join the hunt, yet remained in the clearing.
Go on, get out of here. Merlin's mental wishing went unheeded, and he knew more was needed to be done. It was a risk, but a risk that would be well taken should it succeed. And as long as the Blackhands didn't turn towards the river, it would succeed.
Muttering not a sound, the warlock cast his magic to the edges of the camp, right before the Blackhands' view. He bent the shadows, willing them to move and sway like dashing figures. The three sentries called out excitedly, and, remarkably, left their charges unguarded.
"Move," Merlin hissed, rising to a crouch and rushing between the covers of the tents across the gap, to the four knights tied back to back in the middle of the camp.
The men were smart enough to exclaim nothing loudly as Merlin stooped beside them, watching for any returning Blackhands as Gwen followed suit.
"My saviour," Gwaine said softly, fluttering his eyes as the queen sliced his bonds, freeing both him and Leon.
"Where's Arthur?" Merlin demanded, and the knights pointed, confirming the warlock's initial suspicion – in the barred carriage. But he was dismayed to see the horses so close to it. He wouldn't be able to get near them without alerting the Blackhands. He would have to do something to calm them...
"And the Heart?"
This time, the knights shrugged.
"It may be in Argus Vane's tent," Percival suggested, indicating to the largest pavilion in the clearing. "That's where they took Sophia."
"You get Arthur," said Gwen, "and leave the Heart to me."
Merlin nodded as she slipped away, then passed Gwaine his dagger, his only weapon. He glanced around nervously before relaying the plan.
"You four stay here, pretend you're still bound. We need to remain as inconspicuous as possible for as long as possible. I'll get Arthur out, and then when you see the signal, come and get him. Get him out of here, whatever it takes."
"What's the signal?" asked Leon.
Merlin turned back grimly. "You'll know."
Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ
Gwen slipped around to the back of the cult master's tent, watchful for sentries and using other tents as cover. Her heart hammered in her chest and her palms were sweaty against the hilt of her dagger. Every rustle, every brush of her clothes, sent a ripple of alarm through her like a shock wave. She would still like a rabbit beneath a circling hawk, praying to the gods that she wouldn't be detected.
Finally, she reached her destination and slowly let out her pent-up breath, sighing slowly through her nose and calming her buzzing nerves. It didn't do much, but it reminded her that more than one person depended on her success.
She lowered herself to her belly and gradually lifted an edge of Vane's tent canvas. It was lit by candles, glowing a warm yellow. Covering most of her view was a dark, rectangular shape, like a box or chest. She could see the legs of a Blackhand guard, and knew that there was another, just out of sight. They had remained at their posts, but were softly conversing, clearly curious as to what was happening outside. Gwen was relieved to see that Vane was nowhere in sight.
Edging along half a foot, the queen was able to see more of the interior. Being swift travellers that they were, they had no space to spare for luxuries. Even so, Vane had a comfortable-looking cot and a single chair, plus the chest that sat right before her. The chair could have been used to seat the Silverblood woman more comfortably, but it would seem that there was no room in his heart for chivalry.
The woman was tied to a tent post by her unbroken wrist. She was gagged, and bound at the ankles. She glared defiantly at the two Blackhands, haughty despite the beatings she had clearly sustained by her captivity. Gwen could see swelling, bruising and cut flesh. Her clothes were torn and something red had been spilled down her front, marring the ivory-white stag emblem on her chest. The queen felt a trill of alarm before realizing that it was wine – there was an empty bottle lying not far away.
Perhaps the Silverblood felt eyes on her, for she suddenly glanced down at the small crack between the earth and the canvas Gwen had created. But just as quickly, her pale gaze returned to the Blackhand guards. It was so brief, Gwen wondered if she'd even looked at all.
She must be Sophia, the woman Percival mentioned. I don't know her, but she's an enemy to the Blackhands. We'll need her. I'll need her, to help me get the Heart. It must be in this chest, and these two brutes won't hand it over on a silver platter.
She lowered the canvas and crawled on her belly to the corner on the right of the tent entrance, the corner that the Silverblood was tied. When she finally arrived, she peeked in through a lifted edge again, seeing the Blackhands looking at each other and still speaking softly. After scanning the camp one last time, watching the other cultists milling about and heading for the trees in search of Baldwin and Tiberius, she then readied her dagger. She hoped the two guards' helmets would restrict their peripheral vision as she reached in and slowly cut Sophia's bonds.
The Silverblood didn't move the entire time, keeping perfectly still with her gaze locked on the Blackhands. If she even so much as looked away, then the two might have glanced over at her. As it was, Gwen managed to cut through the ropes with no trouble. Getting her feet, however, was a different story.
Bound or no, a trained warrior is better with a dagger than I.
Gwen pressed the hilt of her knife into Sophia's hand, and she clasped it loosely. If she'd tightened her grip, the guards may have gotten alerted to the slight movement.
Now what? Gwen retracted her arm and slid back to the rear of the tent, furthest from the light of the dying fires. She was running out of time, she knew, their whole plan established on perfect timing and secrecy until the moment came for the attempted rescue. Merlin would be getting Arthur by now, and the knights would be preparing to smuggle the king away. What the servant said he was going to do after that was vague. As for Gwen, she was to leave with the Heart. Baldwin and Tiberius would evade the Blackhands in the woods and rendezvous in Camelot.
Our best bet would to get Arthur as far away as possible before they realized that the knights were gone, she thought, trying to coax her hope from a spark to a flame. But the Blackhands would have to be pretty thick not to notice quickly...
Gwen suddenly flinched as something lean and hard jabbed into her side while she crawled to the rear of the tent. Rolling over, she saw that it was a pike stabbed into the ground, a string leading from the protective awning of the pavilion tied beneath its cap.
Pulling on it experimentally, she found it loose enough to yank free, and did so, arming herself once more. It was slightly shorter than her hand was long and an inch thick. Small, but deadly in the right place.
Get ready to move, Silverblood, she thought, hoping her thoughts would send vibes to Sophia. They would have to silence the two guards simultaneously, else one of them alert the outsiders to the intruders, compromising the mission.
Her heart was racing again. Her grasp tightened on the awning pike as she inched back to the place where she had first spied on the innards of the tent. All at once, the tricks Arthur had shown her flashed in her mind – where the body was weak, vulnerable, fatal if struck. There was the usual neck, heart and head points, but there was also a place on the back that severed the spinal cord and pierced the heart in one deadly thrust. Well, Gwen didn't have the strength nor the weapon to do that, but a stab in the temple or throat should do the trick.
She cautiously lifted the tent edge again and caught the Silverblood's eye for a split second. She knew the queen was there, and so would prepare herself. She would get the rightmost guard, and Gwen, the left.
I just have to get inside and kill him before he makes a sound—
Sophia suddenly granted Gwen the distraction she needed. But even she was almost too shocked to move when the Silverblood started to cry. She hung her head, chest wracked with jerking sobs. The two Blackhands glanced at each other, then at their prisoner, stunned.
Gwen finally thawed her frozen limbs and made her move. Slipping into the tent, she lurched up at the first guard's back, one hand covering his mouth as the other plunged the pike into his throat.
She'd killed men before, but that didn't soften the blow to her conscience. She felt him stiffen, his jaw opening to scream into her hand as hot blood gushed from his neck and pooled on the ground. Gwen tried not to scream too as he slumped forward, overbalancing her and dragging her down with him.
She barely heard the whir of the knife buzzing through the air to impale the other guard, and refused to look as he gargled, the blade buried in his eye. He slumped limply and with such finality that Gwen's throat closed, suffocating by the burdensome grasp of guilt.
"There's no time to waste, my lady!" the Silverblood hissed after pulling her gag free. "Bring the knife so I may cut my ankles loose."
Gwen blanched at the thought of pulling the blade from the Blackhand's skull. That man was alive just a few frantic heartbeats ago. Alive, breathing, speaking with his comrade-in-arms. Seeing him there, lying dead in his own blood, made it impossible for the queen to see him as a monster.
The Silverblood huffed with impatience and began to drag herself across the tent to the corpse herself. She turned the man over and yanked the dagger out of his eye, then, unfazed by the gore, sliced the ropes from her ankles.
"Time to go, your majesty."
Gwen drew herself from the depths of dismay and disgust, and glowered at her.
"Not without the Heart."
The woman wasn't bothered by the glare, and nodded at the chest. "In there. Hurry now."
The queen turned and made to open the simple trunk, anticipation shoving grief aside. But then, a wave of spawning horror, which swelled into utter despair, surged over her with the fury of an avalanche. The chest was locked.
"If we don't have the key, we can't unlock whatever it is that we don't have that it unlocks. So what purpose would be served in finding whatever need be unlocked – which we don't have – without having first found the key what unlocks it?" ~ Jack Sparrow (Pirates of the Caribbean)
