Leon was worried. It had been two weeks since word reached them that Arthur, leading King Hoel's army and his own knights and joined by the other Frankish kings, had put the Romans and their allies to flight. The Roman Emperor had recalled what was left of his forces and, even allowing for bad weather on the Narrow Sea, Arthur and his knights should have returned to Camelot days ago. Now finally a messenger arrived but he refused to relay his news to anyone except Leon or the queen herself despite the fact it was not yet dawn.
The First Knight dressed quickly, dispatched a guard to alert the queen, and hurried to the throne room to receive the message. The man who waited wore a somber expression.
"What news?" asked Leon, tying his cloak as he entered the chamber dimly lit by two torches hastily fetched by the guards.
"The campaign was successful, but the High King fell in the moment of victory."
For a brief moment Leon thought the room went entirely dark and silent. He blinked, and focused on the bearded face of the messenger lit by a flickering torch. "What?"
"King Arthur is dead."
A dozen emotions fought for supremacy: guilt for not having been at the king's side, anger at the knights who had not protected him, a flicker of hope that Guinevere was free now, grief which nearly obliterated his ability to think.
"The list of casualties is documented here," the messenger indicated the packet he carried full of parchments and tokens, "but this news could not wait."
Leon nodded and tried to formulate a coherent thought. "You sailed across the Narrow Sea with the returning troops?"
"Yes. They follow a day or two behind me."
"Do they bring Arthur's body with them?"
The messenger shook his head. "The High King's body was not recovered."
"Then it's possible Arthur lives?"
"No, my lord. He was seen to fall, although his standard had been cut down and in the growing dark it could not be observed exactly where he was fighting or what happened. By morning many of the bodies were stripped already. But they waited two more days near the battlefield and then another week at port without receiving any message. If the king survived we would know it by now."
"Wait for me in the Council room," Leon said.
Leon's hand shook slightly as he raised it to knock on the door of the royal chambers. Even in Arthur's absence the queen slept in the room they shared rather than the beautiful chambers which had been furnished for her.
When a guard admitted him, Guinevere was fastening a light cloak over her nightdress. The candles had all been lit and the bright room showed how drawn her face was. Leon tried to mask the despair he feared was written in his expression.
"My lady," Leon said with a bow. "We received word the king fell in the battle."
The blood drained from Guinevere's face and she grasped the back of a chair, but remained upright. He took a step forward to support her before he caught himself.
"Thank you for telling me yourself," she said. "I will join you in the Council room shortly and you can update me before we call together the Round Table."
"Yes, my lady."
Leon gave her another bow before he turned to allow her a moment alone to mourn before she had to assume her duties as Queen. As the door of the chamber closed behind him, Leon glimpsed Guinevere's hands cover her face as she sank to the floor, her shoulders heaving.
Only an hour later the queen swept into the Council chamber where Leon had received the messenger's full report and now sat poring over the correspondence the man had brought with him. A pile of tokens was heaped on the table as well: seals, rings, brooches, badges of office, campaign medals, and mementoes stripped from the dead and sent home to their families. Leon saw Guinevere's eyes fasten on the glittering pile.
Leon blinked several times, his eyes watery from the early hour and the smoke of a dozen candles lighting the table. He watched the queen closely. She wore her court dress of Camelot red, her hair dressed in a crown of braids and topped with the royal circlet. Although her face was strained, she appeared composed.
She seated herself in one of the two chairs at the head of the table before turning her gaze to him. She was twisting the ring she wore on her left hand. "What do we know?"
"The battle was won, my lady, as you have already heard. Brittany is safe, King Hoel and the Franks are grateful, and the Romans received only the body of their general as tribute. Our troops have crossed the Narrow Sea and will reach here in a day or two. But Arthur was cut down in the fighting near the end of the battle."
"I do not see the royal seal in the pile here." Her eyes indicated the heap on the table.
"Likely it is with the body which has not yet been recovered." Leon winced at the sharpness of Guinevere's gaze.
"If the king's body is not found how can we be sure he is dead? He is out there, I know it, I can feel it."
"My lady, there is little doubt. Arthur was seen to fall, and there has been no word from him since the battle. They waited by the field two days and again in port for a full week."
The blaze which had lit the queen's brown eyes was doused, leaving them duller than before. "I see. Who else was lost?"
Leon hesitated, wishing he could spare her further bad news. "Gwaine was wounded, and will die soon. He would not have survived the journey home, so they left him at a monastery near the port. Percival stayed with him."
Guinevere's hand clenched tightly over her stomach as though she had received another blow but she lifted her chin and nodded. "We must convene the Round Table as soon as it is light. They can affirm my continuation as Regent until Arthur's death," there was only a sight catch in her voice, "has been confirmed. Then we will send to each of the kingdoms, advising of the change in ruler. Everyone must know there is a central power in Albion carrying out the king's wishes."
"Yes, my lady."
Leon's heart ached for the pain Guinevere was keeping at bay while she held the kingdom together. He wanted to comfort her, but no sign of weakness was permissible in the new ruler; her tears would be saved until she was alone again. He was also afraid any offer of solace would betray his own feelings and he was deeply ashamed at the thoughts that poked into his mind when his king, a man he revered more than any other, was not yet cold in the ground.
"Who is our spy in Rheged?" the queen asked.
"Sir Caradoc's son, Accolon."
Guinevere frowned slightly. "He is young."
"But a fine knight," Leon said. "And his father is one of Arthur's most loyal soldiers."
"Rumours will spread quickly. Ensure he is notified of the king's death but keeps the news from Morgana as long as possible. We do not want her to make plans before Camelot's nobles and the other kingdoms have pledged me their support."
Morgana looked up at the knock on her chamber door. Few approached the queen if she had not ordered them to appear before her and even fewer would dare to do so in her own chamber. Curious, Morgana nodded at her maid to open the door.
The queen's eyebrow arched at the sight of Accolon standing on the threshold. Morgana could not resist a glance at the mirror on the table she sat beside, glad the maid had just finished brushing her hair – the grey amid the black was less noticeable – but she did not allow any sign of welcome to touch her face. The young man had not been summoned that evening; it was unconscionably forward of him to show up without her invitation.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"My lady." Accolon gave her a respectful bow. "Please forgive my temerity in interrupting your preparations for the evening, but I received news which I believe to be of utmost interest."
Morgana frowned at the self-satisfied smile the young blond man wore.
"If my lady would grant me a moment."
The queen hesitated before she nodded at the maid to admit him. "Leave us."
The maid curtsied in acknowledgement, then closed the door behind Accolon as she left.
"Well, what is it?" Morgana demanded.
"I bring you news you have longed for."
"Then please be so kind as to share it before my patience wears thin."
"Arthur is dead."
For a moment Morgana thought she was dreaming. The room swam and she put out a hand to grasp the edge of the table beside her. Then everything snapped into sharp focus. "Are you certain?"
"Yes, my lady. Queen Guinevere herself sent word to me. I doubt the rumours have yet reached the other kingdoms."
Morgana's mind whirled. Arthur was dead with no heir to take his place. Merlin was gone. They said he had fancied a young girl and she had stolen his magic and sealed him in a cave, or a tree, or a tower of air. Whatever it was, Morgana was glad he had met his end at the hands of a woman; it was justice for what he had done to her.
That faithless maidservant Arthur had married would act quickly to seize the throne, but Morgana had the opportunity to move just as quickly. Let Urien and his witless son, Owain, have Rheged; it was Camelot that rightfully belonged to her. She was Uther's daughter even though he had never acknowledged her. She was entitled to his name and his throne.
A slow smile spread across her face. She looked up at Accolon through her lashes. "Sir Accolon, you have earned my undying gratitude. There must be a reward for your loyalty."
"All I ask is to serve faithfully at your side, my lady."
She recognized the flattery for what it was but could not ignore the warm feeling which spread through her at his smooth words and suggestive smile. "Then you will be by my side when rule Camelot. But first you will carry my offer of alliance to certain of Arthur's noble courtiers."
"I am yours to command."
Leon stood slowly and met the eyes of each of the others seated at the Round Table. Only two-thirds of the chairs were occupied; the seats traditionally used by Arthur, Gwaine, Percival, and a half dozen more were conspicuously vacant and a few of the others seated around the table bore recent battle wounds. Sir Caradoc sat stiffly, teeth clenched, and refused to look up from the table. Leon hoped he knew they would not hold his son's treachery against him.
"We received this ultimatum today. It is signed by nearly all the nobles of Arthur's court." Leon looked down at the parchment he held by its edges as if it was contaminated. "They demand that Morgana be recognized as the Queen of Camelot and her son, Gareth, as heir to the throne with immediate effect."
"How can they consider allowing that traitorous witch within the walls of this city?" Sir Andred pounded a fist on the table.
"She is a noble, the daughter of a king and the mother of a prince." Sir Ector's voice was strong although he leaned heavily on a cane when he painstakingly made his way to and from the Round Table meetings. "Guinevere is an ignorant peasant who does not listen to the advice of those born to positions of power. They are blind to her strengths as a ruler."
"Arthur intended for Guinevere to succeed him to the throne," Sir Sagramore said. "If nothing else, they should honour his wishes."
"They say Merlin enchanted Arthur to marry Guinevere, that it is only through his dark arts she became queen and in his right mind Arthur would never have made her Regent."
Leon ground his teeth at the nasty rumour. He had thought they were long since done with the evils of sorcery arguments, but of course his noble brethren would trot out whatever claims suited their purposes at the time.
"What of the other kingdoms?" Ector asked.
"They wait for Camelot to declare its ruler, then they will decide if they wish to swear fealty to whoever wears the crown," Leon answered.
"And what is the strength of these rebellious nobles? Can they put up a force against Camelot's knights?" Andred questioned.
Leon looked down at the names on the parchment, although he had memorized each one. "Altogether among them their vassals amount to a force of considerable size, plus they have Rheged's army on their side."
Ector looked directly at Leon. "Who stands with us?"
"Cador, Gwyl, Ban, Amr, and Pellinore."
"Olwyne's family?" Andred asked in surprise. "They trace their bloodline back before Roman times and are proud of it. More than anyone they think nobles are born to rule."
"Yes, but their granddaughter, Lynette, is loyal to the Queen and she spoke with them herself," Leon said. "We are fortunate they have not chosen to join the rebels because they command a great many vassals. As it is, the rebels match us in fighting force, or at least pose a significant threat."
"They would not have delivered this ultimatum otherwise," Ector said.
"Your Highness." Leon turned to Guinevere. "What is our response to this demand?"
The queen met his gaze steadily. "I have no intention of bowing to this threat. Bitterness and hatred have eroded Morgana's sanity; she is no fit ruler whatever anyone may think of me. I hope her supporters will realize that and back down before this escalates from threats to action."
"If they do not back down?" Ector asked.
"Then they will find that I am resolved to defend Camelot against this treasonous uprising."
"My lady, we stand behind you to the end." Leon faced the room. "Long live the queen!"
One by one those around the table stood. "Long live the queen!"
Gwen made no attempt to brush away her tears. "Thank you all for your loyalty."
Erec looked up at Aithusa from his seat on the boulder. She bent her graceful neck so her great head was on a level with his. Her white scales were translucent in the sunshine which warmed the forest clearing, making her appear to glow.
"Morgana intends to tear apart the kingdom with civil war, doesn't she?" he asked.
The big, light blue eyes blinked slowly. "She intends to reclaim her throne from the serving girl."
"Gwen is the queen and the rightful ruler of Camelot."
"She means nothing to me. Morgana is my friend."
The dragon brought her right wing closer to her body, almost underneath her stomach, but Erec could see the scarring on her leg.
"I thought I was your friend," he said.
The eyes blinked again. "You are."
"When Morgana attacks, I will fight with Camelot's defenders against her."
The great white head bobbed up and down and the spiked tail raked across the ground leaving a gouge in the grassy clearing. "Why do you have to fight?"
"Because Gwen is my friend and Morgana is not, because Gwen is the rightful queen, because King Arthur would have defended this land against Morgana's tyranny and so would Merlin. You cannot aid Morgana."
The tail left three long swaths of upturned grass, then the head drooped. "I will not aid her in the battle, but I will not aid you, either, young lord."
"I do not ask you to."
The white, horned head raised itself level with his eyes. "You must not face Morgana's son in the battle."
"Why?"
"The sword he carries has special properties."
Erec's eyes widened and then narrowed. "Did you burnish the blade?"
The dragon reared back and shook her wings before she nodded.
"I don't think you should have done that."
Aithusa looked at him. "I had to. It was time."
"Their army is assembled only a few leagues from the city. The nobles demand that you hand the crown to Camelot's rightful ruler and they promise if you do so, there will be no bloodshed." Leon watched Guinevere closely.
There was a rustling as everyone seated at the Round Table shifted in his seat. Someone knocked over a goblet and spilled red liquid across the gold dragon etched into the table's hard surface.
"Is there hope of a peaceful end to this without bowing to their demand?" the queen asked.
"No, my Lady."
Her eyes closed briefly and her chin dropped. Then she raised her head and looked him directly in the eyes. "I will not abandon my people to Morgana's rule."
Leon felt a thrill of pride at the way she said my people. He glanced around the table. "Long live the queen!"
Each knight present stood. "Long live the queen!" they echoed.
"I will not allow them to lay siege to Camelot. Assemble your men, we ride out to meet them on the battlefield. I will offer to negotiate, but if the nobles insist on putting Morgana on the throne, it will be necessary to put down this uprising with force."
Leon nodded to the other knights and they left to begin preparations for the march. Before he could follow, the First Knight heard Guinevere call to him. He turned to find she had risen from her place and stood next to him. She put a hand on his arm.
"Thank you, Leon, for your loyalty. Most of your peers have chosen to support Morgana despite all she has done merely because she has royal blood, and I have not a drop of nobility in me."
Leon looked into her deep brown eyes. "You are ten times as noble as that witch who attempted to steal a crown she has no right to, who wished Arthur dead, who ordered her soldiers to fire on unarmed citizens and burned their crops. Arthur was the rightful king and he chose his successor well. I would have ridden into the mouth of hell for him and I would do so for you, my lady." He hesitated, wondering if he should give her the full truth. "I would die for you, Gwen. Even if I did not believe in my heart you are Camelot's rightful ruler, I would stand by your side."
Her eyes grew round and her lips parted but no sound came out.
He stood straight as she stared at him in surprise, making no attempt to hide the devotion shining in his face.
Finally she spoke. "I never knew, never suspected." Her gazed fastened on his. "How long have you felt this way?"
"Since we were children," he said.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"I couldn't." He did not flinch under her intense gaze. "From the time I was old enough to understand my feelings, I knew it could never be."
"My mother was a servant in your household," Gwen said gently. "No one would have thought less of you had you tumbled me then."
Her hand remained on his arm, the warmth of her fingers burning through his sleeve.
"I would never do that," he said. "I could not make you a formal offer, and I would not offer you anything less. I only hoped you would find happiness with a man of your own class."
A lopsided smile touched her face. "Arthur never offered me less, either."
"He had more courage than I did," Leon said, a stab of old pain knifing through his chest.
Gwen's eyes misted. "I tried to fight it, you know, I tried not to love him, I knew what it would cost the kingdom for its ruler to marry a serving maid."
"Arthur refused to accept that a person's birth determined his worth. I had always thought God gave us a noble birth because we were more deserving, more able to shoulder the responsibilities, but in truth He puts us right where we should be without regard for any accident of parentage. Lancelot, Gwaine, and Percival are the finest knights I have served with and you are the most worthy queen I have known."
Leon stepped back and her hand dropped away from his arm. Then he executed a proper bow and strode away to organize the preparations for battle.
By the time Gwaine recovered enough to make the journey back to Albion, winds blew steadily eastward across the Narrow Sea, keeping the ships sealed in the Breton harbour. The king chafed at the further delay, his own wounds fully healed, knowing the weeks of waiting must be hard on Guinevere. He and his escort had found the body of the messenger he had sent with news of his injuries and Arthur feared that his people may think him dead.
He and the dozen knights who had guarded him while he recovered near the battlefield in that foreign land had finally arrived at the harbour to find the Camelot troops had returned to their own shore. They left behind a dying Gwaine with Percival to tend him at a local monastery. Arthur took rooms for himself and his men at the same monastery to wait with Percival and honour Gwaine when the time came. But Gwaine had not died. He had recovered enough to return with them as soon as a ship was able to make the crossing.
Finally the winds abated and Arthur and his men took the first ship back to their own shore. Now they were on Camelot land, the king was riding hard to make it to the citadel before another night fell.
"Sire, we have to stop."
Arthur glanced sideways at Percival and reined in his mount. Nestled in a valley below them stood a tiny collection of dwellings huddled in a break in the forest cover, one tall turret rising nearly to the height of the hills around. As much as Arthur wanted to push on now they were this close to Camelot, his knights were tired. Gwaine's face had an unnerving grayish tinge and Arthur was exhausted himself, though he had buried his fatigue under the stronger urge to see Guinevere's face again after all these months.
He looked back at the village. Its walls were weathered and grey, the trough in the clearing was dirty, and the single horse tethered in front of the tavern had been roughly used. But it would offer drink and food of a sort and give them a chance to rest. It looked familiar, and Arthur frowned, then looked back at Gwaine before a grin stretched across his face. It was the same tavern in which he had first met the dark-haired knight, who had looked anything but knightly at the time. A traveling rogue who favoured long odds.
"We stop here," Arthur called back to his men.
They left their mounts outside the Hog's Head Inn and Arthur led the way inside. It was unchanged: several tables of rough-hewn wood, perhaps more battered than they had been many years ago, wooden benches, several animal heads mounted on the walls and above the fireplace, a plank laid across two barrels where a buxom, heavy-set woman was pouring mead. Her face was familiar as well and Arthur's mouth twitched at the memory of her calling Merlin a "handsome fellow" and his embarrassed reaction.
At that moment the woman looked up and her eyes fell on the king. A cry escaped her as the pitcher she was holding fell from her fingers with a loud crash, spilling mead across the straw on the floor.
All conversations stopped as the few other patrons turned toward the door to see what Mary was staring at, her face ashen. There were several gasps.
The rural tavern was not a place frequented by nobility, let alone royalty, but Arthur thought their reaction was nevertheless extreme.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Gwaine remarked to the room at large.
Mordred stood with Morgana and Gareth, watching as Owain led their combined troops to meet Camelot and her allies on the plain below. Morgana was dressed for battle, her long hair wound tightly in a single braid down her back, but for now she was content to watch. Beside her, Gareth's hand gripped the hilt of his beautiful sword, his knuckles white. The silver crest with the blue wolf he wore glittered in the sunlight.
A torrent of arrows came from both sides, then the opposing armies blended, swirling together, their headlong rush toward each other slowing as they clashed. A storm of noise swirled up from the plain: running feet on hard ground, steel on steel, shouts, screams of pain.
Mordred could see, far across to the south end of the valley, the white tents of Camelot's camp glowing faintly in the sunlight. Guinevere would be there, watching the battle as they did. He slid a sideways glance at the dragon crouched beside Morgana and eased closer to Gareth between the young man and the monstrous creature. It appeared tame in Morgana's presence but Mordred had seen the size of its teeth when it opened its jaw to spout flame and they were nearly as large as the claws on all four of its feet. Its spiked tail stretched across the ground, as long again as its body length.
Mordred turned his attention back to the battle boiling below. It appeared both forces were of equivalent strength and evenly matched. There would be no quick end to this fight. As he had thought, his shadow shortened and lengthened again as it moved from his right to his left.
Several times, Morgana glanced at the dragon and Mordred wondered if the creature had refused to attack or if it was waiting for some cue from Morgana. Although it would be nearly impossible for the dragon to limit its damage to their enemies alone in the melee below.
Queen Guinevere wiped a forearm across her brow, mopping away the sweat while trying to keep from smearing more blood and gore across her face. The tent behind her was near capacity with wounded. Gwen wondered how Alice kept so calm while moving her aged body quickly from one soldier to another. Daegal looked more haggard than Alice did, although he moved gracefully and efficiently through his tasks. A scream of pain sounded from inside the tent, momentarily piercing the heavy blanket of noise from the battle on the field below.
Clouds were moving in to obscure the sun behind Gwen. A slight breeze swept up the hillside toward her and she welcomed the coolness on her damp brow before the smell hit the back of her throat and choked her. She was about to turn away from the fighting and return to the wounded when a deeper roar of shouting rolled up from below.
From a wooded valley which cut through the hills to the east of the battlefield, a dozen armed knights charged toward the weary combatants on the plain. The new arrivals carried no standard, but the leader had raised his sword, its blade appearing to glow with its own light as well as reflected sunshine. Gwen thought she heard the cry, "For the love of Camelot!" shouted above the noise of fighting.
She put one hand over the heart that had begun racing in her chest. "Arthur."
Leon yanked his blade free of a falling body at the same time as he drove an elbow into whoever was behind him. He breathed heavily and was covered in gore but so far his only wound was a minor slash across his left leg.
The sun had moved from one side of the plain to the other, crossing over the heads of the fighters packed between Camelot's white tents at the south end and the spot where Morgana and her dragon watched from the hill to the north. The shadow of incoming clouds stretched across the field and Leon welcomed the coolness.
In the moment of respite, he took stock of the fighting around him. Camelot's knights and their allies were holding their own against the combined forces of Rheged and the nobles who had sided with Morgana, but there would be no clear winner today. They would continue to slaughter each other until only one soldier was left standing.
Then Leon heard a shout that made him straighten and spin to see a small group of knights, their armour clean and their swords unbloodied, rush in from the east and in the lead …
"Arthur!" Leon exclaimed. A surge of energy went through him at the sight of his king, the ache in his arms faded away, and the knight raised his own blade high into the air with a rallying cry before he led those around him in a renewed charge.
Fresh shouts came from below and Mordred looked down to see a group of red-cloaked knights break from the wooded area east of the plain. He wondered why they had come late to the battle, then his eyes widened as he stared intently at the lead knight whose sword had been raised high above his head as the others followed him into the midst of the fighting.
Mordred heard Morgana gasp. Her face paled, then her eyes grew bright.
"Arthur," she whispered.
Gareth's head snapped toward her. He looked closely at the new arrivals, now engulfed in the battle below, their leader's blade flashing with incredible speed as he cut down opponent after opponent. The young man drew the sword he carried before he sprinted down the sloping ground toward the battle.
"Gareth!" Morgana called.
Mordred whirled to face her. "Whatever happens now will be your doing. You convinced him he is destined to kill Arthur in battle, now that fate will claim all of us." Without wasting further breath, Mordred raced to catch up to the young man, drawing his own weapon as he ran. He thought he heard Morgana's lighter footfalls behind him.
Mordred saw Gareth dive into the fighting, attempting to weave his way through the combatants toward the spot he had seen Arthur. A warrior in boiled-leather armour swung at Gareth from behind. Mordred threw out his hand, sending the warrior flying backward away from the boy.
Then a blade flashed in front of Mordred's face and he quickly brought up his own sword to parry the thrust before his eyes flashed and the other man's weapon flew from his grasp. Mordred ran him through and looked around hurriedly for Gareth. All he could see was a press of bodies and flashing steel blades. He shouted the prince's name but the noise around him was louder than thunder: metal on metal, metal on human flesh, cries of rage and pain.
Mordred pressed forward in the direction Gareth had disappeared.
Gareth dodged his way through the combat around him, intent on finding Arthur Pendragon. The sword in his hand sent a tingle up his arm, power causing it to glow faintly.
He saw a group of red-cloaked knights ahead, their blades flashing with unparalleled speed, a trail of dead and wounded in their wake, and in the lead a knight with gold hair and a golden dragon emblem on his chest. It was King Arthur.
Gareth raised his blade high but at that moment he felt a searing pain in his side.
Gwaine yanked his blade free of the dying man's body and thought sadly of how young the face was. The Rheged soldier wearing the silver crest with the blue wolf could not be much more than a boy.
As the knights cut their way through the press of bodies, Gwaine was unsure who was on what side. Those allied with the red crest of Camelot seemed to be assailed by an assortment of emblems aiding the blue wolf of Rheged. An axe swung at him and Gwaine ducked neatly, driving a fist into the assailant's jaw before he brought his sword around to parry the blow of another enemy soldier.
He heard a high-pitched scream of rage and his eyes fell on a face he knew well.
Morgana's grey-streaked dark hair was tied back in a braid, she was dressed for battle, and she swung her blade skillfully. Her eyes filled with hate as she saw the young soldier fall at Gwaine's feet and she lunged forward.
Gwaine parried her first blow but to his surprise she recovered immediately, dodging his next thrust and bringing her blade swiftly around. He barely blocked her with his own sword before the point of her weapon could bury itself in his chest.
This time he did not relax for an instant, letting her own momentum carry her forward as he drove his blade up under her guard.
Pain replaced the fury on her beautiful face as he twisted his sword and withdrew it. She slid to the ground, her sword falling from her fingers.
Mordred saw a flash of gold among the melee. He recognized the blond head of the king, flanked by a dark-haired knight whose blade was moving even quicker than the king's own and a tall knight who overpowered his opponents with sheer strength as much as skill. Quickly, Mordred scanned the warriors they faced but none were Gareth.
Something shifted beneath Mordred's foot and he glanced down. He stepped away from a fallen body, then gaze eyes fastened on the face of the dead man. Its eyes were fixed on the cloudy sky and blood spread across a silver crest with the blue wolf.
For a moment the sounds, smells, and sight of the battle seething around him faded as if they were a hazy memory Mordred had seen many times before. The sword in Gareth's dead hand glowed faintly, not soiled by blood.
Slowly Mordred reached down and eased the beautiful weapon from the prince's grip. He looked up and his eyes fixed on King Arthur.
The dark-haired knight caught sight of Mordred crouched beside the body of the fallen soldier and stepped between him and the king, weapon at the ready. Mordred's eyes flashed gold and a fallen axe lifted from the ground, hurtling itself through the air at the knight. He moved quickly, but his sword was not enough to block the axe which cut him down.
As the knight fell, Mordred straightened and moved toward Arthur.
Merlin opened his eyes to see the Crystals surrounding him fade from a blinding white glow to the individual sparkles that always made him feel like he was immersed in a starry night sky. The air moved faintly. He had learned to estimate by the smells in the air what century he would be in when he left the Cave. When the roads were filled with machines, the air had a chemical smell which irritated his throat. The times closer to his own century carried the odours of animals and damp vegetation.
He eased himself to his feet, slower now than when he was young, hearing the creak of old bones as he got up. The air had a whiff of forest smell and none of the chemical tang. That meant he would not have to carry so much of the coin that underlay every transaction in the times of machines although travel would be more difficult. It was much easier for an old man to travel in the iron horses than on horseback; easier to mount, too. And fast. Incredibly fast. A person could make several days' travel in the time it took to eat a meal. It was odd to feel a sense of motion and yet your feet were unmoving and there was no horse under you, and sometimes you could not even see what was around as you passed, jammed into a group of people, barely able to draw breath.
But he had seen much of the world, more than he had dreamed existed. Across the water were lands and more lands and all different people, different languages, different clothes, different thoughts about magic. His ability to learn other tongues had been of much use. Sometimes he traveled for years before he returned to the Cave. Then, when he visited the same places centuries later – or before – it would be different again.
Early on, he had wondered if he would meet a younger version of himself or Arthur, but never once had the Cave delivered him to his own lifetime. He had seen the world that followed, good and bad, and he had seen the world before. It had been one of his greatest pleasures to meet and speak with the Druids at the time of their greatest power, before they had hidden themselves and then eventually vanished entirely taking their history and their knowledge with them. It had also been a joy to see Kilgharrah again, although Merlin was chagrined to learn his first meeting with the old dragon had not been the dragon's first meeting with him.
With wrinkled hands, Merlin brushed the dirt of the cave floor from his clothes as best he could, not able to bend far any more. Loose pants and a long cotton shirt served reasonably well in any century, and few in the ancient times took note of the machine-straight hems or smooth weave. The cloth produced by the machines had a nicer feel than the rough wool he had worn in his youth and it was easier to clean. As he grew older what he wore was of less concern to anyone; as an old man he was not expected to be fashionable so he could dress in whatever was comfortable just as the strange things he let slip at times were ignored as ramblings. Even as a young man he found that when he used an aging spell, his elderly appearance gave him freedom to speak his mind. He chuckled to himself at the memory, then the laugh turned into a cough that bent him over. He took a couple of deep breaths that rattled in his chest.
His back creaked as he stood straight. With a steady pace that was sure despite the shuffling stride, his feet knowing exactly where to step, Merlin took the familiar path to the pond. He got his elderly limbs to crouch beside the shallow pool created by water dripping from a leafy shelf above, and winced as a stone dug into his knee. He shifted away from the rock and dipped his hands into the cool water, cupping them to splash clear liquid on his face and beard. He rinsed his white hair as best he could and smoothed it back, then he pushed himself to his feet and looked around.
The forest that surrounded the pond looked much as it had the first time he had seen it, when Arthur had been wounded by an arrow to the back and Merlin had despaired of being able to save his life. The trees were just as thick, the banks just as steep.
Judging that he had arrived at a point during Aithusa's lifetime, Merlin ensured he was alone in the wide, dirt-covered area around the pond and then lifted his head to use the dragonspeak. He could look in the crystals but they were treacherous, showing him pieces of truth but never the whole picture. Information from a dragon was slightly more reliable.
His shout was weaker than in times past, and he found himself coughing again, one hand on each knee until he caught his breath. The air around him swirled, blowing dirt into his face, and he blinked several times before he could look up.
The white dragon looked at him, no taller than he was himself. The horn in the middle of her forehead was shorter than when he had spoken with her a while ago, or a while from now.
"You got smaller," he said.
"You, my lord, got older."
He straightened his spine as much as possible and raised one white eyebrow.
"You should come now." The dragon shook out her wings.
The other white eyebrow went up. "Where?"
"The field at Camlaan," she answered as she lifted into the air.
The whirlwind of her takeoff cut off his reply, and he spit out the dirt that had blown into his mouth and blinked to clear his eyes. She had climbed higher than the treetops that surmounted the rocky walls rising up from the area around the pond. He considered calling her back to explain, then shook his head at trying to get any sense out of a dragon.
As quickly as he was able, he made his way out of the Valley of the Fallen Kings. He was winded and his knees ached by the time he reached the surrounding forest. He picked up a fallen branch long enough to serve as a staff, breaking off the few twigs and using it to lean on as he hurried in the direction Aithusa had disappeared.
The ground sloped downhill, the trees thinned and became shorter, then the smell hit him. He had forgotten the stink of violent human death. He topped the last rise of ground and the entire plain came into view spread in front of him under a sky covered in dark clouds.
The plain had been a wide, grassy expanse, but only a few stiff stalks poked up now among the mass of bodies, the grass shoots outnumbered by arrows embedded in the ground as well as human flesh. Banners were partially propped up by the dead hands which had held them. Merlin recognized most of the crests, including the silver wolf of Rheged and the golden dragon of Camelot. A breeze passed over the field, fluttering the flags and bringing the smell more strongly toward him.
All he had heard and read about Camelot, the stories that had survived – and he knew most of the tales to be false – had all ended in a bloody civil war at Camlaan. Could that part be true? But fate could not be so vindictive as to bring him back to his own time and then show him the end of everything he had worked for. The Cave had never delivered him to a period when people he had known were living. Perhaps this battle had happened after Arthur's death.
Leaning heavily on the branch as a staff, Merlin forced his protesting old body down the slope toward the battlefield. It was as bad as anything he had ever seen: as bad as the piles of bodies during the Black Death, as bad as the dead and dying buried under piles of rubble in a crowded city lit by explosions falling from the sky.
He heard a groan. Moving toward the sound, he saw a head turn slowly toward him, saw the mouth open, but before Merlin could make any attempt to aid the man his eyes went blank.
Merlin continued to pick his way among the dead while his eyes darted around, looking for faces he recognized. His passage disturbed the feasting crows and three of them rose into the air, squawking at him. They settled down again after he passed.
Then his gaze fastened on a knight in red and gold with long dark hair. A rushing sound filled Merlin's ears, blocking out the crows. He knelt beside Gwaine's lifeless form and gently closed the empty eyes.
Not far away a hand lifted into the air. Knowing he could do nothing more for his friend, Merlin used his staff as a prop and ignored the pain in his knees as he got to his feet. He approached the wounded warrior who had hailed him.
A rush of hatred blurred his vision and roared in his ears when he saw her face. Although she was older than the last time he had seen her, she looked much as she always had, her long, dark hair bound in a braid.
"Help me, Emrys. Please."
Her voice was weak, but he did not feel any pity for her in the rush of anger. "Is this really what you wanted, Morgana?"
Her hand dropped and he saw her reach toward the body of a young man wearing the royal crest of Rheged.
"I only wanted what was rightfully mine," she whispered with her last breath.
The sympathy he had not felt at his first sight of her crept over him then, but it was too late to help her. Then his eyes fell on a head of curly, dark hair, the stiff fingers wrapped around the hilt of a sword that glowed faintly. Merlin felt a tingle of power emanating from the beautiful weapon, although its blade was bloody and its tip had broken off. If Mordred had died here …
Merlin was certain his heart ceased to beat. He gasped for breath, looking around frantically. There were none left alive on the field, nor was there any sign of King Arthur. He looked up at the white tents at the far edge of the carnage, the place where Camelot's wounded would have been taken.
At Merlin's approach the guards beside the large, centre tent moved to bar his way. He waved them aside, not blinking at their cries of surprise as they found themselves hurled out of the way by a white-haired old man who seemed like he barely had the strength to lift the staff he carried.
When Merlin entered the tent, Leon and Percival reached for their weapons but Merlin's eyes were fixed on the form laid on the bedding Gwen knelt beside.
"Arthur," he rasped.
The fallen warrior's blue eyes snapped open and his golden-haired head turned in Merlin's direction. When their eyes met, the corners of the king's mouth twitched. "You got old."
In spite of it all a bark of laughter escaped Merlin's throat.
"Merlin!" Gwen's hand trembled where it pressed a cloth to the king's blood-stained chain mail. Her right hand was clasped tightly with Arthur's left.
The two knights stared at the old man who dropped the staff he had been using as he lowered his old body to kneel beside the wounded king.
"How are you feeling?" Merlin laid one hand on the bloodied chest. A tingle of dark magic raced up his fingertips and he snatched his hand away.
Arthur groaned in pain and reached up to lay his right hand on Merlin's shoulder.
Merlin pushed him down again. "Lie back."
"Where have you been?" the king said.
"Everywhere. I'll tell you about it later."
Arthur grimaced. "My side."
Merlin looked at the cloth Gwen was holding against his chest. "You are bleeding."
"That's all right, I thought I was dying."
A choked laugh escaped Merlin and turned into a hoarse cough before a feeling of guilt drowned the spark of joy at hearing his friend's familiar voice. Tears gathered under Merlin's white eyebrows. "I'm sorry. I should have been here, I should never have left."
Arthur's right hand remained on Merlin's shoulder and he gave it a pat. "I should have stayed; I should not have gone overseas; there are many should haves."
A man handed Gwen a fresh cloth soaked in cold water and she gave him the bloodied one in exchange. As Daegal took the dirty cloth away for washing, Merlin's eyes fell on the other people standing at the back of the royal tent. A beautiful dark-haired young woman with brown eyes stepped forward and crouched beside him. She looked only a few years older than when he had last seen her, yet she seemed more mature.
"There is a fragment of sword embedded in his chest," Niniane said.
"We'll use magic to draw it out."
Niniane shook her head and she glanced up at the young man who had been standing beside her. "The blade that struck Arthur is no ordinary blade, It was forged in a dragon's breath."
Erec flushed and nodded. "Aithusa."
"The blade's point is traveling inexorably toward his heart. I tried to stop it but I couldn't."
Merlin remembered the tingle of dark magic he had felt when he touched Arthur's chest; its fatal power would not easily be denied. He wondered if even he could thwart such magic. His gaze met Gwen's tear-filled brown eyes.
"It's too late," Arthur croaked. "With all your magic, Merlin, you're not going to save my life."
Ignoring the king's protest, Merlin gently placed both his hands over Arthur's breast. The tingle of darkness went up through his fingertips again but he refused to flinch this time. He felt for the shard of metal from the powerful weapon. As Niniane had said, it was moving towards his heart, slowly but without pause, with the force of a fate that would not be denied.
Merlin closed his eyes and whispered the words of a spell. Arthur gasped in pain, the progress of the blade's point did not slow. Squeezing his eyes shut more tightly, Merlin tried again. Arthur cried out and Gwen gripped his left hand. The shard continued to inch closer to Arthur's heart.
Merlin's eyes flew open.
Niniane laid a hand over his wrinkled ones. "It was the same when I tried."
Arthur weakly squeezed Merlin's shoulder and gasped for breath. "No more."
"I'm supposed to save you."
"Not this time." The king's breathing was more laboured now. "Morgana?"
"She's dead," Merlin said.
Arthur closed his eyes briefly before his gaze met Merlin's. "Peace at last." Then his lids grew heavy and his hand slipped from Merlin's shoulder.
"Arthur, please, no. Arthur."
Gwen's knuckles whitened around Arthur's left hand.
"Arthur!" Merlin shouted.
The eyes that had begun to close snapped open again.
"Arthur."
Then the king's eyes went blank and deep sobs wracked Gwen. Leon crouched beside her and took her in his arms, his own eyes watering. She leaned against his shoulder, weeping.
Merlin bowed his white-haired head as the tears poured down his face and soaked his beard.
A few days earlier, Camelot had honoured her dead from both sides of the battle, Gwaine among them. Merlin had stood with Leon and Percival until the flames of the pyre slowly died out. Percival left the city shortly after.
But the king's body had lain in state at the citadel while people holding candles filled the courtyard day after day and a procession of royalty filed through to pay their respects. Now the day had come for the final goodbye.
A stiff breeze carrying the damp lake smell snapped at the pennants with a golden dragon on a red background. Clouds covered most of the sky. Merlin stood on the shore apart from the gathered royalty and groups of knights. He ignored the stares and whispered comments at his abrupt reappearance and advanced age.
Erec, Niniane, and Lynette stood to one side of the queen, Leon on her right. Gwen was dressed in her most regal gown of red velvet stitched with gold thread and wore the crown of Camelot on her wreath of braids. Tucked in a fold of her gown, her hand was tightly clenched with Lynette's, but her eyes were dry now as she met Merlin's gaze and gave a tiny nod.
"In sibbe gerest," Merlin whispered and his eyes flashed gold.
The boat in which the king had been laid moved of its own volition into the river and those standing closest jumped back in alarm. Their frightened gazes flicked to the white-haired man standing alone and then away before he caught them looking at him.
Gwen glanced at him again but his throat closed and he could not utter a sound. He dropped his head and the queen turned to the archers waiting by the shoreline. At her gesture, two flaming arrows were sent toward the boat, striking the bow and the stern.
As the burning boat drifted further from shore, Merlin's wrinkled hand squeezed the hilt of the beautiful sword he held loosely at his right side. His thumb caressed the engraving, Cast me aside. He glanced down at the weapon.
His eyes remained fixed on the blade when Erec and Niniane came up bedside him.
"It's my fault," Merlin said softly in his hoarse old voice. "I was supposed to prevent this from happening. I failed." More tears crawled down his lined cheeks.
"I don't think you did," Niniane said. "I think you were meant to stop it from happening too soon, before all you dreamt of building came to pass, before Arthur became the king he was meant to be, before we were free."
"Aithusa said she had to burnish the blade Mordred used, that it was time," Erec said.
Niniane took Merlin's wrinkled left hand in both of hers. "Taliesin said you would return when you were meant to return."
"I was too late."
"You were not too late to say goodbye," Erec said. "Maybe sometimes that's all we can ask for."
Niniane looked at the sword Merlin held, her brow furrowed. "You got rid of the other sword, why not this one?"
"It might be needed again," Merlin said softy, caressing the hilt.
"It is a dangerous weapon," Erec said.
"Yes."
Merlin squeezed Niniane's hands and then let go. When he turned and walked away, the crowd parted to allow him to pass, their eyes on the ground. Hhe could feel their gazes fix on his retreating back.
He made his way alone to the hidden shore of the Lake of Avalon, the gateway to the land of the dead. On the shore he again looked down at the beautiful weapon as his withered fingers squeezed the hilt. Slowly, he lifted the blade up in front of his face, turning it this way and that, watching sunlight flash along its length as it had that day in the clearing when Arthur pulled it from the stone. Then, as Merlin had done once before, he hurled the sword with all his strength toward the lake.
Before it could splash into the water this time, though, a hand reached up to catch it by the hilt, holding it straight, blade pointed at the sky. The same arm which had once brought him that sword from the bottom of the lake. As he watched, Freya's hand disappeared beneath the surface of the water taking the sword with her.
End
Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and favourited. I appreciate every one, no matter how long since i originally posted. I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.