15. Shattered dreams

Lancelot found it easier than expected to blend in with the Knights of Camelot. A quick smile from Leon, a nod from Gwaine and that was it; end of story.

Granted, the fierce fighting left no room for anything else. Alined's forces had now begun their attack in earnest and the lower town, as anticipated, fell quickly.

Gruesome as it was, the situation should have been familiar to the man who once had been Camelot's finest champion after the Pendragons but at the same time, so much was different.

Albeit in the thick of things with the majority of his men, Lancelot felt strangely separated from the situation.

Weird. Weird indeed. In spite of being surrounded by men wanting nothing else but to cut him down, although his blade found its victims with every blow, Lance's thoughts were many miles away and yet, in a way he was back like he'd never been gone.

As if his marriage to Alaine, a mockery from the start that had quickly, disastrously turned into a catastrophe, was just a nightmare. A spectre, terrifying at night, gone at the first light of day.

But it was not. What others would call his good fortune; what he called a fall into hell in the disguise of a march through heaven's door, was very real.

"For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul?" Lancelot had a bitter taste in his mouth as he grinned at the memory of his confessor's good-bye. Surely the man had chosen this phrase for a farewell on purpose.

Indeed, a growling yet helpless Arthur had added Erec's possessions to the former fiefdom and now the Baron du Lac had a vast estate to govern, a fortune to squander, hundreds of men at his command, a beautiful woman who'd adore him if only he'd let her – and Lancelot would leave it all and forget it all for one single moment of the past.

Of the times in which he had been young. His purse had been empty and his life had been full. Of hope. Of love. Of friendship.

Nothing was left. His love had turned sour, it had cost him the friendship and the respect of a King and with these, all hope had gone to hell.

Lancelot loathed Arthur and Arthur loathed him, nothing would ever change that. The barely constrained disdain in the Royal's face had burned his way into Lance's stomach, into his chest when he'd been face to face with his King today.

If Arthur had dared to forego du Lac's hundred knights and soldiers, Lancelot would never have made it through the gates before being kicked out like a dirty rat, of that he was sure.

With grim resolve Lancelot grabbed his sword in a firmer grip. So much the better if he was a pain in Arthur's arse, it made his real task in Camelot so much pleasanter to fulfil.

Because, today Sir du Lac wasn't here to help his one time friends or King.

He had come to ensure that Lord Erec, far away in exile but eager to see the Pendragon rule destroyed, would get all the intelligence he needed.

As Erec had said: "Some men are chosen to preach the Lord's word in peace to enlighten mankind and others are chosen to preach with sword and fire for God's greater glory."

The days in which Lancelot had questioned the logic of this very individual interpretation of the Gospel were way in the past. He believed – had to believe, wanted to believe – that Erec was right. Magic had brought Arthur to the throne, magic held him there and without this unholy pact with the powers of Satan, Uther's son would be exposed as the fraud he was.

To the people and knights of Camelot.

To Merlin who'd so quickly abandoned his friend Lance when Arthur had snapped his fingers.

To Guinivere.

And to the son she'd born to Lancelot du Lac, the son who'd one day see that Arthur Pendragon could not hope to hold a candle to his real father.

For Galahad, Lancelot's son, would become King and he would be remembered for all time as the great man who brought Albion to the true faith. The shining light of Sir du Lac's only son, of the once and future King, would be a beacon of hope for generations to come.

With every thrust of his blade, every cut, every scream from one of Alined's men, with the stench of blood, the turmoil of battle Lance suddenly felt restful. He'd come to the right place at the right time, to work for his God, for his exiled Lord and for his son.

Everywhere around him dead bodies piled, men moaned and begged for help, for mercy – unheard and unheeded whilst fresh flesh ran into the slaughterhouse, their eyes seeing and yet blind, their ears hearing and yet deaf.

Fires broke out. Small ones, bigger ones. Who cared? If houses would burn and people would perish – in this moment the flames conveniently illuminated the battlefield.

Somewhere in Lance's back a horn called and Leon grabbed his shoulder: "RETREAT! To the Citadel's walls."

In the blink of an eye Camelot's men fell back in one great, fast movement and the second the Citadel's outer gates were slammed shut into the assaulting enemies' faces even Lancelot heaved a sigh of relief.

However, relief did not last long.

At first, for several hours, it appeared possible to fend the attack off.

Arthur was seemingly everywhere at once. Unbelievably he led two successful counter attacks against Alined's troops who threatened to break through the outer fortifications.

But then their luck ran out and the scales were turned.

It began as a low, dark growling in the earth beneath their feet. It became louder and louder, until the very walls, Camelot's powerful, unbreakable walls, began to tremble.

The first lightning hit a group of ten soldiers on the eastern wall from a clear night sky in which the stars shone indifferently on their burning corpses.

Again and again and again lightning struck at random, inside the fortifications, on the walls, in the open yards, women, children, soldiers alike. No one daring enough or forced by circumstances to be outdoors was safe.

Casualties poured in until Gaius and Alice had to send people away as they could not staple the wounded like casks, one on the other. Some of the young healer apprentices fell down where they stood, crying, screaming. Terrified and utterly exhausted.

And still lightning crashed down and thunder rolled deafeningly while the bloody, murderous struggle of men and swords went on and on, unceasingly.

Both Arthur and his knights, Lancelot included, watched a huge, dark cloud build up in the sky. Black, vicious looking, unnatural.

As the first strong gusts of icy wind hit the shuddering defenders they all knew that the writing was on the wall.

Somewhere out there, safely behind the attacking forces' backs, a group of sorcerers had begun their work on Camelot. Through all the crescendo of war and nature running wild shreds of their chanting could be heard, as their spells were at the very core of the attack now.

Little did the defenders know that they were facing what Morgana and Merlin had experienced in Ealdor and if they had known the knowledge would have been useless.

It was the Isle's ancient power, unleashed against a fragile house of fragile people who had nothing to counter this assault. All their bravery, their passion and their fierceness came to nothing against an enemy who killed them from afar, who never saw their faces, who never heard them scream.

Lancelot grinned wildly, madly. Where was Arthur's grandeur, now that magic, his precious, devilish magic, turned against him? Where was Merlin, where Morgana, now, as the worst came to the worst? Cowering in some corner, praying for deliverance, spitting their hearts out in some loo for fear for their miserable lives?

In this moment of vengeful mirth Lance was beyond caring or fearing, no thought of his task, not even of his son, could touch him. Death would come but it would come as a friend, soothe all pain, end all troubles in one single moment of honour and glory.

It was a good day to die if it brought about his enemies' downfall by the very same spirits they had cited.

Leon and Gwaine, who had no idea what he was thinking, glanced at him furtively, shyly, whenever the battle gave them a split second to breathe. To them, Lancelot, his hair flogged by brutal storm and lashing rain, looked like a warrior from the old legends. Bigger than life. A Berserk.

Indeed du Lac's sword mowed through the assailants' rows like a reaper would bring down the grain. Methodically but thoughtless. Almost frivolously.

All the knights and men of Camelot exceeded themselves that day, that night although they knew they were doomed. The answer to Arthur's long-standing battle cry "for the love of Camelot" was thinner and thinner every time but it did not fall silent. Like the magicians' chanting it could still be heard over all the turmoil.

Until the walls stopped trembling and started shaking as the ground erupted under their feet.

With wide eyes, disbelieving, the defenders watched the outer walls collapse in three places at once.

Howling with triumph Alined's forces stormed the Citadel's outlying premises as the stronghold's first line of defence broke down, then, fifteen minutes later, the second.

Now a minor ring of almost unfortified walls, more thought to support buildings and separate the inner housings from the outer farm buildings and work-sheds than to defend the place was all that stood between the fugitives, the wounded and the servants inside the castle and the attacking troops, crazed by the frenzy of war.

It was in front of these walls where Arthur and his men made their last stand.

It was in front of these walls where reality caught up with Lancelot du Lac and tore him out of his stupor.

He looked around.

Ruins burning, people still screaming, heaven knew where and for whom. Men plundering, killing everyone who still moved, right and left, while they pressed forward. Forward to the biggest prize of all.

The Royal Citadel of Camelot was about to fall and each and everyone inside would die.

The Isle of the Blessed would come into power and after this day no King, no Prince, no man in all Albion would dare oppose them, ever again.

Two buildings were still standing in the area outside the inner walls. As Lancelot watched them, suddenly tired to the bone, they were both struck by blinding strokes of lightning.

Slowly, almost graciously, the two towers of the Old Religion's Temple and the Christian Church sank to the ground. Together. Like two friends, walking hand in hand.

Briefly Lance thought that this should mean something to him. But he didn't know what.

"For the Gods' sake, man, WAKE UP!"

Arthur's voice. Authoritative. Demanding. Ruthless.

As Lance's brain quitted service old reflexes took over and he snapped to attention.

Not a second too early.

Again he found himself in the centre of a violent struggle, again he wielded his sword like a machine, thinking of nothing but of the next thrust, the next blow, the next man to kill.

But a part of him had also come to watch the young King by his side. Excalibur, with a will of its own, danced in the air, sparkling, seemingly untouchable.

In the early days of earth, when angels had still walked on her soil, their swords must have been like this one.

A blade not made for mortal hands.

And yet the young Pendragon King wielded it as if it was a part of his body. Arthur's clothes were torn, his fatigue was visible, the bones in his wrists stood out as if they'd break through the skin every moment.

For hours he'd been fighting, always in the first line, always taking the brunt of the assault. Now four, five men attacked him at once.

They couldn't get through to him.

Not a scratch. Not one bruise. Nothing.

Untouchable, like his blade.

For the first time Lancelot noticed the sheath at Arthur's belt.

He'd never seen it before.

Through the blood and the dirt that covered it the embroidery still shone where light flickered over it. Signs, runes, an intricate pattern that seemed to whisper.

A sword to fight the impossible fight. A sheath to cover blade and man alike.

A piece of art and magic that had written one name all over it.

Merlin.

Suddenly, without knowing from where the thought came, Lance felt his heart stop. A life for a life, even he knew that and, all of a sudden, the fact that he hated all magicians slipped his mind, just like that. "Arthur, where is he? Why isn't he at your side?"

The King didn't hear him as Excalibur's murderous dance went on.

Lance couldn't remember that, just a moment ago, he'd been looking forward to Merlin's demise. "Damn you what have you done to him?" It was the only question that still mattered. How far would Arthur Pendragon go to protect himself? What sacrifices would he demand? Like Lance Merlin had trusted his King. Like Lance he'd been betrayed, abandoned, sacrificed …..Poor, trusting idiot, poor innocent Merlin….

A loud scream, a roaring triumphant howl and some hundred metres away, near the south gate, a part of the last walls collapsed and gave way to the intruders.

Barely a minute later, Arthur and his men found themselves alone.

Greedy for the spoils of victory, tired of the dangerous and much less lucrative fight against Camelot's best warriors, the attackers ran off towards easy victory and lots of prey.

Without thinking Leon and the others ran after them. Lance, equally headless, wanted to follow when Arthur stopped him in mid-stride. "Don't!"

"What the hell? Let me go!"

"The rest of your men are still inside the Citadel. Take them and get the children out of here. There may still be time! Go through the vaults, Alice knows the way."

Flabbergasted, Lance gawked at Arthur. "What….?"

"That's an order, Sir du Lac. Margaly and Galahad are with Dame Alice, in the healers' seminar. Take them to Guinivere and join forces with the Branguards. Blast you, move your ass!"

"I don't….? You really want….. you want me to take my son with me?"

For a split second Lance was sure he was a dead man. Stupidly he wondered how it would feel, to be cut in halves by Excalibur's magical blade. Would it hurt?

Yet the moment came and went. The King's face was blank of all emotion again. "If you think you or any other Christian will survive the Isle's victory for long, think again. Neither Armand, nor Morgause, nor Alined will forgive what Marke did to Tristan and Iseult, they have too much to gain if we all are crucified for the one stupid act."

And still, Lance was rooted to the spot while precious seconds ticked away, unused. "But ….. your daughter…. Why shouldn't Merlin or Morgana...?

"Almighty Gods, don't you get it?" Arthur screamed despairingly. "Look around you, Camelot is crumbling! Do you think they'd let that happen?" Violently he pushed Lance round. "They're dead, fallen whilst defending Ealdor against Morgause's men, magician killed magician, now are you content? Now GET LOST!"

Before Lance could say anything, Arthur was gone. Just once Excalibur shone through the hurly-burly, then night swallowed both enemy and defender.

Du Lac was still dumbfounded. Merlin…. dead?

"That must have cost him" Gwaine's dry, cynic voice remarked in Lance's back, nodding towards where Arthur had vanished. "He loves little Galahad, madly, heaven knows why. Well, I think it doesn't matter much once they've cut him to pieces. Shall we go?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Making sure you're not being neglectful of your duties My Lord. Like, forgetting Princess Margaly. Or thinking twice about things once you've seen your little bastard. He's not all a Prince should be, you know? Forgive the King for not telling you earlier!"

Finally, and with a vengeance, Lance's brain resumed its duty. Arthur would die. Camelot would fall. All that was left were two little kids and their mother. A hundred miles the convent where Guinivere had taken refuge was. There might still be time…..

He turned and ran. Gwaine rolled his eyes and followed.

It took them ten minutes to reach the seminar through the gardens, from the backside, while the enemies already approached the front. From somewhere, Gaius had come, he stood outside, talking, yelling.

Lance thought he'd die every second.

Suddenly a commanding voice cut through the turmoil. "Go back. Leave the seminar alone! By pain of death!"

Behind the drunken, brutish soldiers, in raging thunderstorm and rain and lightning, Armand of Morgwyn had appeared, ready to take the day.

Momentarily Lance and Gwaine were frozen in place. In the full attire of his rank, barely able to keep his huge black, foaming beast of a prancing battle horse in check, his blades bloodied and his eyes shining gold with magic as he drove the attackers off, the High Master was a sight that could intimidate even the strongest soul.

In this very second another violent upheaval of the ground under their feet caused further panic in- and outside the seminar.

Gwaine hit Lance's shoulder and the spell broke, quickly yet furtively they entered the seminar and with a sting of joyful surprise, between all the fearful people running to and fro, they both recognized Alice in a corner, a terrified and somehow yet fascinated looking Margaly in one arm, Galahad in her lap.

She, too, recognized the two newcomers and silently she rose, offering the two children to them. "I promised Arthur, but I can't leave Gaius, come what may. Take them to their mother. The Gods bless you for it."

Gwaine didn't ask or talk back. He lifted Margaly, pushed the small living bundle of a boy into Lance's arm and off they were, cross the yard, towards on of the Citadel's servants' entrances and to the vaults.

It seemed to take them an eternity. There was no sign of Lance's men, but Gwaine hadn't expected anything else. Not even Arthur could've kept up order once the enemy had entered the inner, most vulnerable regions of Camelot.

Inside the palace, people screamed and tried to hide. Or to find their loved ones. Some clinging to some last precious possessions, gold necklaces for the one, a broken doll for the other. Nobody cared about two dirty, exhausted men with children in their arms.

Nobody but one.

"Margaly" the sturdy woman shouted as Gwaine found the stairs to the vaults. "My little Princess!"

Gwaine was quick of the mark, as a rule, but now even he took a moment before he recognized the landlady of his favourite ale house in the lower town.

Knights, Princesses, Barons, it was all the same to Minnie. Decorum had never been her forte, and her much tamer husband who'd followed her upstairs wasn't asked for his opinion.

Round she turned, downstairs again, pushing every possible obstacle aside, noble or otherwise, while they ran and ran. Like a siege weapon, Minnie pushed their way through the people who packed even those deeper layers of what once had been a splendid Royal Court.

Neither of the fugitives needed any words. Peasant or knight, all four of them knew it to be madness, trying to escape with two little kids through woods and villages and roads swarming with enemies in every direction.

The Blessed Isle would know that, the Branguards being believers in the Old Religion or no, the fight for Camelot would start afresh if Margaly made it to Angus' and Malcolm's welcoming arms alive. With Arthur and Morgana dead, the little Crown Princess would become Queen and Guinivere regent during her infancy. With both Royals in their keep, nothing would stop the Branguard brothers from fighting for their piece of the cake ferociously.

Armand of Morgwyn would curse the day he'd forced a most reluctant Pendragon King and Queen to make Angus Branguard the Baron of Ravenclaw!

As a consequence, come morning, every man jack of the enemy force would be out, searching for Margaly and Galahad, but who would look for the two Royal kids in the cellars of an ill-famed ale-house, behind the empty casks?

They reached the vaults' entrance, luckily, miraculously without any company. The escape route had always been a secret to which only a few were private, Gwaine being one of them, because of Merlin's indomitable trust in him.

The vaults seemed endless, the more so as Gwaine meticulously closed and locked all doors behind them. The deep cellars and their walls, metres thick, swallowed all sounds from the outside world. Minnie now carried her adored Margaly, her husband, in the wake, did his best to clean away all traces.

At last, the exit was in sight. Surprisingly both children were silent. Gwaine climbed up the ladder, unbolted the heavy wooden trap door in the ceiling and squeezed it open. Cautiously he stuck his head out to have a peep at their surroundings.

All was quiet in the meadow outside. The nearby rivulet gurgled softly. A bird or two chirped in their sleep. Somewhere a cow mooed.

Perfect, tranquil peace.

"Stay back" Gwaine hissed as Lance wanted to squeeze his way out, a – could one believe it? – sleeping Galahad in his arms.

"We must get out of here" du Lac whispered back angrily. "What are you waiting for?"

"Are you deaf, man? Don't you hear it?"

"What? There's nothing, not a sound!"

"Exactly. We are but three hundred metres away from the outer fortifications. There was a war on when we left, remember? And the mother of all storms! Shouldn't we be able to hear something?"

"I don't care. We're much safer in the woods. I say its ten metres from here to the tree line through open meadow. Do you want to wait for the moon to hold Armand a candle?"

"Lance, it is way too quiet for my taste!"

Right on cue, something stirred in the bushes on their right. Once. Twice.

A figure emerged from the brushwood by the wall.

Helmet closed.

Sword in hand.

And now, when thinking or debating was no longer an option, Gwaine and Lancelot acted as one. Minnie's husband found himself with a baby boy in his hands, as both knights, swords drawn, attacked the enemy.

The foreign warrior shouted something, but it couldn't be heard over Gwaine's and Lance's loud battle cries.

In the knights' backs, Minnie and her man climbed out of the vaults and made for the forest, for their dear lives and for the kids'.

They reached the tree line and felt safe for the first time since it had all begun.

Minnie, always practical, thought of home, of sleep, of barricades for their doors, warm milk for the kids and of what might be a reasonable price to charge for beer if one had to deal with an occupation force. After all one had to live, hadn't one? And they were four now, at least for the time being.

By the way, she had to talk to her sister-in-law, stupid bitch, but useful. She was young and she had been abroad. The kids could well be hers, could they not? Fruits of sin, taken in by the ever so pious, unselfish Minnie-the-saint. There, that should satisfy all nosy eyes and ears as well as boost business. Couldn't leave the little lambs behind some empty casks for all eternity, could one?

That was how far Minnie's deliberations had come when she was cruelly torn out of her peaceful thinking by two rough arms grabbing hers. She yelped and tried to hold on to Margaly but the child was wrenched out of her arms. By Minnie's side, her husband lost hold of Galahad.

Minnie saw red. She grabbed a branch and went for the nearest attacker. She hit him, back, shoulders, head, hip, wherever she could get through. The man danced around her, desperately trying to avoid her whirling club.

His comrade screamed something at the enraged woman which she neither understood nor heeded. When the man reached out for her, she turned and tried to fend him off. The soldier, hampered by the struggling child he held, tried to back off. Instinctively he raised his arms over his head.

It was the moment in which Minnie's foot slipped and she stumbled forward. Her arms beat the air as she fought for balance. The club came down with brutal force.

The crack with which Margaly's little skull broke was the most horrible sound Minnie had ever heard.

The blow from behind that sent her to oblivion she didn't even feel.