16 Pits of hell

Arthur had lost sight of Lance and Gwaine almost the moment he had joined Leon in the pursuit of the enemy soldiers towards the inner castle yard.

For all he knew the King yelled for his knights for the very last time ever to rally to him. As it was, his 'to me' and 'for the love of Camelot' reached a lot of ears deafened by death already.

In the end, Arthur, Leon and eight other knights, the last they could find anywhere near and on their feet, didn't make it to the inner yard. They reached the last intact pieces of the small battlements where they were apprehended by an enemy force that vastly outnumbered them.

The King and Leon exchanged one last glance before they were lost in the fighting. While the ground was still rocking under their feet, the storm raged and flames still roared all around them in spite of the rain pouring from a black, starless sky, Leon knew what was expected of him. Under no circumstances Arthur could be taken alive.

Quickly, much faster than they'd thought possible, they both stood back against back, knowing that their fight was almost over. With a loud roar, Leon pushed his opponent back, gained some space for manoeuvre, turned, raised his blade against his own King and laid all his remaining strength in one last blow.

Arthur saw the sword come down on his head as he looked at the clear sky. No cloud covered the moon, the stars were bright, the night was calm. It would be a fine morning, the dawn that saw the final fall of Camelot. He closed his eyes. Please, Gods, let it be over. Whatever it takes, as long as it is over, now.

The blow never fell.

The King opened his eyes, his free hand frantically searching for his knife, only thinking of how to kill himself as Leon had let him down.

Nobody tried to hinder him.

Leon, his last two knights still standing, even the handful of enemy soldiers that surrounded them, all stared, paralysed, at the events unfolding before their very eyes, on the main part of the battlefield in front of Camelot's collapsed outer walls.

Belatedly Arthur registered that the storm and rain were gone, the earthquake vanished and that all fighting had ceased.

Where the sorcerers had been whose chanting had brought about Camelot's fall, something like a wave of air, huge, metres high, inescapably built up behind the enemy's front line. This cloud did not fall from heaven, it rose from the ground, born not from air but from earth itself. Black, thick, lethal, always growing.

Distant thunder was audible while anyone held their breath.

The earth trembled again, yet slightly.

Suddenly, people started screaming again. But not inside Camelot. The screaming sounded from behind the enemies' back.

"Run" the leader of the enemy soldiers next to Arthur whispered. Then he yelled it, hysterically "RUN!" and now they were all in full flight, friend and foe alike, headless, senseless., running until they could run no more; they stumbled on bricks or other rubbish, over each other, even over their own swords. Sooner or later they all fell down to the ground.

Instinctively, Leon threw himself on Arthur when he fell, burying him under his body, covering him from anything that was about to come. Arthur struggled, but Leon held him down as best he could.

The thunder, a completely different sound than that of the storm before, was closer now, closing in on them, hunting them. Leon let go of his blade, wrapped his legs around the still frantically kicking younger man and covered both their heads with an enemy shield he'd grabbed. The best bet was, its owner had no further use for it.

A torrid hot gust of wind singed his back and Leon screamed in shock. The maelstrom's wake threatened to pull him off the ground. It robbed him of his breath, he choked and spat. Dust, sand and dirt caulked his nose and mouth and he fought for air. With all his might he clung to the piece of wall at his left side. Without its feeble protection, they'd both be doomed.

All around him people – if it were human voices – howled and whimpered in unbearable torment.

And then it was over.

All was quiet.

Leon waited. Waited for what hell-spawn their sorcerer enemies would conjure up now. Underneath him, Arthur was panting heavily. "Leon..."

"Shh! Quiet!" The knight pressed his hand on Arthur's mouth. Better, far better no one knew the King was alive. Perhaps they could just vanish in the wreck and ruin while anyone was still stunned by whatever had hit them.

Nothing happened. All stayed quiet. No one stirred.

One minute, three, five, then ten.

Finally someone moved a bit. Another moaned softly. One man tried to rub his eyes clean. All were dazed, their movement slow, tentative.

Slowly the last dust settled; the dried leaves, the torn rubbish that had come with the wind, all travelled softly back to the ground, undisturbed. All fires were gone. Only the moonlight shone on the scene of devastation.

Leon's gaze followed those of the men around him – friend, enemy, the difference seemed meaningless all of a sudden.

"Arthur" Leon stammered "Arthur, look at that." The knight pulled his King to his feet, pointing upwards, at the sky.

There, directly above Camelot's main tower, the fiery sign of a gigantic golden dragon glowed among the stars, while the magnificent Great Dragon himself was circling above the castle, screaming his own, glorious battle cry.

For a moment Arthur just stared, too shocked to react. Then, abruptly, he broke free from Leon's hand and climbed back to the top of the wall.

Leon followed him hastily, anxious that some lunatic last minute's action might bring the young King down.

However, there was no enemy.

Where Alined's and the Isle's main forces had been, the fields outside Camelot were levelled. Flattened, with a thick, shimmering dark crust on it as far as the eye could see. Like a frozen black sea, congealed in the very moment it threatened to flood the area. Far off, where the enemy's train would have been, some people apparently moved about but otherwise – neither thing nor man nor beast could be beheld. Whatever had hit them out there, it sure had left no survivors.

As Leon slowly comprehended that he was looking at the burying place of a whole army it also occurred to him that Arthur would be visible, in fact dramatically staged against the full moon in his back, with Excalibur glowing in his hand, a tantalizing goal for anyone who cared to look. Or shoot. "Sire, please..."

That was when Leon saw the first of the wretched men who aimlessly skulked through what was left of the small yard behind them, sank to his knees. "The dragon" the man suddenly shouted. "See the golden dragon. It's a sign, a sign from God!"

Others took up those words, until everyone said them, shouted, muttered, wept them. People pointed at the fire sign in the sky and at the golden dragon on Arthur's tunic, still visible though the shirt was torn. At Arthur's head shimmering golden in the unnaturally bright moonlight, at the golden dragon on the frayed banners that flapped in the now gentle breeze.

Leon had worried about Arthur's safety for nothing.

The King walked through the pack of people as unmolested and safe as a child would walk through the ranks of a benevolent family. Adored, worshipped, idolized. People tried to reach his hand, kiss his coat, whatever they could get hold of. They murmured his name, begged his forgiveness, asked for his blessing even. Leon saw many an enemy uniform under all the grime and rags of battle, but nobody seemed to mind that at all.

In a state of total, mindless exhaustion, Arthur just walked on. He appeared neither to see nor to hear what was happening around him. Like a sleepwalker, he just walked on and on, one step after another, let people around him do as they pleased, as long as he could walk on.

Slowly but surely men with the Camelot dragon on their clothes and swords joined their King on his way, swords drawn, just like Leon, treading softly, silently walking through the crowd, like dreamers. Knowing by some atavistic instinct that, if the rapture would go, if the awe would vanish, these same people would turn on them and tear them all to pieces.

All the time, the fire dragon glowed through the night.

It was a short walk before they reached the inner yard and Leon now guessed where Arthur was going – the healers' seminar. Where he had left his children.

The moment Arthur reached the open space in the yard's centre the crowd pushed back, yelping with fear, for the Great Dragon had left his position over the castle and landed in front of Camelot's King.

Arthur stood very still, oblivious of any danger. There was an obstacle in his way and if he took a moment to rest, to think, he would find a way around it, soon enough. Then he could walk on, which in fact was all he really cared about.

Khilgarrah folded his wings and straightened his back until he reached his full height. Then, unbelievably gracefully for such a tall beast, he bowed his head in front of the King down to the ground.

All people present held their breath. It was utterly quiet, until one, big roar of exaltation echoed from the walls.

For many years to come people told their kids and grandchildren of what the Great Dragon had said to the King in this moment, and what the King had said, and how it had been a glorious moment, and all the crowd had cheered "Hail, Arthur, Hail to the King of Camelot!" The banners had flown in the wind, proud and erect, the knights had sworn their undying allegiance to their King and Arthur Pendragon, wise and sage, the King of Destiny, had allowed them all to rise and told them all that they were dear to him, like his own children, and that no harm would come to them or anyone in Camelot, ever again. And so it had been, and they had all lived happily ever after and there had been a huge feast at the King's expense, with food and wine for everybody.

But then, only a bright story warms the heart when the presence is cold and prospects are bleak.

On the actual occasion, things were slightly different.

The crowd surged forwards again, cheering like mad "Hail Arthur, hail the King of Camelot", but there ended the legend's truthfulness. The knights, only two or three pitiable handfuls of them almost toppling over with tiredness, did their best to keep their King safe from the madly pressing mob. However, Khilgarrah's roar and his spitefully bared teeth did more for Arthur's safety than all their swords.

Arthur, for one, realized belatedly whom he was talking to. "Where is he?" he asked the Great Dragon. "Will they come back?"

The Dragon had no need to ask who 'he' or 'they' were. "I'll come to you" he said to Arthur, already lifting up from the ground. "I know I will."

Overawed, people saw the Dragon's departure. Slowly the fire dragon in the sky faded away.

Clueless as to what should happen now, what was going to come next, people started to look around. At each other, some with regained hostility. Some at their surroundings, remembering why they had originally come.

But most people stared at the young blond man in the centre.

"Talk to the people, Sire" Leon urged, who more felt than heard the crowd stirring restlessly all around them. It was a dangerous moment.

"Oh, well. I think you are right" Arthur replied, as if he was in his throne room, discussing tomorrow's banquet, and Leon froze with fear that it had all been too much for his young sovereign. That he had just snapped and that in the next moment, everyone would see he had.

Again, Leon worried over nothing.

A lifetime's habit was stronger than conscious thought when Arthur climbed on the next available pile of rubbish from which he could be seen and raised his sword. As always, Excalibur gleamed mysteriously in its own light. Again, the crowd murmured in renewed awe. "People of Camelot" Arthur shouted, and the crowd fell silent, satisfied. This was the natural development of things. Once miracles had started, the show had to go on, and it was the inborn responsibility of the man in the centre of these miracles to provide the necessary solution and seal to this night of all nights. They demanded it of a King. They were entitled!

"People of Camelot" Arthur shouted again. "We have seen great wonders on this day. Heaven has protected us, and shown us great mercy, in delivering us from the hand of our enemies. All good powers have rallied to our banner, encouraged by your bravery, your perseverance and your good faith. What has been destroyed will be rebuilt. What has been taken away, will be regained. What has been lost will be reclaimed. We carry in our hearts the grieve and mourning for those who are no longer with us and it is our responsibility to see to it that they did not give their lives for nothing. Together, as friends and as compatriots, we will build a new future from the wretched past. Where hatred ruled, reconciliation will bring peace. For Albion. For all of us. For the love of Camelot!"

Arthur let his arms sink. With a last effort, he refrained from a hysteric chuckle in front of anyone. How his almost shut down brain had come up with the exact recall of this nice little piece of politics-by-hot-air was beyond him. To think that this had been the speech Morgana had originally prepared for herself, when she had still thought she and her sorcerers would take Camelot from Uther, to drive out every Christian and magic-hater in the land, to people it with magicians and Druids alone.

The crowd knew nothing of that. Once more they were mad with enthusiasm, and, as nobody hindered them, found their way to the thin ale as well as to heaps of food and other storages. With that, people were busy enough until their bodies demanded their right and they fell asleep wherever they stood.

One of Camelot's three surviving guard officers was bright enough to summon a few guard soldiers to protect the vaults with the wine or stronger spirits by telling anyone that these cellars were the lepra quarters of the healers' seminar. Collateral damage of the victory-turned-armistice-turned-reconciliation-party was thereby limited.

Not that, outside the palace, there was much left that could be further damaged.

Arthur's further walk was another bath in the exalted crowd until he and Leon finally caught up with Gaius in front of the seminar. "The kids are on their way out through the vaults" the healer said urgently, anticipating Arthur's question. "Lancelot and Gwaine are taking them."

Arthur nodded, turned on his heel, pointed at two soldiers lurking in the entrance of the infirmary for a chance to have some minor battle wounds treted, to follow him and was off.

"Your Majesty" Leon called out. "What shall we..."

"For the Gods' sake, use your loaf for once, Leon" Gaius hissed angrily. "Leave him alone, we know what to do. And I am, correct me from wrong, at present the highest ranking Council Member after you."

"Thanks for the 'after you'" Leon muttered, admitting only to himself that he was utterly relieved to have the old, shrewd healer by his side. Together they pulled out every man jack they could find in the madly feasting, cheering, laughing crowd who wore anything resembling a Camelot uniform and an at least partly clear head on his shoulders, to keep up some last shred of order in the wilderness.

As to the presumed remnants of the enemy army outside town and citadel, there was nothing that could be done but hope that devastation and despair was big enough to keep the enemy at bay at least until morning.

It didn't need the visible proof of the shambles of an emergency crew Leon and Gaius were able to assemble to tell the knight that Camelot had been victorious at the price of being almost completely bled out.

Therefore, Leon and Gaius just looked at each other helplessly when hard hooves beat the badly battered drawbridge – though, that anyone should trouble himself with using the bridge while Camelot's battlements lay in ruins on two of the citadel's four sides was not very logical.

However, the next second brought clarity on that.

Perhaps Malcolm Branguard, Lord Saltyre, would take a path through stones and dirt. But for Duke Marke of Cornwall and Malcolm's brother Angus Baron of Ravenclaw, such a thing was unthinkable.

With their grand attire, their fine horses and the well rested, well fed men, the newly arrived Branguard and Cornish forces were a surreal sight in Camelot's shambles.

Marke just stared, his shoulders slouched, at the catastrophic picture.

"Yes My Lord Duke" Gaius thought bitterly. "Your doing. A fine day's work for Christian love and peacefulness, is it not. And all for a young girl's pretty face and an old man's stupidity."

Leon, baffled, had to pull himself together to remember his duty. He reported to both Branguards that the fight inside the citadel was won, the present situation chaotic but safe and that the King would eventually be back to explain everything.

Lord Saltyre, after one long look at the exhausted knight, at the madness around him, and at the miserable soldiers behind Leon, smiled warmly. "Thank you, Sir Leon. I can take it from here. You are dismissed."

"Thank you, My Lord." Leon saluted, turned and ran.

"He has a wife to find" Gaius said. "Your Lordship must forgive him."

"Forgive?" an aghast Angus ranted. "Who's talking about forgiving anything? I mean, look at the place. It's an outrage. Unforgivable, that's what it is. Where's Arthur?"

"Doubtlessly busy" Malcolm said curtly to his brother. "Or do you think he's having a nap?"

Gaius sent a silent prayer to the Great Mother in gratitude for Malcolm Branguard's return. In fact, the healer was so very glad for the support this meant to Arthur that he wasn't in the least bit ruffled when Angus snapped his next question at him in the rudest possible manner: "Where the hell is Princess Margaly?"