Chapter 8: Facing the Enemy

Arthur walked until dusk and then through the night, letting the light of the half-moon and his instincts guide the way. His fingers kept wrapping around the hilt of his sword at any unexpected noise and a couple of times, his mind played tricks on him, conjuring up the silhouette of a knight behind some shadowy bush or tree. It was a draining trek, yet he pushed on, mindful that he could neither afford to slow down nor rest. There would be no miraculous dragon rescue this time, should the Mercians find him again. Besides, he had lost his supplies. He had neither food nor drink nor a bedroll to his name, only the clothes on his back, torn-up and dirtied by his ordeal.

By the time dawn was once more lighting his path, Arthur knew he had to be close to Camelot – unless he had somehow managed to walk in circles. He was exhausted to the bone. His arm was killing him, too, throbbing and burning, in dire need of rest after taking far too many hits from branches and jolts from Arthur stumbling and falling in the darkness. Still, the thought of finally making it home, of finding somewhere safe to rest, kept him going.

When he came upon a stream, he dared to pause for a drink, splashing the cold water into his face to wake him up before he spurred himself on again. His stomach grumbled loudly, gurgling in protest at being filled with nothing but liquid. What Arthur wouldn't give for some dragon-slain meat right now, ill-cooked by Merlin.

The memory made him twist his mouth in something like regret. He had tried not to think too much about what had occurred the day before, but with the first soft rays of sunshine now easing his journey and his mental discipline slipping through sheer exertion, he could not help but ponder on it.

Had he been right in sparing Merlin?

When he had found him after their flight from the Mercians, cowering in those bushes, clutching his knapsack like a shield, momentarily afraid now that he knew of Arthur's true identity, it had been Arthur's final chance to make a move. The boy had been tired from running, clearly scared, probably too out of it to defend himself with his magic. If Arthur had swung his sword as soon as he had set eyes on Merlin, he might have dealt him a deadly blow and be done with the problem.

But he had not, and thus failed his King.

He could argue, of course, that he had still needed Merlin to escape, to cross the river, or that the dragon was nearby and sure to avenge its dragonlord's death, but he knew he would be lying to himself. The simple truth was that he hadn't wanted to kill Merlin, no matter that he was the last dragonlord and a sorcerer. Over the flickering lights of a campfire, Merlin had become something else, something different than the enemy: a son grieving deeply for his father; a brave and kind-hearted boy who wished to do no harm with his magic; a reminder, too, of Arthur's failure to do right by those druid children.

Arthur knew his thoughts were akin to treason. The King's wishes on the matter were unambiguous and Arthur had gone against them. He could only hope that he would never be tested again by meeting Merlin a second time. Arthur could not fathom the outcome if he were forced to make a decision in circumstances that would not allow for any excuses.

Arthur shook his head, chasing away the thoughts. What was done was done. Nobody had to know about any of this, either. Arthur would tell his father that he had accidentally fled into Mercia, hidden away until the worst of his injury had passed, then made back for Camelot. It made for a much more believable tale, at any rate.

Eyes drooping, he stumbled along in the forest, searching for something to orient himself besides the rising sun. By the time Arthur came upon a road, his legs were trembling from exhaustion. But he thought he vaguely recognised the area now. He walked parallel to the road, keeping himself hidden in the bushes until he came upon a moss-covered stone – a boundary marker, used by the Romans to tag their trade routes. Arthur crouched low and rubbed at it, revealing the faded Latin engravings underneath.

He smiled, sagging with relief when he recognised the markings. He was home. Barely, but he had made it past the border.

Boosted by the knowledge, he gathered the last of his reserves to push on, knowing the village of Rodan they had passed on their way could be no further than a quarter day's walk away. He could rest there. Maybe the headman, Bert, would recognise him. Certainly, he would remember the group of knights passing through some days ago, and be willing to send word to Camelot.

Still keeping to the bushes, Arthur stuck close to the road, following its path from a safe distance, only stopping when he heard the distinct sounds of hooves. He immediately ducked low, eyes searching the winding road beyond. From the sound of it, the horses were approaching at a slow pace. Merchants? Bandits? Mercians? Arthur squinted when he saw movement in the distance, daring to show his head a little to get a better look, then his eyes widened.

Red cloaks and shimmering golden drakes – knights of Camelot!

With an un-princely grin breaking on his face, Arthur stumbled into the road, raising his hands to flag down what looked to be a party of eight men. They slowed down as soon as they saw him waving on the road and Arthur's grin widened further when he spotted a familiar head of curly hair amongst his father's men.

It was Leon, too, who recognised Arthur first, in spite of the grime and wear of his journey.

"Your Highness," he exclaimed with warm surprise, and had already dismounted from his horse when the other knights joined in, calling out relieved greetings of their own, with the younger ones letting joyful hoots slip past their lips. "We've been looking for you for days!"

Arthur readily took Leon's proffered arm, hissing when Leon's other hand came to clap against his wound.

Immediately, the knight frowned. "You're injured?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Arthur replied with a dismissive gesture, though he couldn't quite hide the grimace of pain, nor the fact he was in danger of collapsing on the spot like a damsel if he didn't rest soon. He had to make a rather pathetic sight for a prince, all things considered, but he thought he could get away with it, after days of living in the wilderness, with Mercians hot on his heels.

The most senior knight had dismounted as well by then, clearly the leader of the troop.

"Sir Erec," Arthur greeted him with a nod.

The man gave a quick bow of the head. "We are so very glad to see you alive, sire," he replied, appearing well and truly elated as he gave him a once over with keen eyes. "Another search party has been scouring the border further northwest. Sir Leon reported that he saw you escape the ambush. King Uther ordered us not to return until you were found."

Arthur nodded. He had expected nothing less from his father. "How many made it from our hunting party?" he asked with a glance at Leon.

The knight grimaced as he reported, "Apart from myself, only Kay and Lucan are alive, sire."

There was a moment of silence to quietly bemoan the loss of their brothers.

"The Mercians will pay for it," Arthur finally vowed, earning a swell of agreeing murmurs from the other knights, most still mounted on their horses. "What was the King's reaction to the attack?"

"Sent a messenger to Bayard, demanding an explanation and immediate redress," Leon reported.

"He'll respond with a declaration of war, if he bothers replying at all," Arthur stated. "Mercia is out for blood, I know that much."

"Where have you been hiding, my lord, if I may ask?" Erec spoke up again. "We've been searching everywhere. With the Mercians crossing the border, we feared the worst…"

"I got shot with an arrow during the ambush," Arthur replied, twisting the truth a little as he continued, "Had to put down my horse and developed a fever shortly after. I wandered too far when I was looking for shelter, and ended up in Mercia. A troop of Bayard's men almost got me there, wanted to take me hostage, but I managed to flee." He cleared his throat, rubbing at his tired eyes as the knights around him voiced their outrage at his tale. "Made it back into Camelot just this morning. I've been walking through the night…" He trailed off, only just suppressing a yawn. Gods, but now that he had been found, he was flagging in earnest, just about ready to keel over.

"Take my horse, sire," Leon said immediately. "I'll walk to the nearest village and make home from there."

"We could make camp nearby, let you rest up before the journey," Erec suggested.

"No. We should get back to the citadel as fast as we can and report Bayard's activities to the King," Arthur disagreed. "That man is dead-set on starting a war. I can ride double with Sir Leon, at least until we can pick up another horse in a town nearby." He hesitated, then found he didn't need to play tough today and admitted, "I think I might be too beat to hold the reins myself, at any rate."

Erec, for one, certainly didn't seem to judge him for it, chuckling good-naturedly as he responded, "Anyone would be, after your kind of ordeal." He gestured at Leon's horse. "Let's get you home, sire."

Arthur mounted behind Leon to a round of cheerful murmurs from the other men and let himself enjoy their sense of happiness and pride over having found their Prince. They turned the horses around and made for the citadel.

Of course, it couldn't have been so easy. Arthur had hardly settled in behind Leon, shamelessly leaning into him and eyes already half-closing, when more hoofbeats echoed through the forest from behind them.

"The other search party?" Arthur murmured, blinking tiredly over his shoulder.

"Sounds like a lot more than just a handful of knights," Leon replied and there was no mistaking the sudden edge in his voice.

Everyone slowed their horses, some half-turning on the road to get a better look at the approaching group.

Then, a knight exclaimed, "That's– they're wearing blue!"

"Mercians! Looks to be a whole horde of them!" called out another.

"That many, riding straight into Camelot?"

"Are they actually–"

"They sure as all hells don't look friendly!"

"Ride! Go!" Sir Erec ordered loudly, drowning out their disbelieving comments. "As fast as you can!"

They spurred on their horses. Arthur tightened his hold on Leon's back, turning his head to get another glimpse of the enemy. His eyes widened when he saw what looked to be an entire platoon of Mercian soldiers galloping towards them from way down the road, clearly set on attacking them now that they had spotted them, too.

"They're here for me! Bayard's sent a bloody army after me," Arthur exclaimed, raising his voice as the wind whipped past them.

"It's official then," Leon replied grimly, clutching the reins with white knuckles as he urged on his horse. "We're at war."

They rode as fast as they could, but with Leon's horse weighed down by two men, it soon started to lag. The other knights slowed down, too, set on protecting their Prince. The Mercians, in turn, knew they had the advantage, given their sheer number, and, perhaps boosted by the knowledge, were quickly closing in. As they came closer, some of them let out battle cries and taunts. A couple had already unsheathed their swords. There was no mistaking their intentions.

Soon, the enemy was but a few paces away, mercilessly chasing them down the road like predators did their prey, and before long, some of the Mercians had caught up. They split up, flanking them from either side and swinging their swords, eventually forcing Camelot's knights off the main road and on a smaller path up a hill.

"They're herding us," Leon ground out.

"Try to break out!" Arthur returned.

But it was far too late for that. The path they had been forced onto was steep, narrow and winded and once they were at the top of the hill, it ended abruptly. They stopped the horses, realising they were surrounded by thick forest and rocks on both sides, with a steep slope cutting off the way before them. The Mercians had them cornered.

Already, blue cloaks were pouring from the path behind them, Mercian knights howling triumphantly when they saw their predicament. There were at least a score of them on well-bred warhorses, all of them armed and fully armoured.

Arthur glanced at his own men. Camelot's party was not even made up of a dozen men. It would be a massacre, and judging from everyone's grim faces, they knew it, too. The horses were swivelling their ears, pawing at the ground and swishing their tails, picking up on their riders' distress.

In striking contrast to it all, a strange sense of calm suddenly settled over Arthur. Maybe it was a result of his lingering exhaustion warring with the rush of yet another flight, but Arthur almost felt detached watching Sir Erec emerge from their troop to face the enemy leader head-on.

"You're trespassing on King Uther's lands," he called out, though nobody was intimidated by the authority in his voice. Mercia had the advantage, enemy soil or no.

"Are we?" the Mercian returned, unabashed and leering. "Too bad."

Erec scowled. "This is an act of war, Mercian!"

"So it is," the knight replied, unbothered. He turned his head and looked directly at Arthur, making his intentions clear even before he added, "I don't suppose you'll give up the Prince without a fight?"

Everyone drew their swords in response, including Leon, who was sitting up taller on his horse, as if to shield Arthur. Arthur fumbled for his own blade, too, though he knew he wouldn't make it through ten seconds of a fight, unarmoured, injured and completely exhausted.

"Well, then," said the Mercian, almost cheerfully. "We'll just take him by force!"

"For Camelot!" Erec shouted and rode forward.

It was mayhem; horses neighing, blood spraying, men shouting and screaming, and then, Arthur and Leon were off the horse and Arthur already disarmed. Several Mercians had immediately made for them, clearly set on claiming their royal prize. Leon seemed utterly determined to protect Arthur with his life, angling his body to shield him while driving back the enemy with large swings of his sword, letting out angry growls as he fought.

In the face of being so very hopelessly outnumbered, Leon fought well, but couldn't help but be pushed back further and further until Arthur could see they were very dangerously close to the slope. He glanced over his shoulder, realising it was practically a cliff, promising a deadly descent.

"Leon," he said warningly, but to no avail. There was nowhere else to go.

A Mercian knight scored another hit, driving Leon back even further, who stumbled right into Arthur.

Arthur's foot slipped. Instinctively, he raised his arms, desperately reaching for something to hold onto as gravity clawed at him, slowly but surely tipping him backwards and then, Leon slammed into him again, pushing him over the edge with full force.

For a moment, Arthur felt weightless, his vision filled with nothing but blue heavens and white clouds, before he was

falling, the wind whipping past him, his body rapidly gaining speed,

falling, blinking against a shadow momentarily darkening the sun,

falling, seeing it approach him and–

SLAM!

Arthur's whole body lit up in pain as his descent was stopped abruptly by what felt like oversized pincers digging into his torso, sharp and unyielding. His head lolled sideways, banging against something hard, the impact strong enough to almost knock him out. He felt the wind biting at his skin and tugging at his flailing limbs. He was a ragdoll, boneless, helpless, powerless. Somewhere beyond, there were shouts and screams, then a mighty roar and finally, nothing but black darkness as he passed out.

When he came to, he was on the ground, blinking up into Merlin's pale face. His lips were moving, but it took Arthur a moment to hear what he was saying. "—thur? Arthur, are you all right? Arthur!"

"Merlin?" Arthur croaked, then started coughing. It jolted his whole body, pain blooming all over, and he groaned, loudly and momentarily unashamed. Lords, but everything hurt.

"Thank the gods!" Merlin exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, I think Aithusa might have squeezed you a little too hard when she caught you. Here, let's sit you up."

Arthur groaned as he was jostled and shoved, finally leaning against a large rock. A waterskin was pressed against his lips and he drank a couple of sips. Meanwhile, Merlin was babbling at him about Mercians and Aithusa and all kinds of other nonsense that hardly made sense. That might be Merlin's fault, or simply the fact that Arthur's head was throbbing. His arm felt bad enough to make him think that the arrow wound might have been torn open a little and all, and he meant all of his ribs felt like they had been cracked in half.

He blinked away the blur creeping into his vision, feeling more than a little woozy with pain and suffering from a rather disorienting sense of vertigo. Finally, he managed to focus on Merlin. He was still talking, a rapid string of words Arthur's brain refused to decode, crouching on Arthur's left, and gesticulating wildly as he spoke.

"Merlin—you idiot," Arthur finally rasped, interrupting the boy. Taking deep breaths was just shy of pure agony, so he decided to keep them nice and shallow for now. "Thought I—told you—not to come back—to Camelot."

Merlin let out a snort. "Oh, so very sorry," he replied. "Next time, I'll let you fall to your death!"

Arthur shook his head, then looked around. They were at the edge of what looked like a turnip field, surrounded by forest on one side, with Aithusa hovering nearby, and neither Camelot's nor Mercia's knights anywhere to be seen.

"What happened?" Arthur said, slowly getting used to being short of breath. "Where are we?"

"Not too far from the hill where they had you cornered," Merlin replied, sounding a little impatient, like he was repeating himself. "We saw it all happen from up above. There were at least twice as many Mercians and your men were losing. Badly. Plus, they were driving you all towards the cliff. Managed to push you off."

"You saved me?" Arthur surmised, disbelieving. "On the dragon?"

"Yes," Merlin replied simply.

"I thought you said you didn't fly her."

"I didn't. Until now."

Arthur frowned. "Why?"

Merlin frowned right back. "Why have I decided to fly on her?"

"No," Arthur replied. "Why were you there? Why did you save me?"

Merlin looked away then, plucking at his sleeve as he seemed to consider his response. "I don't know," he finally admitted. "I was planning on walking far away from Camelot, but then I stumbled upon the Mercian troops and heard them talk about how they were coming after you to hunt you, about starting a war with Camelot. I knew you were probably still in the forests somewhere and I just thought… I don't know, that I should check up on you. Just to see whether or not you made it home in one piece."

Arthur's frown didn't clear up in the slightest. "Why on Earth would you do that, Merlin? I'm the Prince of Camelot."

Merlin sent him a helpless look. "I know."

" My father had your father killed."

The look turned into a glower. "I know."

Arthur stared at him. "Merlin—"

" I don't know , all right?" Merlin snapped and abruptly stood up, abandoning his crouch. "I just—it was the right thing to do. It felt like the right thing to do. I should probably want you dead, or at least be indifferent about it, but— I'm not." He let out a strangled noise, spreading his hands in a frustrated sort of gesture. "Turns out I care. So, I checked on you, and it was good that I did, too, because otherwise, you'd be dead."

Arthur studied him from below for a long moment, then nodded, conceding the point. He had no idea what was going on in Merlin's head, but he was right. He had saved Arthur's life.

Again.

"What about the others?" he asked. Slowly, the world seemed to be righting itself around him, the vertigo vanishing and he managed to sit up a little straighter, grimacing as that irked his ribs.

"I don't know," Merlin replied, kicking at the ground with one boot. "Aithusa spit fire at the Mercians. Last look I got, there were still some red cloaks standing and the Mercians were retreating as fast as they could." He paused, then added with an almost guilty sort of look, "Well, the ones that weren't on fire."

"This is twice now that she's set knights on fire," Arthur said, glancing at the dragon in question. "She'd make a formidable war beast."

To his surprise, Aithusa let out a proud sort of chirping noise at that, as if Arthur had just paid her a great compliment. "I like him," she said to Merlin.

"I know," he groaned, then stepped up to Arthur, holding out a hand.

Arthur took it without hesitation, letting himself get pulled to his feet, groaning when that caused new flares of pain all over. Gingerly, he prodded at his ribs. From what he could tell, they were not actually broken, but most definitely bruised.

"How far are we from the cliff?" he asked, looking around the turnip field.

"On foot?" Merlin returned. "Quarter of an hour, maybe?"

"I need to get back," Arthur replied. "See who survived, then make for home."

Merlin nodded. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, Aithusa had started hissing into the direction of the forest. "There is someone there," she rumbled, then growled.

Arthur tensed when he saw movement between the bushes, expecting the worst, only to relax when a flash of Pendragon red appeared. It was Leon, on a horse, his cloak torn, one cheek smeared with blood, his equally sullied blade raised in a determined gesture as he glared at Merlin and Aithusa.

"Dragonlord!" he shouted, appearing ready for a joust. "Step away from the Prince now, or I'll slay you and your beast!"

Aithusa roared, moving to stand in front of Merlin. The horse neighed and reared. Leon, bless him, looked about ready to faint, face rapidly losing colour even as he bravely clutched his sword, clearly set on taking on a dragon on his own for the sake of his Prince. Arthur couldn't help but be touched by such a stubbornly stupid display of loyalty.

"Stand down, Leon," he called out, raising a placating hand. "They won't hurt you." He turned towards Merlin. "Tell your dragon to back off, Merlin, will you?"

"He won't attack her?" Merlin asked, distrust evident in every syllable, and Aithusa let out another hiss.

"Leon, put down that sword," Arthur ordered.

"But—Sire, the dragon —"

"Put. Down. The Sword," Arthur repeated, more firmly than before, heavy on the royal authority.

The knight obeyed, though it was clear from his face that he was going against every last instinct he harboured. After a moment, Aithusa lost the fighting stance, too, though the drake didn't move away, clearly still set on protecting the dragonlord.

Arthur turned towards Merlin. "You two need to leave. Right now, before any of the others show up."

Inexplicably, Merlin asked, "What about you?" He appeared genuinely worried.

"This is Camelot," Arthur pointed out. "I'll make it home eventually, if your dragon really scared off those Mercians."

"They fled, sire," Leon confirmed. "The dragon burnt at least half of them to a cinder. Erec and a few others survived. We saw the dragon fly east from the hill and went after it at once. The others must be nearby, searching for you." He had dismounted from the horse, but was still lingering near the treeline, looking hopelessly confused and extremely wary of the dragon, but true to his usual level-headedness, seemed to try and take the absurd situation in stride. First Knight material right there , thought Arthur, no doubt about it.

Arthur limped up to Merlin and, after a moment's hesitation, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Merlin, I—I want to thank you. I won't forget what you've done for me. I'm in your debt – again, I might add." He lifted his hand to gesture at their surroundings. "But you can't stay here. If the other knights catch you or Aithusa, you have to understand that there's absolutely nothing I can do for you."

Merlin nodded, albeit reluctantly.

Arthur glanced at Leon, then decided it was already far too late to worry about him overhearing the Prince speaking treason. "You need to fly far away from here," he continued. "What you just saw? That was the beginning of a war. Nobody should be roaming through the forests during a time like this. Make north, for Elmet or Deira. Avoid Mercia. Don't go home to Essetir, either. For a while at least…"

Merlin perked up at this. "For a while?"

"My father will soon be busy fighting a war. Give it half a year, and he will have neither the time nor the manpower to follow up on every little lead on the last dragonlord." He hesitated, then squared his shoulders and said, firm enough for Leon to get the message as well, "Especially if he believes that, last time he and his dragon were sighted, they were both heavily wounded, courtesy of the Prince."

Understanding flickered across Merlin's face. He smiled, tentatively but unmistakably. "Right," he said.

"Leave now," Arthur urged him. "The other knights can't see you."

Merlin nodded and walked, making for Aithusa, though he turned back one more time when he had reached her, one hand already resting on her back. "Arthur?"

Arthur looked at him expectantly.

"I didn't lie about that dragon below your castle," Merlin said, stubbornly jutting out his chin. "I'm the last dragonlord. He's my responsibility now. I can't have him suffer there forever." He fixed Arthur with a firm look that made him appear older, showing a glimpse of the man he would soon grow into. "Expect me to come free him when the time is right."

It should have sounded like a threat, but Arthur only found himself smiling. He knew for a fact that there wasn't a dragon in Camelot, not that he would start that argument now. "I have no doubt that you will," he said instead. "Farewell, Merlin."

Merlin inclined his head and, with a last glance for Leon, climbed on Aithusa's back.

"We shall meet again, Arthur Pendragon," she rumbled and then, they took off.

Arthur stared after them until they were nothing but a faint shape in the distance, finally daring to turn towards Leon, one hand on his aching ribs. The knight's expression had gone carefully neutral. He had a hand pressed against his horse's neck and was looking at Arthur with guarded eyes. He didn't say a single word and Arthur had no way of knowing what the man might be thinking about what had just occurred.

Well, only one way to find out. "Can I count on your discretion, Sir Leon?"

Leon, to his credit, took his time to reply. Arthur was, after all, essentially asking him to betray his liege, to show loyalty to the Prince rather than the King. He looked Arthur over, then glanced at the sky where Aithusa and Merlin had disappeared beyond some clouds.

"It wasn't an attempt on your life?" Leon finally asked. "He saved you?"

"Not for the first time, either," Arthur confirmed. "I travelled with him for the past few days. He treated my injury and protected me from the Mercians."

Leon shuffled on the spot. Arthur held his breath.

"What will we tell His Majesty?"

Relieved beyond words – and humbled by Leon's loyalty – Arthur sent him a grateful smile as he suggested, "The dragonlord tried to use the Mercian attack to his advantage and attempted to capture the Prince of Camelot, but you and I managed to fend him off. We wounded him and the beast badly and they fled, retreating towards Mercia."

Leon accepted the tale with no argument. In the distance, they could hear the sounds of horses and the shouts of some other knights, calling Arthur's name, clearly throwing caution to the wind in favour of finding him as quickly as possible.

The idea of mounting a horse with his body bruised, beaten and beyond exhaustion was daunting, but there was no way around it.

"Well, we'd better be off to Camelot," Arthur announced and hobbled over to Leon, wincing as his body protested every movement. "I don't fancy another run-in with those Mercians."

"Yes, sire," said Leon and helped Arthur onto the horse before mounting himself and spurring the animal on.

As they made towards the other surviving knights, Arthur swallowed heavily. The reality of all that had occurred in the past days settled onto his shoulders, weighing him down. He grimaced, sagging against Leon's back and closing his eyes as he sighed warily, "Looks like we've got a war to win."