After parting ways with Gwaine and Percival, their count now consisting only of Arthur, Leon, Elyan, Emmanuel, and Gareth turned west. Their quarry had made no attempts to conceal their passage, making it an easy task to track the slavers. Pressing on until the last of the lingering sunlight had slipped behind the horizon Arthur's agitation grew. Knowing that to continue would risk laming their horses it was only with immense frustration he made the call to camp for the night. Everyone completed their tasks in silence, picking at roasted bits of a rabbit which had been shot by Gareth.
Rising again with the first cold wisps of the dawn after a night of tossing and turning on their thin bedrolls they pushed both themselves and their horses through another day of riding, not once catching sight of their target. Arthur had to admit he hadn't anticipated that. His patrol was riding almost unencumbered, going so far as to discard their half plate in an empty tree stump, riding on in chain alone. Their speed should have more than matched anyone carrying the added burden of unwilling captives.
Unwilling live captives that is, his mind whispered. Arthur pushed the thought away. There was no use in entertaining such thoughts.
Still, they couldn't keep up this pace for much longer. Experienced riders they may be but each of them was growing increasingly stiff and saddle sore with each passing mile. It wouldn't surprise Arthur if his thighs and backside were as colorful a tapestry of bruises as when, as a recalcitrant child, the librarian had caught him ripping pages out of a collection of ancient manuscripts.
Arthur's eyes lingered on the heaving sweat soaked flanks of his stallion. Muscles trembling in fatigue, flecks of foam clung to his muzzle. A film of dust coated the tired creature rendering its once glossy coat a lusterless sheen, a muted shadow of its former self. The sight tore at Arthur's consciousness. It was a knight's solemn responsibility to care for his horse, and for such a long hard ride each knight should have had two mounts swapping regularly between them. It shamed him to push the creatures so hard, but the alternative was unthinkable.
Despite the sour sense of foreboding that curled heavy in Arthur's stomach, they pressed on. Passing through the Valley of the Fallen Kings and then the forest of Asgorath, by the afternoon of the third day they had crossed the river marking the border into Dyfed. Arthur's instructors had drilled the borders of Camelot into his head since he was a child, and as they rode, he could picture them as clearly as if a map was laid over the terrain around them.
He'd given each of his knights the choice to turn back at the crossing and each had immediately pledged to accompany him. Despite that, worry continued to gnaw on his thoughts.
Do the bandits know they're being pursued?
They had alternated their pace between a canter and a walk for the last several miles of the road, and Arthur leaned forward to stroke his mounts neck gratefully. Sweeping his eyes from side to side, fighting to see more than a few feet into the thickening woods closing in on either side of them, he delved deeper into his new path of thinking.
How long has it been since we've last seen signs of wildlife?
The events of the last few days took on a different shape, forming a faint outline of a new and unpleasant suspicion. If they did know that they were being followed, then this would be the perfect spot for-
Abruptly pulling his horse up short Arthur stood in his stirrups, twisting to look behind them his instincts screaming and the hair rising on the back of his neck. Movement in the trees, but his shout of warning was slower than the twang of a crossbow.
A meaty thunk and Arthur's stallion reared screaming in fear and pain an iron bolt protruding from its front shoulder. Tensing his body Arthur held on desperately with his knees, seizing the reins, fighting to stay in his saddle. The air abruptly filled with shouts of alarm and steel blades hissing from their sheaths. Arthur, still wrestling to get his injured mount back under control, watched as Emmanuel, who had raced to his side to grab for the reigns of Arthur's bucking horse, went down in an arterial spray of crimson.
Abandoning his attempts to keep his seat and kicking his feet free of the stirrups, Arthur launched himself backwards off his horse as far from the lashing hooves as he could manage. Rolling on impact he absorbed most of the force of the landing and was back on his feet in a breath, sword in hand, fatigued muscles screaming in protest.
Looking around Arthur assessed their position. They'd been surrounded. His knights were fighting against unlikely odds, most of them having lost their mounts to the surprise attack. Arthur's breath caught in his throat when his eyes landed on Emmanuel. The knight's body lay soaked in his own blood, a gory hole in his throat and a crossbow bolt held in a limp hand. The young man's wide eyes were already glazed and empty, mouth gaping, staring at the sky.
The man had likely panicked, pulling the bolt from where it had pierced his throat. With the only barrier between him and death removed he would have bled out in moments.
A sound behind him of heavy footsteps. Wordless rage and grief rushed out of Arthur in a roar. He spun, parrying a sword strike aimed at his ribs from the first of two attackers, ducking under the overhead strike from the second. Driving his sword into the gut of the first man seamlessly he pivoted, using the motion to draw his blade free of the body to knock away a follow up thrust from the second man, throwing him off balance.
Arthur's body twisted back the other way gathering strength from his feet to his shoulders, viciously returning a slash of his own. Too slow his staggered opponent tried to raise his sword to block. The length of deadly steel in Arthur's hand, an extension of the King's own rigorously trained body, caught his opponent in the space between leather gambeson and neck.
Ignoring a twist of revulsion at the hot drops that were spattering his skin he used the brief reprieve to assess the fight. They were outnumbered, perhaps three to one, but Arthur felt a rush of pride when he saw his knights holding their own against several opponents at once. He saw Leon and Elyan even fought back-to-back effectively covering each other's blind spots.
The pride lasted only a moment before guilt swelled in Arthur's throat, followed closely by shame. They wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. And Emmanuel…
Diving back into the fight he caught a strike meant for Leon on the length of his blade. Surging forward Arthur drove his shoulder into the attacker's side knocking him to the ground. Slamming his sword hilt-to-hilt with his next challenger he bore up, lashed out with his foot, and knocked her off balance. The warrior faltered and Arthur ran her through, took a step, and smashed the heel of his boot into the head of the man he'd knocked down as he attempted to get back to his feet.
A chain abruptly wrapped around Arthur's blade and yanked it violently from his grip. He had just enough time to glimpse a long mace held in the ham fist of a towering warrior whose shoulders would rival even Percival's.
I've never seen a bear walk on its back legs before Arthur thought wryly, putting his head down and bull-rushing the new challenger before he could disentangle his weapon to strike again. If he'd had more than a moment to think about it, he would have realized what an unbelievably idiotic idea it was to try and grapple the man mountain. If Merlin had been there to see it Arthur knew he never would have heard the end of it.
He got lucky. The warrior, caught off guard, hadn't braced for an impact and went down. Landing winded and in a heap, Arthur tried desperately to gain control over his opponent, who had thankfully lost his grip on the weapons in the fall. Coughing, lungs burning and half choking on the dust cloud their impact had created, Arthur was unable to find a purchase to secure the upper hand. Quite the opposite; far outmatched in strength he was steadily being overpowered. Heart hammering against his ribcage, sweat and dirt stinging his eyes, Arthur searched for some other way out of his predicament.
A flash of metal in his peripheral vision; an abandoned sword lying beside the body of its former owner taunted him, only feet away.
Lunging away from the grapple and towards the weapon Arthur felt a hand close over his leg. Kicking blindly clawing at the loose earth under him he managed to pull himself forward another foot, felt his hand close on the hilt, body twisting as he swung it around-
"Drop your weapons, or the boy dies."
The words roared across the still surging conflict cutting through the fog of combat focus that lay thick on Arthur's mind. Registering them almost too late, Arthur only just managed to halt the momentum of his swing his blade's edge resting across the broad shoulder of the giant.
Lungs heaving Arthur glanced towards the source of the call- A short burly man with dark curly hair and a thick beard standing several strides away on the edge of the roaming skirmish. He was fisting a handful of Merlin's hair, the point of a dagger pressed against the manservant's bared throat.
The tide of battle fury inside him bayed like hounds for Arthur to ignore the words, to finish this man who'd dared to challenge him. It was a primal beast calling for blood and it was one which Arthur had trained long to master. Cursing under his breath he roared an order to disengage, pulling his sword back hurriedly, rising to his feet as the fights around him each gradually broke apart.
Their bloodied attackers withdrew and regrouped to surround the circle of knights, giving them a wary berth. Calculating, hesitating, Arthur didn't give the order for his knights to disarm.
Eyes again finding Merlin, Arthur watched as the gangly boy was forced first to his knees then down still further, the boot of his tormentor grinding his face into the dirt with casual cruelty. Still, Arthur couldn't deny a flood of relief; the manservant's hands were bound behind his back, and he was being roughly handled, but otherwise Merlin appeared unharmed. The terrible images of gore and injury that Arthur had conjured over the last several days were eased.
The bearded man standing on Merlin's head gave Arthur a jaunty wave, the act so incongruous to the situation it made Arthur blink. "Welcome to Dyfed your highness- the name's Berwyn and I'll be your host. It's time for you to disarm."
"What mess have you gone and gotten us into this time, Merlin?" Intoned Arthur evenly, ignoring the man, buying time as he calculated searching desperately for another way out of the situation.
As soon as their weapons were out of their hands, they lost most of their options, and all of the good ones.
Expecting Merlin to respond with something stupid and recklessly brave as usual, Arthur nearly did a double take at the tight and fearful voice which emerged from his servant.
"Help me, Arthur!"
Merlin had never begged in fear. He hadn't thought the boy to be capable of such an act, as willful and stubborn as he was. Brave even, to a fault. Arthur's grip on his sword tightened as a coal of rage lit in his chest- what had they done to make Merlin's courage abandon him?
At his continued hesitation Berwyn let out an exaggerated sigh. "And here I was hoping we could settle this like civilized folk."
Dropping a knee to the back of Merlin's head his arm flashed out, burying his dagger a few inches into the meat of the boy's upper arm. The attack elicited a shriek of surprise and pain from the manservant who thrashed under Berwyn's unyielding weight, a dark stain spreading on his jacket sleeve.
"How about this then; If you don't put your weapons down this instant, I'm going to make you watch as I skin your friend here." He pulled the blade down further through Merlin's flesh for emphasis, widening the wound, and the manservant's screams echoed through the forest.
"Enough!" thundered Arthur, dropping his sword hurriedly.
He signaled for the other Knights to comply and one by one, they each did the same. The moment they were disarmed each of them was seized, men jostling them around forcing them to their knees in a line, weapons swept away.
Merlin was writhing, back arching, voice high and piercing, face still pinned against the ground. "You stabbed me!"
Seizing him by the back of his jacket Berwyn hoisted Merlin to his feet roughly dusting off the front of his tunic "Only a little."
Conditioned from his youth to recognize the signs of impending violence Arthur's instincts were sharp. Still, even he didn't anticipate it when Berwyn's hand shot out, trapping a fistful of Merlin's hair moving in a single breath from what could even have been a friendly gesture to one of force.
Using his grip to anchor Merlin in place Berwyn stepped behind him and, reaching around, brutally slashed the length of his dagger across the young man's throat. A yawning chasm opened in Merlin's flesh, a gory wound running nearly ear-to-ear, fountaining blood.
The reflexive horror that bubbled in Arthur's chest was trapped, frozen in place by a mind struggling to accept the evidence of his own eyes. The sun danced playfully through the canopy above as it was stirred by a breeze, blinding him for a brief instant. Blinking to clear his vision Arthur heard as though from a great distance his knights shouting, screaming, but in his ears their voices were nearly drowned out by thick, wet, choking gurgles.
Why were they shouting?
"Nothing personal, you understand" Berwyn drawled, "I have this thing about loose ends, just call me a cautious man."
Berwyn released his hold, and Merlin slumped to the ground.
Pulse roaring in his ears, fingertips numb, Arthur's eyes tracked the movement. Followed the descent of the convulsing body of his manservant. The body of his friend.
No.
Time slowed to a crawl as he hurled himself forward. A moment of resistance as his captors tried to hold him. With a heave he was free. Scrambling forward on his hands and knees to Merlin's side, "I'm here, I've got you!"
Arthur fumbled with the scarf still tied around Merlin's neck. Pulling it up, using his palms to press it tightly against the wound as a kind of makeshift bandage. No use. Immediately the scarf was soaked through, thick blood seeping inexorably up between his somehow steady fingers with every beat of Merlin's heart. His friend's eyes were glazing over, staring with sightless terror.
The blood was everywhere.
"No!" The sound of impotent protest of the unfairness of it all ripped itself from Arthur's throat. "You didn't- he wasn't- no!"
Hands, pulling at him, dragging him away ripping him from Merlin. He roared, fighting like a wild creature, clawing, kicking, shouting Merlin's name. Trying to reach again for his dying friend.
Quickly Arthur was overwhelmed, pinned to the ground, men piling on top of him squeezing the breath from his lungs and forcing him to silence. Pebbles ground into his cheek, he could taste blood and dirt in his mouth. It was all he could do to gasp in shallow sips of air.
Berwyn's voice drifted to him as though from a great distance, "Arthur Pendragon you have crossed the border of your own free will. You and your entourage are trespassing on Dyfed's lands. In accordance with the law, you will be bound and taken to Queen LĂadan Morcant. She will decide your fate. Unlawfully resist any further, and it will be considered an act of war."
Half crushed under their weight Arthur watched, helpless, as Merlin died without even a friend to hold his hand.
Author's Note: I wanted to update a week early, as I will hopefully be in the hospital next week. Enjoy!