Justice
The smell of rotten wood burning in the hearth wafted the throughout the inn, filling it with an odious smoke that made the lungs tingle. That coupled with the smell of sweat and stale mead was enough to make the nose wrinkle in displeasure, but Morgan would endure it for now.
"Another one, love?" the barmaid asked, holding up a jug of the favoured brew.
Morgana nodded and held up her dented cup.
The mix tasted good enough, much better than the inn itself would suggest.
Around the room, some had already drunk themselves into a stupor, and there was a man singing a bawdy song in the corner to friends who were not there.
Morgana had heard him lamenting on their loss earlier in the evening.
They'd died in Guthrum's service some years prior, and ever since, he'd spent most of his days here, drinking his life away in a bid to join them sooner rather than later.
"Do you have any good stories about the place?" she asked the barmaid, who chuckled as she cleaned some of the cups left on the bar.
"Many," she confirmed. "These lands are full of them from the heroic to the downright bizarre. What do you wish to hear?"
Morgana hummed thoughtfully.
"As I arrived, I heard a story about a thick fog and monsters that kill from within it."
The barmaid shook her head.
"I heard that too, but that one is not so interesting compared to the one that comes before it. Well, there are several, but the beginning is the very beginning of what is happening here."
"What is happening?"
The barmaid looked around the room before learning her lips barely an inch from Morgana's ear.
"Sorcery," she whispered. "Sorcery of the vilest kind. Would you like to hear of it?"
She seemed excited to speak of it, and Morgana nodded, holding her cup up for another refill.
"Well, it begins some two hundred years ago," the woman began thoughtfully. "The foreign sisters arrived here. They didn't speak to anyone, and they kept themselves to themselves in the marshland. We live and let live here, but strange things began to happen. Men would speak of whispers in the trees, and over the years, some would even vanish. It wasn't until they couldn't be ignored any longer that the locals acted against the women. You see, a child went missing, and he was found tied to a tree in the woods with strange markings carved into his skin. His hands were bound with hair so thick and dark that it couldn't have come from anyone local, but one of the sisters had such hair."
Morgana quirked an eyebrow interestedly.
"Where did they come from?"
"Greece," the barmaid answered. "She told the men who captured her as much, and she laughed as they sentenced her to death. She claimed that they could not truly harm her, and that she would forever plague the lands here. Well, her head was removed, and the other sister fled into the lands where they dig for peat. Any who hunted her vanished, but so long as no one went looking, we were left alone. It has been that way until the fog came recently. People still speak of the cackling, of the monsters in the mist, and of the two women unharmed by them. Some say it is the executed woman making good on her promise to plague these lands."
"What about you?"
The barmaid shrugged.
"I cannot say I believe in such things, but I am not entirely foolish. I have seen things with my own eyes most would never believe, so, it is not beyond my understanding there are other things I do not yet know of."
Morgana nodded thoughtfully.
"You said they came from Greece."
"They did. The woman who would be executed spoke of one of her ancestors, but she gave no name. She referred to him as the Foul, but she said nothing else. She cackled, much like the cackling heard in the fog only days ago now."
Morgana swallowed deeply.
That explained where these women had obtained the knowledge on the magic they wielded.
Did they have their own book?
Morgana couldn't imagine Herpo keeping two diaries, so, had he written a book specifically to share with his family?
She didn't know, but it made sense.
Even now, some families kept magical knowledge to themselves, to pass on to their son and daughters.
"Well, that was an interesting story," Morgana declared as she stood. "You should spin a yarn for gold," she added, placing a coin on the bar. "Thank you, it was most entertaining."
"Come back whenever you like, love. You are most welcome."
"I will," Morgana promised, taking her leave of the inn, her brow creasing from the frown that adorned it.
Harry and Godric had not been so successful in obtaining information pertaining to the women.
When they'd been here, none were willing to talk about what had happened, but Morgana had wanted to try for herself now that things had settled.
Still, there was no sign of the dead, nor the women who had raised them.
They were out there somewhere, readying to strike once more at the behest of the women, who had struck up a deal with Guthrum.
Morgana would be ready to face them when the time came.
She and Harry were in this together, until the very end, and no potential descendants of Herpo the Foul would stop them.
Nonetheless, it was quite the revelation, and one Morgana believed.
The barmaid had been a muggle.
How she'd heard such a story in great detail, Morgana didn't know, but she believed it.
Everything she'd said made sense, much more so than if they were just local witches who'd somehow come up with the ritual themselves whilst delving into such magic.
Regardless, Morgana felt as though she'd learned something most useful.
All that remained now was to discuss it with Harry and see how he wished to proceed.
It was inevitable that the dead would continue to be used until they were stopped, and there were so few capable of doing so, let alone with the knowledge.
Morgana released a deep breath as she readied herself to apparate away from the east once more.
The road ahead was a daunting one, and although she could not be certain of what was to come, she knew that it would be paved with blood and violence.
That too was inevitable, but if such a path led to the life she desired with Harry, she would take every step along it without hesitation.
(Break)
For the better part of three days he had continued north on horseback, the rough spun, filthy tunic he wore making him itch. By night, even the fires he managed to light couldn't keep him warm, and the only company he had was the head of the Irishman Arthur had liberated.
It was to Eadwulf's keep that Lancelot was venturing, under the guise of a clueless peasant who'd been paid to deliver the wrapped parcel to Eadwulf himself.
Within was an accompanying note, urging the man to surrender, or face the consequences of Arthur's forces sweeping across his lands.
Eadwulf wouldn't listen.
Lancelot knew little of the man, but he knew enough to know he'd sooner watch his keep crumble to dust than allow it to be taken. Myrddin had said as much, but he did not believe this would be a wasted effort.
Lancelot did not know what to expect when he arrived, but he would know soon enough.
He halted his horse as the keep came into view over the crest of another hill he'd climbed, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
His legs were tired and he was certain his back would never fully recover from such a long and arduous ride.
Even so, he was here now, and he made his way cautiously towards the keep, ensuring his appearance would give none within to think of him as anything less than a farmhand from nearby who'd been given a pittance to come here.
"HALT! WHO GOES THERE?" a gruff voice demanded as he approached to portcullis.
In front of it was a long drawbridge, but fortunately, the moat had not yet finished being dug as yet.
"My name is Osbert," Lancelot replied. "I have been tasked with delivering something to King Eadwulf. I am unarmed and carry a flag of peace."
He held up the soiled piece of rag but received no response.
Some moments later, however, the drawbridge lowered, and around a dozen, armour-clad men approached. Four were pointing crossbows at him, and all but one of the others had their swords drawn.
The man leading them had his hand resting on the pommel, and he looked Lancelot up and down.
"You look strong for a mere peasant," he commented.
"I work the farm across the way," Lancelot replied. "I lead the horses with the ploughs and carry the hay. It's all I'm good for, sir."
He climbed off the back of the horse and hobbled, pointing his leg at an odd angle.
"I fell off the old boy here when I was a lad. I've not been much the same since, sir."
The man scowled.
"Who gave you the job to deliver?"
"A man in the inn, sir. He gave me a coin and sent me on my way, I swear it by god, sir."
"You're a godly man?"
"I am, sir," Lancelot answered, showing the wooden cross tucked inside his tunic.
The man chuckled and spat at Lancelot's feet.
"There's no god here, lad."
The other men laughed mockingly.
Lancelot merely made the sign of the cross between his shoulders, clumsily.
"Well, since you have something to deliver to the king, you'd best come inside," the leader of the group said with a grin. "Mind your manners, and address him as either your grace, or my king. He is your king, and even gods tremble before him."
Lancelot nodded and hung his head, peering from side to side inconspicuously as he was led through the gates.
The courtyard was large, and the ground was carved from stone. The walls within were thick, and full of holes that all kinds of nasty surprises could be dropped on or fired towards any storming the castle.
It could be defended well, but construction was ongoing.
With the absence of the moat and even damage to the outer walls, it could be taken, though not as easily as Lancelot would like.
Still, he knew it would likely come to that.
Unless Arthur could lure Eadwulf outside of his gates, many would perish in the attempt.
"My king, this filthy peasant has been given something to deliver to you," the leader declared as he pushed open the doors to the great hall.
It was a dull room with little natural light.
Several fires were lit in the half dozen hearths dotted around, and even additional candles added.
It was hot in here and reeked of pitch and tar.
"Is that so? Does the filthy peasant have a name?"
"O-Osbert, my k-king," Lancelot stammered. "I was paid a coin to bring it to you."
"By whom?"
"I can't say I know, my king. The man was dressed much like me, but he wasn't from here. Sounded southern."
Lancelot looked up and caught his first glimpse of Eadwulf.
He was a hulking man, and his exposed arms were littered with a myriad of scars. His long shaggy beard almost reached his navel, but his head was bald and shiny.
What struck Lancelot most, however, was that he did not appear to be as brutish as he seemed at first glance.
His eyes sparkled with intelligence, and sitting either side of him were four women, eight in total, each looking somewhat like the man but clearly had different mothers.
Eadwulf grunted and stood.
He towered over Lancelot, who was no diminutive man, and one of Eadwulf's arms looked to be as thick as Lancelot's torso.
"Southern?" he asked curiously, holding out an expectant hand.
Lancelot handed him the box, and Eadwulf tore off the lid.
His nostrils flared, and he grunted once more before removing the note from within that was attached to the head. He read it through several times before chuckling to himself.
"It seems as though the boy king has a little bite to him," he declared amusedly. "If he thinks killing the Irish will do him any good, he's got another thing coming. You, Osbert, were you told to take a returning message."
Lancelot shook his head.
"No, my king. Just to bring this to you."
Eadwulf hummed.
"Now, that is a shame. You could've told the boy all about how my men are currently on their way to Camelot to take his queen. I expect they will be there by now. Never mind, I suppose he will have to hear of it by other means. For your trouble."
He placed two gold coins in Lancelot's hand, and he was led from the keep by the same guard that had escorted him inside.
He paid no mind to much else happening around him, nor could he think of anything other than what he'd learned.
Eadwulf knew Lancelot was not a mere peasant, and he'd told him of his plans knowing Arthur was in no position to stop what was going to happen.
"Guinevere," he whispered worriedly, mounting his horse and charging back towards the south where Arthur would be waiting for him.
The king would be furious.
Eadwulf had proven to be a cunning foe. Somehow, he'd known that Arthur had marched this way, but that didn't matter.
No.
Lancelot needed to reach Arthur, and then make haste for Camelot.
Already, he knew they would be too late, but they had to get to Guinevere before she was brought to Eadwulf's castle.
There was no telling was such a man would do to her, nor what it would do to Arthur if Guinevere was harmed.
"Shit!" Lancelot cursed, urging his horse onward, his thoughts wandering to the very worst things that could come from this.
It would take him two days at least to reach the camp, and several more even if they marched hard and fast back towards Camelot.
By then, Guinevere would be gone.
Lancelot swallowed deeply at the thought and could only shake his head as it began to rain heavily, reflecting the sudden dreariness that had filled him in the last passing moments.
(Break)
Sharpening the sword Godric had given him was an empty gesture as the gobbling-wrought steel would never dull, but it was a habit Harry had gotten into with his previous blade, and he found it to be calming, even if he was only going through the motions.
When the sound of the whetstone grinding along the edge began to grate on him, he reached into his robes and removed a vial of basilisk venom.
Pouring it onto the blade, he watched in fascination as it was sucked into the metal.
Just the slightest scratch from the sword would be deadly for any unfortunate enough to find themselves on the receiving end of it.
Harry had carefully contemplated whether or not he would add the venom but ultimately decided to.
It wasn't as though he would be drawing the blade on any he had no intention of killing, after all.
"That is a fine blade."
Harry nodded as he placed it in the scabbard on his hip.
"It is," he agreed, watching as Owain walked gingerly to a nearby stump and took a seat. "The potions are working."
"Only when I take them," the man chuckled. "I still feel like shit when they wear off, but it is better than nothing. I can walk here and call you a git to your face."
"I'm honoured."
Owain offered him a grin.
"She's quite something that wife of yours."
"She is. I don't know where I'd be without her."
"I'd guess finding a dozen other stupid things to get yourself involved in. That's just who you are, Harry."
"Probably," Harry agreed, "but we have more than enough stupid things happening around us to keep me occupied."
"My father says that your practices are going well. He's grown really fond of you, you know. He thinks of you as family."
"Is this the part that you ask me to finish telling you about myself?"
"Not if you don't want to. I know you, Harry. I know the kind of man you are, and that's good enough for me. The rest of it doesn't matter."
"So, you're not curious?"
"I didn't say that. I am curious of who you are, and how it is we share blood. I have my thoughts from what little you have told me."
"What are your thoughts?"
"That you are somehow, in the fucked-up world we live in, my many times over great grandson."
Harry snorted.
It sounded truly ridiculous when spoken aloud, no matter how truthful it was.
"I am."
Owain released a deep breath.
"Well, it is nice to know that we survive the duration."
"Not as you know it," Harry pointed out. "I don't have the Peverell name, which means that somewhere down the line, someone in your line will no longer have any sons and the name will be lost. My mother was a muggleborn from the other side of the country, and my father was a Potter from this village. I'm guessing one of your granddaughters married into my family. That is how I came into possession of the cloak."
"You know of the cloak."
Harry nodded.
"It was given to me some years ago, and was passed down from my father, who inherited it from his, and so on."
Owain released a deep breath and began breaking up a twig he picked up at his feet.
"The name isn't so important," he sighed. "Seeing you and the man you are, Harry, shows me that the Peverells will live on strongly in the blood. You may be a Potter, but you are just as much one of us as I am. That's the way my father sees you. He is as proud of you as I am."
"That means a lot coming from you."
Owain offered him a warm smile.
"So, how is it that you found yourself here? I do not know all of the details of what my father did, but I know he and my uncles did something extraordinary. What is your story, Harry Potter?"
"Long a quite unbelievable."
"Then best begin now before it gets too dark."
"Scared of the dark, are you?"
"Piss off," Owain scoffed amusedly. "Come on, you've piqued my curiosity. How is it you find yourself here from a thousand years away?"
Harry eyed the man for a moment, wondering if he was ready to hear what he had to say, but he found no reason not to tell Owain. He had come to trust the man with his life, and he knew he'd earned it in return.
So, he spoke.
He spoke of how things had once been, the world he'd existed in, and all that had befallen him throughout his younger years. He spoke of his friends, his foes, and all of he had endured during the short years he'd been at Hogwarts and before that.
When he was done, Harry could only shrug, and Owain looked at him with a frown creasing his brow for several moments.
"That's quite a life," he murmured. "I understand why you are the way you are. You suffered, and you do not like to see others suffering. You have already done great things Harry, and I expect there will be many more. For what it is worth, I am truly sorry for what happened to your mother and father. They sounded like good people, but despite losing them, you have become something remarkable yourself. I can't think of many who could go through what you have and be where you are now, and even how you are. I admire you, Harry, as a man, and as a member of my family. You may be my grandson by blood, but here, you are nothing short of a brother I never had."
He clapped Harry smartly on the shoulder before taking his leave through the trees Morgana had grown, and Harry continued to stare into the fire.
He always felt tired and even saddened when he spoke of the life he'd left behind.
He couldn't say that he missed it, but there would always be a sense of nostalgia for him and the many unanswered questions that would plague him.
Perhaps Voldemort would've simply succeeded in killing him eventually, or maybe Harry would've found a way to triumph over the Dark Lord.
Now, none of that mattered, but the questions continued to burn him.
"Are you okay?"
Harry had not heard his wife approaching, and she startled him as she spoke.
"I'm fine," he assured her with a smile. "You don't look so happy."
Morgana shook her head.
"I can't say that I am," she huffed. "I have a few things to tell you, and I don't think you're going to like it."
"Great," Harry replied sarcastically, pulling the woman onto his lap. "Before you ruin my evening, can we just sit here for a moment?"
"Why?"
"I just want to appreciate what I have."
Morgana relaxed and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"I like the sound of that," she whispered, placing a kiss on his lips, eliciting an appreciative smile from her husband.
(Break)
The rain had left the camp resembling a swamp, and yet, it showed no signs of slowing. Myrddin had done his utmost to keep the place dry, but by the time he managed to clear the small floods, the others had returned.
Even a water repelling charm had proven to be useless, reminding him that even magic could often scarcely compare to mother nature.
Nonetheless, the miserable weather had not been able to dampen the spirit of the men.
Since they'd defeated the Irish, they'd lost themselves in their cups for some time, though Arthur had not allowed them to become complacent and foolish.
They were in hostile lands, and there was no telling when they might be found by an opposing force.
"Do you truly think it wise to ally us with the Danes?" Myrddin asked his king.
"No, but it will suit us well enough for now. We find ourselves in their good graces for eliminating the Irish before they could read Eadwulf, and they will need us to defeat him. Their forces may well be even in size, but Eadwulf holds the advantage. He is a seasoned warrior and will not make any foolish mistakes. He will only engage the Danes when he is good and ready to do so."
Myrddin nodded his agreement.
Arthur had been learning of his enemies.
"The question is, will we need the Danes to defeat him?"
Myrddin frowned thoughtfully.
"I do not believe so, but much of our own blood will be spilt without them"
"And that is why I intend to use them," Arthur sighed. "It may be morally corrupt, but I would spare the blood of my men in favour of seeing the blood of what will inevitably become and enemy spilt."
"It is a wise move, if not a difficult decision to make."
"The Danes have already proven themselves to me, Myrddin. They have proven there is nothing they will not do to achieve their desires. Cnut is not yet dead, and once we take these lands, we must turn our attention to his. I would see us do so prepared and with a force that is unbeatable. Cnut is a dangerous man, and with his druids, even more so."
"Guthrum proves to be more dangerous still," Myrddin warned. "He will have an exceptional force at his back, and a strong magical presence at his front."
"But Harry will handle that."
Myrddin frowned.
"You know of his offer to help?"
"I do," Arthur replied unashamedly. "I expect you to have your secrets, Myrddin, but when it comes to the lives of my men, I will not tolerate it. I sought his advice on the dead, and he assured me that he will be the one to eradicate them."
Myrddin was taken aback by the revelation, but he nodded, even if he did feel more than a little put-out that Arthur had approached Potter without consulting him.
Did the young man not realise how dangerous wizards could be, and especially one like Harry Potter?
The man's presence continued to unsettle Myrddin.
For one so young, he was exceedingly accomplished, bold, and talented. It wasn't as though he lacked intelligence either, and it was undeniable that he was cunning.
He made for a dangerous man, and one Myrddin intended to be a much closer eye on.
"LANCELOT RETURNS!"
Arthur stood immediately, and the sodden Lancelot shoved his way through the men who had gathered to greet him.
"Guinevere!" he wheezed. "Eadwulf says he arranged for the queen to be taken from Camelot!"
Silence fell for only a second before the panicked Arthur took Lancelot by the shoulders.
"What did he say?" the king demanded.
Lancelot's breathing was laboured, and he shook his head.
"Just that! He said that it didn't matter that you'd killed the Irish and that he'd already planned this. Arthur, he said she would be long gone before you can get back!"
"Fuck!" Arthur seethed, kicking a nearby bucket of water away. "Myrddin! Can you…?"
"At once, my king," Myrddin assured him, vanishing immediately and appearing a short distance away from the gates to the keep.
As he carefully approached, he found them to be sealed well enough, and there was nothing to suggest the castle had been breached at all.
Had Eadwulf been lying?
Myrddin did not believe so, and after bracing himself, he apparated once more, appearing outside the queen's chambers.
He'd barely exchanged a few words with the woman since he'd confronted her about her affair with Lancelot, but something did not feel right.
There was magic in the air, magic that was unfamiliar to Myrddin.
Drawing his wand, he unlocked the door to the chambers and could only shake his head.
The room had been destroyed in what had evidently been a violent struggle. Flecks of blood were scattered about the stone floor, but Myrddin couldn't be certain if they belonged to Guinevere or one of her captors.
What he did know, however, was that the queen was not here.
She had indeed been taken, and whoever had done so was magical.
Arthur would not take the news well.
Myrddin paused at the thought.
For a brief moment, he considered telling the king that his queen was safe and well, but he knew the lie would be discovered soon enough.
If he was fortunate, Eadwulf would kill Guinevere, solving one of the many problems plaguing him pertaining to Arthur's eventual reign over Britain.
No, as much as that would solve one problem, it would only create others, and Guinevere and Lancelot's infidelity was such a small thing when it came to the future of the country.
If they were discovered, both would be executed by Arthur, and for the good of his kingdom, he would find another wife.
Still, he was rather fond of this one, and though it would be preferable for Guinevere not to be found, Myrddin's position would become precarious if she wasn't.
No, he would have to do his utmost to discover what had happened here and where the Queen might well be, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do for the sake of his king.
With a deep sigh, he vanished from the room, returning to the camp several leagues away to the north.
"Well?" Arthur demanded worriedly as Myrddin arrived.
"She is indeed gone, my king," Myrddin replied apologetically.
The already pale Arthur swallowed deeply and his nostrils flared.
"Find her!" he commanded, his temper getting the better of him. "Find her now, Myrddin!"
"Of course, my king."
(Break)
"Do you think it is true?" Morgana asked.
Harry was pacing back and forth in front of the fire, frowning deeply as he pondered what she'd told him.
"I think it must be," he murmured. "It can't be so coincidental that they came from Greece and have the access to the same magic Herpo did. If what I have learned of the man is true, then I can't see how the women aren't descendants of his."
"But it changes nothing."
"Not unless they have a defence against the fire," Harry pointed out. "If they know the magic so intimately, then they might just be able to, even if it is under my control."
"Do you have another plan?"
"Maybe," Harry sighed. "I have a few ideas."
"Good," Morgana declared. "I think it is best if I fight the witches."
"You?"
"I can dampen their magic at the very least, and maybe even destroy them. If I can nullify what they can do, it might just make all the difference. Don't argue with me, Harry. You'd be doing the very same thing if our positions were reversed."
"I wasn't going to argue with you. I agree. You'd be better off facing them than I would. You have a much better understanding of that kind of magic. Together, remember?"
"Together," Morgana agreed with a smile, though she frowned as Harry was suddenly startled by something.
"Bloody hell, again?"
"Again, what?"
Harry shook his head irritably.
"Arthur is sending for me."
"As in the king you have no intention of helping secure his crown?"
Harry nodded.
"He wouldn't send for me unless it was important. I made it very clear that I will not help him."
"Then what could he want?"
"I don't know, but I'd better find out. It could be one of many things."
"And he still doesn't know about his son?"
"No, he doesn't, and I won't tell him unless Gwyneth allows me to."
Morgana nodded her agreement.
"When shall we return to the east?"
"Not until we have a reason to. You saw no sign of the dead, did you?"
"No, not a thing."
"Then we wait until we hear of them. It would be a wasted venture searching for them. These women won't be found until they readily expose themselves."
"That could be months, Harry."
"Then we will wait that long."
He apparated away, and Morgana threw another log on the fire.
There was no telling how long Harry would be gone, but she would be waiting for him when he returned.
If life was kind to them both, these days would be behind them soon enough, and she would no longer have to wait for him to come home each night.
She'd done more than enough of that to last her a lifetime already.
(Break)
Arthur did his best to steady his breathing.
He'd headed into the nearby woods under the guise of wanting to take a few moments for himself, to calm his mind so that he could think clearly of what he would do next.
Myrddin would be looking for Guinevere.
Arthur didn't doubt the man, but he couldn't ignore the compulsion to send for the other man who'd given him invaluable help during times of need. He knew that he shouldn't have, that Harry would be displeased by him doing so, but this was his wife.
Arthur would do anything to get her back unharmed, and if that meant asking for help from a man he knew could absolutely do that for him, he didn't care how displeased anyone would be.
"The campaign not going as well as you hoped?"
Arthur turned sharply to where he'd heard the voice.
"The campaign is going fine. They've taken my wife."
Harry frowned.
"They took your wife. Who did?"
"Eadwulf," Arthur huffed. "He's one of the kings here. I can only assume he decided to do it the moment we marched from Camelot. Myrddin checked, Guinevere has been taken. I need her back, Harry. If there is anything you can do…"
He broke off and the other man appeared to be decidedly torn.
"Please," Arthur pressed. "I love my wife just as much as you love yours. I wouldn't ask you to help me with anything to do with my ambitions, but my wife…"
Harry nodded and held up a hand.
"I will find her," he promised. "She was taken from Camelot?"
Arthur nodded.
"I don't know how. Myrddin says he had his own protections in place."
"Then she was taken by someone magical," Harry mused aloud. "Perhaps they left traces. I will go there first to see if I can find anything useful. I will find you when I have news."
"Thank you, Harry," Arthur said appreciatively. "I will owe you my damned kingdom before I've even taken it."
Harry snorted humourlessly as he shook his head.
"Don't thank me yet," he urged. "There is no telling what Eadwulf might have done with her. Like I said, I will find her."
He vanished, and Arthur swallowed deeply.
He would find her, but the king had not missed the unspoken words.
Just because he would find her, it didn't mean that Guinevere would be alive when he did.
(Break)
"He's here, isn't he?" Godric murmured as they made their way through the busy village.
Salazar nodded.
"I can feel him nearby. Look at all the foreign faces in the crowd. They're his men."
"And the others he's recruited since being here," Godric reminded him. "He lost most in the east, but we are still significantly outnumbered."
"We are," Salazar agreed, "but when has that ever bothered you?"
"It doesn't. I was merely pointing it out."
Salazar hummed.
"What do we do with him?"
"We kill him, but not before he has told us everything he can of his involvement in whatever he is caught up in. Phillip is no fool. He would not be here now unless he had to be."
"So, we're not handing him over to the council?"
Salazar snorted derisively.
"Most are too close to Myrddin. No, Strenger dies, Godric, and I will take no small amount of pleasure in taking his head myself."
He meant it.
Although Salazar had mellowed considerably in his later years, Godric had not forgotten the man he'd met several decades prior.
Time and time again, Salazar had almost gone too far in his pursuit of greatness, not realising that he was already among the very best wizards to have ever been born into this world.
Godric had seen it for himself.
Salazar was an exceedingly dangerous man to find yourself on the wrong side of.
The two of them had almost come to blows on more than one occasion, and truthfully, Godric could never be certain who would win such an exchange.
He himself knew he was a powerful, gifted wizard; a seasoned warrior who had fought across the world, but Salazar was as cunning and vicious as any other man he'd met.
It was often one would see Slytherin exchanging spells in such a brash and brazen manner, but when he did, he did so with exceptional accuracy and with magic most would balk at.
That was what he'd passed on to Harry, among many other things, and what all men should be wary of.
"In there," Salazar murmured, nodding towards the nearby inn. "Strenger will be hiding in there."
Godric followed as Salazar entered.
As with every other inn they'd frequented along the way, this place was full of an unpleasant, odious smoke, and reeked of poor-quality ale.
"Excuse me, madam, we are supposed to be meeting a friend of ours here. He is tall with long dark hair, and he carries a rapier style sword. His beard is similar to mine," Salazar explained to one of the server women.
She nodded.
"You'll find him upstairs, third door on the left, unless you'd like me to send for him?"
"No, it's quite alright," Salazar assured her. "We can find our way."
He placed a coin in her hand and offered her a smile before nodding towards Godric.
Drawing their wands, they made their way up the wooden staircase, silencing it so not to give them away too soon.
As they reached the door, Salazar placed a finger to his lips, and his eyes narrowed in anticipation.
With a thunderous kick, it came off its hinges in a single blow, and before Strenger could react, Salazar had set upon the man.
Evidently, he'd been sleeping and unprepared for their arrival.
After only a short scuffle, Salazar flung the bound Strenger into a chair by the fireplace, and Phillip merely chuckled at the position he found himself in.
"It took you long enough," he goaded.
"You do know what we are going to do with you, don't you?"
Strenger nodded.
"I don't care," he said with a shrug. "After what I have seen, I am ready for death. I would sooner it come from you than what I saw in the east, or the other bastard."
"Other bastard?"
Strenger grinned and leaned forward as far as he could.
"Oh, you will love this," he said gleefully, "but I see no reason I should tell you, not when you have already walked into my trap. You couldn't possibly believe I didn't know you have been looking for me, that I didn't anticipate your arrival here."
As he finished speaking, Godric felt the protections fall into place around the village, and Strenger laughed heartily as they did so.
"You won't get out of here alive. I have almost one hundred men downstairs."
"And yet, we only need you," Salazar returned, levelling his wand at Phillip. "Godric, hold them off as best you can," he added as crashing could be heard from below, followed shortly by footsteps hurrying up the stairs. "This won't take more than a moment or so. Crucio!"
Godric winced as Strenger began to scream, but his focus quickly shifted towards the doorway that would soon be intruded upon by Strenger's men.
Readying his sword, he shoved the blade through the chest of the first man to enter the room before bringing his wand to bear.
This would certainly be quite the fight, and Godric knew it did not favour him and his companion.
Still, they'd finally caught up to Strenger, and even if they were killed here, it would be worth it to finally bring the man to justice.