Blood
Summary: Arthur and Merlin are captured by brigands. Late series one. 3147 words. Gen. PG-13.
Blood
The chestnut cob had stopped for a piss and the warm smell of urine filled Merlin's mouth and stung his nostrils where it mingled with the stink of horse. He sneezed. The cob juddered like a ship on rough seas and shook its hindquarters. It was enough to unbalance Merlin. He slid further down the chestnut's flank until his face hung a foot above the steaming mud.
A shout came from up the line. Reins jingled; a horse whinnied its protest. Boots splashed along the path. Merlin twisted to see who it was. The black-bearded one. He looked down again quickly.
A fist knotted in his hair and yanked his head up, curving his back until he thought his spine would break. He stared at the dented hauberk, sticky with Radulf's blood, and tried not to breathe.
Other hands seized his feet and dragged him back across the horse. He tensed as the leather straps securing him were loosened, but the hand in his hair did not waver and they were fastened again, more tightly than before. Chestnut hairs tickled his nose. He squirmed, and a hand slapped his backside.
'This one's a bag of bones, Osbeorht.'
Laughter floated towards them. 'You should feed your servants better, princeling.'
No answer from Arthur. Merlin risked a glance at the horse in front. Arthur's back was stiff, his head bowed. The only signs that he was still alive were the tiny movements his feet made as he controlled his horse. That, Merlin reasoned, and the fact that he'd have fallen out of the saddle by now if he were dead.
On the grey horse the wounded brigand moaned. Merlin chewed his lip. Three against two if he died: difficult but not impossible. Better odds than they'd had that morning, at any rate.
The new pony had been a gift from Uther and Arthur had been keen to put it through its paces. Engrossed in the task, they'd paid too little attention to their surroundings until Radulf's shout had brought them to their senses. Merlin had spun round just in time to see the man-at-arms go down as a band of figures raced across the snow towards them. He'd grabbed a stump of oak to defend himself and then the brigands were upon them.
He had forgotten how good a fighter Arthur was. The prince's sword shone in the winter sun as he wheeled the pony round to face his attackers. Two men dropped almost at once in a whirling double stroke that left Merlin gasping in admiration even as he dodged a spear thrust that would have ripped him in half.
Four against two, he thought. We can win this. It was exhilarating.
And then, disaster. The new pony, panicked perhaps by the smell of blood, had twisted the wrong way. A spear pierced its side and Arthur was down, his sword spinning uselessly through the air. The pony sank to its knees, screaming.
Merlin's attackers exchanged a glance and lunged. Merlin jumped back. It was a mistake: a second later his feet were swept from under him and he was sprawled on his back in the snow. A sword point pricked his throat.
Everything seemed to stop. He saw Arthur look in his direction and freeze, raising his hands in surrender. One raider stood over Merlin; the other three spread out into a half-circle as they edged towards Arthur.
Slowly Arthur reached into his boot and drew out a knife. One of the brigands cursed and started forward, halting when a second raised his hand.
Arthur dropped onto one knee beside the dying pony. He touched his forehead to its neck and whispered, then lifted the knife and slit its throat in a long terrible slash. Fresh blood fountained on the trampled snow. For a moment no one moved. Then Arthur stood and let the knife fall. He stretched out his arms and let his captors bind him.
--
Merlin awoke with a start, shocked to find he had been dozing. The quiet chink of hooves against stone had stopped: the chestnut cob stood patiently waiting for instructions. Then the line of horses began to move again. Snow dripped from branches as they climbed the forest trail, emerging at last into a clearing overlooked by oak and elm and pine.
The cord at his wrists was cut. 'Off.' Merlin grabbed a handful of mane and slid down the horse, folding in a graceless heap onto the grass when his legs failed to support him. Somebody laughed.
In front of him, a thickset man with red hair was untying Arthur's hands. Arthur grasped the pommel and leaned forward to swing one leg over his horse's back, landing as lightly as if he had only been in the saddle a few minutes. He stood beside the horse, watching as the injured brigand was lifted down, and rubbed his wrists. The white cuffs of his shirt were stained with blood. Arthur looked up. His eyes met Merlin's. He raised his eyebrows and tugged the sleeves down.
'Don't waste your time trying to get free,' the red-haired man told him. He was a few inches shorter than Arthur and the prince's mail was tight across his shoulders. 'When my men tie someone, they stay tied.'
'Marvellous,' Arthur murmured. 'You might have told me earlier.'
The brigand looked him up and down. 'I wanted to see what you'd do. I'm Osbeorht. You may have heard of me. Tell me, princeling, who are you?'
'What makes you think I'm anyone?'
'You travel with a servant and a man-at-arms. That makes you someone.' Osbeorht spat on the ground by Arthur's boot. 'A second son perhaps. No heir to a fiefdom would travel so lightly in these dangerous times.'
Arthur moved his foot away. 'You're quite right. How perceptive of you. As a hostage, I'm hardly worth anything at all.'
'I wouldn't say that.' Osbeorht ran a dirty finger through Arthur's hair. Merlin flinched. 'You're fair. From the south, maybe. But your boy here, he's dark. What brings you so far from home, my princeling?'
Arthur's smile was frank. 'Looking for adventure. You were right. I'm a second son: I have no lands, no titles to inherit.' He scowled at Merlin. 'Just a worthless servant. My brother gave him to me. I didn’t want him. Nobody wanted him. You may as well let him go.'
'And what about you?' Osbeorht's eyes were thoughtful.
'I don't suppose you're looking for new blood.'
'Maybe. You fight well.'
'I know.'
'Only one problem, then. Your boy doesn't know how to fight. Broga.'
Merlin felt himself lifted from behind. He kicked and struggled but to no avail: Broga carried him across the clearing and deposited him in front of the broad trunk of an oak, tying his hands expertly so that Merlin was pinned against the tree.
'I told you,' Arthur said. His face was pale. 'He's useless. Let him go.'
Osbeorht shook his head. 'We don't let people go.' There was a dagger in his hand now, a short, wicked blade. The hilt quivered as he hurled it into the frozen earth between Arthur's feet. 'If you want to join us,' he said softly, 'kill your servant.'
Merlin's mouth went dry. His legs gave way and he sagged against the ropes, staring at Arthur. Beside him, Broga chuckled and scratched his beard.
Arthur bent and pulled out the dagger. 'I'm sorry, Merlin.' His voice was strained.
Merlin swallowed. 'It's OK.'
'What guarantee,' Arthur said without looking up, 'do you have that I won't kill you?'
Osbeorht grinned, showing yellow teeth. 'Well, first of all, I've seen you fight. You're good, but you're not that good.'
'Really.'
'Really. Second, of course, I'm wearing your armour. You'll need to be lucky as well as good to get through that. And thirdly -' Osbeorht paused. 'You can work thirdly out for yourself.'
Arthur stood up. Wordlessly he held the dagger out.
The brigand nodded as he took it. 'And thirdly,' he said quietly, 'I saw you with the horse.'
'I could have killed you.'
Osbeorht snorted. 'You could have tried. And the second you moved, Broga would have split your boy from brain to balls. Assuming he could find either. Ah, well. You won't mind if we bind your hands for the night.'
'Actually, I do.'
'You were warned. Broga.'
A mailed fist smashed into Merlin's cheek, slamming his head into the tree. Stars danced in front of his eyes. Across a vast distance he heard Arthur's voice, choked with fury. 'You'll pay for that.'
'You're worth more to me in one piece. Him, not so much. Hands.'
Merlin opened his eyes. The clearing rocked around him and he closed them again. A line of fire stung his cheek where the gauntlet had cut him. Cautiously he explored his mouth with his tongue: plenty of blood, but he didn't seem to have lost any teeth.
A shove sent Arthur sprawling to land at Merlin's feet.
'You're covered in blood.' Arthur rolled round to face him. 'Don't you ever wash?'
Merlin spat blood onto the grass and grinned. 'Didn't want to show you up. Seriously though -'
'Shut up, Merlin.'
'No, but -'
'I said shut up. You don't imagine I'm cleaning my own privy, do you? Get some sleep. Things will look different in the morning.'
--
Merlin stood very still, trying to work out what had awakened him. A long way off, a wolf howled and was answered. He opened his eyes.
It was several seconds before he realised the red haze blinding him was firelight. He shook his head to clear his blurred vision and a wave of nausea rolled through him. Sinking back against the oak, he waited for the headache to dissipate.
'Your man will die.' Arthur's voice. Merlin cranked his eyes into slits and looked down; the prince was no longer at his feet. He blinked and raised his head slowly.
Arthur's face glowed red in the firelight. Osbeorht sat facing him, his back to Merlin. Two others lay close by, huddled in blankets. Three. Merlin squinted into the darkness. A man sat at the edge of the clearing, shoulders hunched, staring down the trail.
'Brun? I think so.' Osbeorht nodded. 'He was a good man.'
'As were you once, I think.'
'Maybe.' After a minute Osbeorht spoke again. 'We were farmers, my brother and I. Not fighters. And then one morning my lord's son had a fancy to go hunting and the fox brought him through our fields. You've hunted, princeling?'
'Often.'
'They trampled our crops. Their dogs tore our pigs to pieces.'
Arthur frowned. 'Most lords pay compensation.'
'Nineteen pennies. Gone by winter.'
Two against two. They would never have better odds. Merlin stared at the guard and concentrated. The magic surged within him. Flickered. Fell back. Died. He tried again, and again, until his skull shrieked with pain.
It was no good. He jerked his head to the side just in time and threw up.
'Merlin!' Even with his arms tied behind his back, Arthur was on his feet at once.
'Concussion.' Osbeorht shrugged. 'Broga hit him hard.'
'There was no need -'
'My brother stole a chicken and they hanged him. Sleep well, princeling. Tomorrow you'll tell us who you are.'
--
Dawn was a rosy glimmer in the east when Merlin finally gave up trying to sleep. His joints were stiff and cold and his throat dry, but his head felt clear. He spat stale vomit from his mouth and coughed.
A leather flask touched his lips. He twisted and sucked in cool water. 'Not too much,' a voice warned him.
'Thanks.' It was a croak.
'You look better.'
Merlin grunted.
'Lucan!' Broga was standing by the horses, scowling. Lucan shrugged, stoppering the flask as he walked away. Merlin saw him pause beside the injured Brun, then stiffen and lift the woollen blanket over the brigand's face. He watched as Lucan hurried over to Broga, and concentrated on the memory of throwing up.
Lucan staggered and clutched at his stomach. He sank to his knees, retching. Yellow-green vomit spewed from his mouth. His face was ashen.
'Lucan!' Broga shook his friend's shoulder. A stream of liquid narrowly missed his leg and he jumped back.
'Let me help!' Merlin leaned forward, struggling against the ropes. 'I know about herbs. I can help him!' In the grey morning light, he saw Arthur's head jerk up, eyes narrowed.
'Is this true?' Osbeorht demanded, rounding on Arthur.
Arthur nodded. 'He's quite a good apothecary. Stop grinning, Merlin: it makes you look half-witted.'
Osbeorht gave Merlin a searching glance. Lucan vomited again and rolled over, groaning. Osbeorht nodded. 'Take him, Broga. If he tries to escape, kill him.'
Merlin reeled as the cords binding him were loosened. Broga looped one end of the rope around his wrist and yanked. Merlin stumbled forward.
'Move,' Broga told him and they set off into the forest.
--
'Now then.' Broga's voice was urgent. 'Tell me where.'
Merlin pretended to think. 'A stream. A lake would be better. There'll be a tree with dark green leaves, maybe a group of them. It'll have white flowers and purple berries in the summer.'
Broga scratched his head. 'I know where a lake is. What do these leaves do?'
'Make him sick.'
'He's already sick.'
'He needs to be more sick.'
'If he dies, so do you. Slowly.'
'I guessed that.'
Broga seemed to know the forest well; within minutes they were picking their way along the side of a small lake. The foul smell of decay coated the greasy air. The mud beneath their boots was soft and slippery with rotting leaves.
Broga glanced fearfully at the mist rising from the dark water. 'This is an evil place,' he whispered. 'Do you see what you need?'
'Over there.' Merlin wrinkled his nose and pointed. 'That clump of elder. I need the highest leaves, the ones that get the sun. You'll have to climb.' He sank down on a mossy stump and began rubbing his legs. His feet and fingers tingled.
'Why can't you climb?'
'You're lucky I can even walk.' Merlin let doubt creep into his voice. 'It doesn't matter. We could use leaves from lower down, I suppose.'
'No.' Broga hoisted himself up onto a branch. 'Don't try to run. I'll catch you.'
'I won't run.' Merlin sat down, barely daring to breathe. Eyes half-closed, he watched as Broga climbed, marvelling at how easy it seemed even in armour. 'That branch there. That's the one.'
Broga leaned back over the lake and took out his knife.
The tree seemed to come alive in Broga's hands. Twisting and writhing like a serpent it lashed him across the face with whiplike branches, drawing blood. Broga cried out in shock and pain. Then the whole tree rippled, a monstrous surge of energy that tossed the brigand into the water as easily as if he had been a dandelion seed carried on the wind. He raised his head, eyes wide with terror, and stretched his arms towards the shore, but it was too far, too far away. The black water closed over his head as the stolen chain mail dragged him down.
Merlin took a deep breath, trembling, and threw up. The ropes fell away from him as he stood up. Picking up a piece of wood to use as a cudgel, he hurried back along the path.
--
He abandoned the trail two-thirds of the way up and skirted around to the far side of the hill, keeping his body low and using the cover of the trees.
Lucan was still vomiting spasmodically and taking no interest in his surroundings. Merlin grinned. He hadn't expected it to be so effective. Osbeorht squatted beside him, one arm round Lucan's shoulders. Arthur sat nearby, staring into the dying fire.
Merlin stepped out of the wet bracken, clutching his cudgel. Arthur's body tensed. He looked up at Osbeorht.
'You were asking who I was,' he said. Merlin took another step.
'Aye.' Osbeorht lifted his head. 'Stop fidgeting, lad. Is there a centipede in your hose?'
Arthur's smile was dazzling. 'Actually I was sitting on a sharp stone.' He leaned forward, shifting his weight. Merlin took another step, and another.
'Go on then, princeling, if you're minded to be talkative. Who are you?'
'I'm Uther's son. Uther Pendragon. You may have heard of me. My name is Arthur.'
Osbeorht cursed and then a twig snapped under Merlin's foot. The brigand spun round, leaping to his feet faster than Merlin could have imagined and drawing his sword in a blur of motion. Merlin stepped back. The cudgel slipped from his hand. Osbeorht lunged -
- and Arthur's dagger, the dagger Merlin knew nothing about, buried itself in the base of his neck.
'I told you you would pay.' There was ice in Arthur's voice as he retrieved his dagger and crossed to the helpless Lucan. Merlin turned away. When he looked back, Arthur was wiping his dagger on the grass.
'You took your time.' Arthur's breathing was uneven, as if he had been running.
'Sorry.' Merlin wiped sweating palms on his thighs.
'What happened to the other one?'
'He, um, fell out of a tree. Into a lake.'
Arthur's eyes narrowed. 'You're very lucky, Merlin.'
Laughter bubbled up inside Merlin and split his face in a smile that made his head ring.
'Lucky?' he echoed. 'I suppose I am.'
They looked at each other without speaking for a long moment and then Arthur said, 'Strip the bodies. I want my armour back.'
--
The snow was melting in the fields as they emerged from the forest trail. Blue flowers sparkled in the soaking grass.
'Merlin.' Arthur's tone was exasperated. 'Stop not looking at me.'
'I'm not not looking at you.'
'Merlin.'
'I can smell blood,' Merlin admitted. 'I think one of the bags is leaking.'
'I can't smell anything.' But Arthur reined in his horse and dismounted. Merlin waited unhappily, staring at the ground.
'Nothing. You must be imagining it.'
Merlin nodded. They rode in silence for another mile and then Arthur spoke again.
'Radulf's boy is ten.' He did not look at Merlin. 'He needs to know that his father's life mattered.'
Merlin glanced involuntarily back along the line of horses with their lumpy burdens. From a distance they might have been carrying turnips.
'They put themselves outside the law,' Arthur continued. 'Do you understand that, Merlin?'
'Yes.' Merlin swallowed. 'Would you - would you do that to anyone? Who put himself outside the law?'
They were at the border of Trewallan's farm now, where the willow dipped its branches to the beck. From the long barn came the sound of sawing.
Arthur stared at the path ahead. His eyes were dark. 'If I had to,' he said.
--
Note: posted to my LJ on DATE and to merlingen on 15 March 2009 and to merlinfic on 16 March 2009. Thanks to kennahijja and morrighan_sai for their wonderful beta work.
Blood
The chestnut cob had stopped for a piss and the warm smell of urine filled Merlin's mouth and stung his nostrils where it mingled with the stink of horse. He sneezed. The cob juddered like a ship on rough seas and shook its hindquarters. It was enough to unbalance Merlin. He slid further down the chestnut's flank until his face hung a foot above the steaming mud.
A shout came from up the line. Reins jingled; a horse whinnied its protest. Boots splashed along the path. Merlin twisted to see who it was. The black-bearded one. He looked down again quickly.
A fist knotted in his hair and yanked his head up, curving his back until he thought his spine would break. He stared at the dented hauberk, sticky with Radulf's blood, and tried not to breathe.
Other hands seized his feet and dragged him back across the horse. He tensed as the leather straps securing him were loosened, but the hand in his hair did not waver and they were fastened again, more tightly than before. Chestnut hairs tickled his nose. He squirmed, and a hand slapped his backside.
'This one's a bag of bones, Osbeorht.'
Laughter floated towards them. 'You should feed your servants better, princeling.'
No answer from Arthur. Merlin risked a glance at the horse in front. Arthur's back was stiff, his head bowed. The only signs that he was still alive were the tiny movements his feet made as he controlled his horse. That, Merlin reasoned, and the fact that he'd have fallen out of the saddle by now if he were dead.
On the grey horse the wounded brigand moaned. Merlin chewed his lip. Three against two if he died: difficult but not impossible. Better odds than they'd had that morning, at any rate.
The new pony had been a gift from Uther and Arthur had been keen to put it through its paces. Engrossed in the task, they'd paid too little attention to their surroundings until Radulf's shout had brought them to their senses. Merlin had spun round just in time to see the man-at-arms go down as a band of figures raced across the snow towards them. He'd grabbed a stump of oak to defend himself and then the brigands were upon them.
He had forgotten how good a fighter Arthur was. The prince's sword shone in the winter sun as he wheeled the pony round to face his attackers. Two men dropped almost at once in a whirling double stroke that left Merlin gasping in admiration even as he dodged a spear thrust that would have ripped him in half.
Four against two, he thought. We can win this. It was exhilarating.
And then, disaster. The new pony, panicked perhaps by the smell of blood, had twisted the wrong way. A spear pierced its side and Arthur was down, his sword spinning uselessly through the air. The pony sank to its knees, screaming.
Merlin's attackers exchanged a glance and lunged. Merlin jumped back. It was a mistake: a second later his feet were swept from under him and he was sprawled on his back in the snow. A sword point pricked his throat.
Everything seemed to stop. He saw Arthur look in his direction and freeze, raising his hands in surrender. One raider stood over Merlin; the other three spread out into a half-circle as they edged towards Arthur.
Slowly Arthur reached into his boot and drew out a knife. One of the brigands cursed and started forward, halting when a second raised his hand.
Arthur dropped onto one knee beside the dying pony. He touched his forehead to its neck and whispered, then lifted the knife and slit its throat in a long terrible slash. Fresh blood fountained on the trampled snow. For a moment no one moved. Then Arthur stood and let the knife fall. He stretched out his arms and let his captors bind him.
--
Merlin awoke with a start, shocked to find he had been dozing. The quiet chink of hooves against stone had stopped: the chestnut cob stood patiently waiting for instructions. Then the line of horses began to move again. Snow dripped from branches as they climbed the forest trail, emerging at last into a clearing overlooked by oak and elm and pine.
The cord at his wrists was cut. 'Off.' Merlin grabbed a handful of mane and slid down the horse, folding in a graceless heap onto the grass when his legs failed to support him. Somebody laughed.
In front of him, a thickset man with red hair was untying Arthur's hands. Arthur grasped the pommel and leaned forward to swing one leg over his horse's back, landing as lightly as if he had only been in the saddle a few minutes. He stood beside the horse, watching as the injured brigand was lifted down, and rubbed his wrists. The white cuffs of his shirt were stained with blood. Arthur looked up. His eyes met Merlin's. He raised his eyebrows and tugged the sleeves down.
'Don't waste your time trying to get free,' the red-haired man told him. He was a few inches shorter than Arthur and the prince's mail was tight across his shoulders. 'When my men tie someone, they stay tied.'
'Marvellous,' Arthur murmured. 'You might have told me earlier.'
The brigand looked him up and down. 'I wanted to see what you'd do. I'm Osbeorht. You may have heard of me. Tell me, princeling, who are you?'
'What makes you think I'm anyone?'
'You travel with a servant and a man-at-arms. That makes you someone.' Osbeorht spat on the ground by Arthur's boot. 'A second son perhaps. No heir to a fiefdom would travel so lightly in these dangerous times.'
Arthur moved his foot away. 'You're quite right. How perceptive of you. As a hostage, I'm hardly worth anything at all.'
'I wouldn't say that.' Osbeorht ran a dirty finger through Arthur's hair. Merlin flinched. 'You're fair. From the south, maybe. But your boy here, he's dark. What brings you so far from home, my princeling?'
Arthur's smile was frank. 'Looking for adventure. You were right. I'm a second son: I have no lands, no titles to inherit.' He scowled at Merlin. 'Just a worthless servant. My brother gave him to me. I didn’t want him. Nobody wanted him. You may as well let him go.'
'And what about you?' Osbeorht's eyes were thoughtful.
'I don't suppose you're looking for new blood.'
'Maybe. You fight well.'
'I know.'
'Only one problem, then. Your boy doesn't know how to fight. Broga.'
Merlin felt himself lifted from behind. He kicked and struggled but to no avail: Broga carried him across the clearing and deposited him in front of the broad trunk of an oak, tying his hands expertly so that Merlin was pinned against the tree.
'I told you,' Arthur said. His face was pale. 'He's useless. Let him go.'
Osbeorht shook his head. 'We don't let people go.' There was a dagger in his hand now, a short, wicked blade. The hilt quivered as he hurled it into the frozen earth between Arthur's feet. 'If you want to join us,' he said softly, 'kill your servant.'
Merlin's mouth went dry. His legs gave way and he sagged against the ropes, staring at Arthur. Beside him, Broga chuckled and scratched his beard.
Arthur bent and pulled out the dagger. 'I'm sorry, Merlin.' His voice was strained.
Merlin swallowed. 'It's OK.'
'What guarantee,' Arthur said without looking up, 'do you have that I won't kill you?'
Osbeorht grinned, showing yellow teeth. 'Well, first of all, I've seen you fight. You're good, but you're not that good.'
'Really.'
'Really. Second, of course, I'm wearing your armour. You'll need to be lucky as well as good to get through that. And thirdly -' Osbeorht paused. 'You can work thirdly out for yourself.'
Arthur stood up. Wordlessly he held the dagger out.
The brigand nodded as he took it. 'And thirdly,' he said quietly, 'I saw you with the horse.'
'I could have killed you.'
Osbeorht snorted. 'You could have tried. And the second you moved, Broga would have split your boy from brain to balls. Assuming he could find either. Ah, well. You won't mind if we bind your hands for the night.'
'Actually, I do.'
'You were warned. Broga.'
A mailed fist smashed into Merlin's cheek, slamming his head into the tree. Stars danced in front of his eyes. Across a vast distance he heard Arthur's voice, choked with fury. 'You'll pay for that.'
'You're worth more to me in one piece. Him, not so much. Hands.'
Merlin opened his eyes. The clearing rocked around him and he closed them again. A line of fire stung his cheek where the gauntlet had cut him. Cautiously he explored his mouth with his tongue: plenty of blood, but he didn't seem to have lost any teeth.
A shove sent Arthur sprawling to land at Merlin's feet.
'You're covered in blood.' Arthur rolled round to face him. 'Don't you ever wash?'
Merlin spat blood onto the grass and grinned. 'Didn't want to show you up. Seriously though -'
'Shut up, Merlin.'
'No, but -'
'I said shut up. You don't imagine I'm cleaning my own privy, do you? Get some sleep. Things will look different in the morning.'
--
Merlin stood very still, trying to work out what had awakened him. A long way off, a wolf howled and was answered. He opened his eyes.
It was several seconds before he realised the red haze blinding him was firelight. He shook his head to clear his blurred vision and a wave of nausea rolled through him. Sinking back against the oak, he waited for the headache to dissipate.
'Your man will die.' Arthur's voice. Merlin cranked his eyes into slits and looked down; the prince was no longer at his feet. He blinked and raised his head slowly.
Arthur's face glowed red in the firelight. Osbeorht sat facing him, his back to Merlin. Two others lay close by, huddled in blankets. Three. Merlin squinted into the darkness. A man sat at the edge of the clearing, shoulders hunched, staring down the trail.
'Brun? I think so.' Osbeorht nodded. 'He was a good man.'
'As were you once, I think.'
'Maybe.' After a minute Osbeorht spoke again. 'We were farmers, my brother and I. Not fighters. And then one morning my lord's son had a fancy to go hunting and the fox brought him through our fields. You've hunted, princeling?'
'Often.'
'They trampled our crops. Their dogs tore our pigs to pieces.'
Arthur frowned. 'Most lords pay compensation.'
'Nineteen pennies. Gone by winter.'
Two against two. They would never have better odds. Merlin stared at the guard and concentrated. The magic surged within him. Flickered. Fell back. Died. He tried again, and again, until his skull shrieked with pain.
It was no good. He jerked his head to the side just in time and threw up.
'Merlin!' Even with his arms tied behind his back, Arthur was on his feet at once.
'Concussion.' Osbeorht shrugged. 'Broga hit him hard.'
'There was no need -'
'My brother stole a chicken and they hanged him. Sleep well, princeling. Tomorrow you'll tell us who you are.'
--
Dawn was a rosy glimmer in the east when Merlin finally gave up trying to sleep. His joints were stiff and cold and his throat dry, but his head felt clear. He spat stale vomit from his mouth and coughed.
A leather flask touched his lips. He twisted and sucked in cool water. 'Not too much,' a voice warned him.
'Thanks.' It was a croak.
'You look better.'
Merlin grunted.
'Lucan!' Broga was standing by the horses, scowling. Lucan shrugged, stoppering the flask as he walked away. Merlin saw him pause beside the injured Brun, then stiffen and lift the woollen blanket over the brigand's face. He watched as Lucan hurried over to Broga, and concentrated on the memory of throwing up.
Lucan staggered and clutched at his stomach. He sank to his knees, retching. Yellow-green vomit spewed from his mouth. His face was ashen.
'Lucan!' Broga shook his friend's shoulder. A stream of liquid narrowly missed his leg and he jumped back.
'Let me help!' Merlin leaned forward, struggling against the ropes. 'I know about herbs. I can help him!' In the grey morning light, he saw Arthur's head jerk up, eyes narrowed.
'Is this true?' Osbeorht demanded, rounding on Arthur.
Arthur nodded. 'He's quite a good apothecary. Stop grinning, Merlin: it makes you look half-witted.'
Osbeorht gave Merlin a searching glance. Lucan vomited again and rolled over, groaning. Osbeorht nodded. 'Take him, Broga. If he tries to escape, kill him.'
Merlin reeled as the cords binding him were loosened. Broga looped one end of the rope around his wrist and yanked. Merlin stumbled forward.
'Move,' Broga told him and they set off into the forest.
--
'Now then.' Broga's voice was urgent. 'Tell me where.'
Merlin pretended to think. 'A stream. A lake would be better. There'll be a tree with dark green leaves, maybe a group of them. It'll have white flowers and purple berries in the summer.'
Broga scratched his head. 'I know where a lake is. What do these leaves do?'
'Make him sick.'
'He's already sick.'
'He needs to be more sick.'
'If he dies, so do you. Slowly.'
'I guessed that.'
Broga seemed to know the forest well; within minutes they were picking their way along the side of a small lake. The foul smell of decay coated the greasy air. The mud beneath their boots was soft and slippery with rotting leaves.
Broga glanced fearfully at the mist rising from the dark water. 'This is an evil place,' he whispered. 'Do you see what you need?'
'Over there.' Merlin wrinkled his nose and pointed. 'That clump of elder. I need the highest leaves, the ones that get the sun. You'll have to climb.' He sank down on a mossy stump and began rubbing his legs. His feet and fingers tingled.
'Why can't you climb?'
'You're lucky I can even walk.' Merlin let doubt creep into his voice. 'It doesn't matter. We could use leaves from lower down, I suppose.'
'No.' Broga hoisted himself up onto a branch. 'Don't try to run. I'll catch you.'
'I won't run.' Merlin sat down, barely daring to breathe. Eyes half-closed, he watched as Broga climbed, marvelling at how easy it seemed even in armour. 'That branch there. That's the one.'
Broga leaned back over the lake and took out his knife.
The tree seemed to come alive in Broga's hands. Twisting and writhing like a serpent it lashed him across the face with whiplike branches, drawing blood. Broga cried out in shock and pain. Then the whole tree rippled, a monstrous surge of energy that tossed the brigand into the water as easily as if he had been a dandelion seed carried on the wind. He raised his head, eyes wide with terror, and stretched his arms towards the shore, but it was too far, too far away. The black water closed over his head as the stolen chain mail dragged him down.
Merlin took a deep breath, trembling, and threw up. The ropes fell away from him as he stood up. Picking up a piece of wood to use as a cudgel, he hurried back along the path.
--
He abandoned the trail two-thirds of the way up and skirted around to the far side of the hill, keeping his body low and using the cover of the trees.
Lucan was still vomiting spasmodically and taking no interest in his surroundings. Merlin grinned. He hadn't expected it to be so effective. Osbeorht squatted beside him, one arm round Lucan's shoulders. Arthur sat nearby, staring into the dying fire.
Merlin stepped out of the wet bracken, clutching his cudgel. Arthur's body tensed. He looked up at Osbeorht.
'You were asking who I was,' he said. Merlin took another step.
'Aye.' Osbeorht lifted his head. 'Stop fidgeting, lad. Is there a centipede in your hose?'
Arthur's smile was dazzling. 'Actually I was sitting on a sharp stone.' He leaned forward, shifting his weight. Merlin took another step, and another.
'Go on then, princeling, if you're minded to be talkative. Who are you?'
'I'm Uther's son. Uther Pendragon. You may have heard of me. My name is Arthur.'
Osbeorht cursed and then a twig snapped under Merlin's foot. The brigand spun round, leaping to his feet faster than Merlin could have imagined and drawing his sword in a blur of motion. Merlin stepped back. The cudgel slipped from his hand. Osbeorht lunged -
- and Arthur's dagger, the dagger Merlin knew nothing about, buried itself in the base of his neck.
'I told you you would pay.' There was ice in Arthur's voice as he retrieved his dagger and crossed to the helpless Lucan. Merlin turned away. When he looked back, Arthur was wiping his dagger on the grass.
'You took your time.' Arthur's breathing was uneven, as if he had been running.
'Sorry.' Merlin wiped sweating palms on his thighs.
'What happened to the other one?'
'He, um, fell out of a tree. Into a lake.'
Arthur's eyes narrowed. 'You're very lucky, Merlin.'
Laughter bubbled up inside Merlin and split his face in a smile that made his head ring.
'Lucky?' he echoed. 'I suppose I am.'
They looked at each other without speaking for a long moment and then Arthur said, 'Strip the bodies. I want my armour back.'
--
The snow was melting in the fields as they emerged from the forest trail. Blue flowers sparkled in the soaking grass.
'Merlin.' Arthur's tone was exasperated. 'Stop not looking at me.'
'I'm not not looking at you.'
'Merlin.'
'I can smell blood,' Merlin admitted. 'I think one of the bags is leaking.'
'I can't smell anything.' But Arthur reined in his horse and dismounted. Merlin waited unhappily, staring at the ground.
'Nothing. You must be imagining it.'
Merlin nodded. They rode in silence for another mile and then Arthur spoke again.
'Radulf's boy is ten.' He did not look at Merlin. 'He needs to know that his father's life mattered.'
Merlin glanced involuntarily back along the line of horses with their lumpy burdens. From a distance they might have been carrying turnips.
'They put themselves outside the law,' Arthur continued. 'Do you understand that, Merlin?'
'Yes.' Merlin swallowed. 'Would you - would you do that to anyone? Who put himself outside the law?'
They were at the border of Trewallan's farm now, where the willow dipped its branches to the beck. From the long barn came the sound of sawing.
Arthur stared at the path ahead. His eyes were dark. 'If I had to,' he said.
--
Note: posted to my LJ on DATE and to merlingen on 15 March 2009 and to merlinfic on 16 March 2009. Thanks to kennahijja and morrighan_sai for their wonderful beta work.