Merlin Fanfiction: Love As Thou Wilt | Part 9
Part 9
Merlin can only stare at the bay before them. The people Driant had sent ahead of them had been busy. Boats of all sizes float in the water before them, even rafts. It is an odd fleet, but it is the best they can do.
“This is not going to be pretty,” Petit mutters next to Merlin.
He is right. It takes nearly two days to figure out how to stow everyone onto all the boats, including the horses. Merlin frets the entire time they work, Aithusa on his shoulder. Merlin is next to Driant when a wizened old woman hobbles up to them.
“My lord, you must tell your men not to fish the deep waters. That is the Fisher King’s domain and he does not tolerate trespassers,” she says with a bow.
“I will tell them,” Driant says with a serious nod to the woman. And he does, imprinting the seriousness of his words. They cannot fail in this crossing or all of Albion will be lost. Merlin stands back and watches as Driant gives his speech to his men, his words inspiring. Merlin wonders what it must be like, to have so many placing their very lives in your hand, to have people hanging on your very words. It must be heady and a little terrifying.
With a yell, his men surge forward in a war cry, their blood singing with the battle to come. Merlin swallows nervously. Soon, Merlin is back in the row boat, heading for the flag ship. Gwaine is already there, eyes staring across the waters towards home, though they can’t see its shoreline from here.
“What’s the matter?” Merlin asks, seeing the distant look in Gwaine’s eyes. The last time he had seen Gwaine like this had been after Gwaine had told him that Emrys was not Kilgharrah’s true last name. Merlin still remembers those words uttered from an unseen source. He had regretted learning Kilgharrah’s past because his search for answers had caused the man’s- dragon’s- death.
Gwaine shakes his head, smirking at Merlin. “It’s nothing, just wool gathering.” Gwaine knocks his fist against Merlin’s shoulder gently and saunters off down the deck, calling out to one of the sailors hanging off of the main mast. Merlin’s gut clinched in worry, the feeling that something is coming hanging heavy over him.
Soon they are off with a good tail wind driving them forward, towards Albion. He should have realized that things have been too easy for them. Merlin looks up at yells, Arthur following his glance. They cross the deck to the other side.
One of the rafts is rocking in the water, men shouting and laughing, tossing words of advice and encouragement. One of the sailors placed on the raft is on his back, grappling with a large fish, tuna it looks like.
One of the Hibernians comes forward, grinning with the oar raised to land a heavy blow on the fish’s head. It gives one last wiggle and lies still. Merlin is frozen to the spot as he realizes his mistake. He’d never translated Driant’s words for the Albans. They had no idea that they couldn’t fish here.
The world goes strangely silent, like everything is holding its breath. “No,” Merlin barely gets out before the wind howls around them. Merlin can hear the screams of the panicked horses below deck. Arthur grabs his arm as the ship rocks violently in the wrathful sea.
There’s an odd humming filling the air and Merlin turns around, looking for the source. He can only stare at the towering wave rushing towards their makeshift fleet. It towers higher than their main mast. It shrinks some as it rushes up to them.
Merlin clings to the railing next to Arthur as it lifts their boat up like a toy. He watches as a man not so lucky gets swept away. Merlin’s expecting the wave to shrink back down completely. It doesn’t. It keeps going, carrying them away from the fleet, carrying them south.
~*~
Merlin feels his heart drop into his stomach as an island comes into view. It rises out of the water, a dark thorn in the blue depths. It is mostly flat, but from its center rises a mountain. Merlin can see stone columns standing on top.
As they near, the wave shrinks and slows until their momentum carries them into a bay, cliffs towering around them. Merlin can hear shrieks from above. It doesn’t sound like gulls. One of the Hibernians on the ship yells out, pointing. Two cloaked figures stand on a ledge watching them. Behind them, stairs lead up the cliff face and disappear over the top.
As the ships slows and comes to a stop, Merlin realizes that the ledge comes level with the deck of the boat. “I will go,” Driant says evenly, stepping forward. Merlin can’t help admiring Driant’s resolve.
Still, Merlin steps forward, placing a hand on the man’s arm. “No, I will go. You are needed and Morgana is waiting for you,” Merlin says softly. He can feel Arthur glaring at his back even as he says the words.
“The master will see you,” one of the hooded figures says and starts to point. He signals out Petit, Driant, Merlin, Arthur and Gwaine. Merlin hesitates for a second, but Gwaine shrugs and as a plank is slid across the gap to the ledge, they all clamber across to solid ground.
“Helian will take you to the master,” one of the hooded people says and the second steps forward. Lowering his hood, Merlin sees he is a young man, probably only a few years older than Merlin. “I will see to the rest of your crew.”
Before Merlin can say anything, Helian beckons and they are forced to follow. The stairs are steep and Merlin is wheezing by the time he reaches the top. Next to him, Driant is resilient, going despite the fact that his crippled leg must be hurt him. Straightening, Merlin forces himself to keep going.
Once at the top of the cliff, they follow their guide down a trail. The only word Merlin can come up with for the lands surrounding them is barren. There is nothing green and the smell of death and rot is everywhere.
Merlin sees something circling in the sky up head, but they’re too far away to make out what the creatures are. Helian seems indifferent to the acrid lands around them, just walking ahead. Merlin’s already sweating heavily in the heat and they’ve only just started.
Merlin wants to groan as they come to more stairs, this time up the side of a mountain. They aren’t as steep as the cliff stairway, but there’s nearly three times as many stairs to climb up. Sighing softly, Merlin starts climbing, the rest following.
~*~
The top is nothing but barren rock, nothing growing on it. It is nearly perfectly smooth rock; as if some giant had come along and cleaved the top of the mountain clean off. Around its edge, columns of rock stand tall, stark against the blue sea and sky. A few are missing chunks and one is broken near the top, but the rest stand tall.
A man stands in the center of the circle of stones, his back to them. His hair is white, falling down to nearly his waist. His clothing, though once fine looking, is dingy and dirty, hanging in rags off of his thin frame.
When he turns Merlin can only stare, seeing the power in this man’s eyes. They are standing before the Fisher King.
Merlin can feel the power radiating off of him, awed by it. His knees give out and he falls to the ground. “My lord,” Merlin says.
“Enough, warlock,” the man says, his words rolling like thunder. As if his words alone had broken a spell, Merlin is able to stand up again, no longer weighted down by his power.
“My lord, you gave your word that should I regain my throne, you would grant us passage across your waters to Albion,” Driant says, coming forward. “Why have you brought us to your island?”
“You were warned, Frumgar. And still you and your allies hunted in my waters,” the Fisher King says, voice even. It takes Merlin a minute to realize that he had heard the Fisher King speak in Alban, yet Driant understood his every word.
Merlin shakes himself and steps forward. “You tricked us,” Merlin says. “You knew something like this would happen no matter what. Why have you brought us here?”
“Why?” The Fisher King’s eyes seem to become a dark raging blue, like the sea during a storm. Merlin gulps and takes a step back. “Since before the creation of the five kingdoms, I have been chained to this rock to watch over these waters as punishment for a deed that was not my own and you ask me why?”
“You hold our people hostage,” Driant yells over the howling wind that had picked up at the Fisher King’s anger. “Why?”
At his words, the Fisher King calms, looking over the Hibernian with a curious eye. “You are a curious thing, Frumgar. You are willing to cross uncertain waters to land in turmoil for love. Your sister saw it, in her visions. The Red Hart and the Golden Dragon, intertwined in battle and in love. But you know of only half of a prophesy made long before you were born.”
It clicks then, somewhere deep inside Merlin. He has been trained for this, to see patterns where others see chaos and twisted knots. “You are bound here against your will and you want to break free. But you need two things. One is the union between Morgana and Driant, made in love, not politics. What is the other?”
“Kilgharrah taught you well, warlock. You have a riddle to solve. Figure it out and I will let you free to finish crossing,” the Fisher King says softly, eyeing Merlin. From nowhere, the Fisher King pulls out a golden trident. At his feet, a pool of water bubbles forth. He touches the tip of the trident to the water and it ripples, an image appearing in its depths. Inside, Morgana looks out at them.
“Find the answer and I will aid you in full. Do not and you will never leave this island alive. You have until noon tomorrow,” he says and dismisses them, turning away once more. The water sinks back into the ground, the picture of Morgana gone.
~*~
Helian leads them back down the side of the mountain. Instead of going back the way they had come, he leads them to another trail, around the base of the mountain. A small castle comes into view. It looks run down in some places but most of the walls are still standing.
Inside, Helian leads them to what looks like a common room with many doors leading into it. “You will be sharing rooms for you stay. You will find baths and clothing waiting for you and food will be served shortly,” Helian says.
“And what of the rest of my people?” Driant asks, Merlin quickly translating.
“There is a second island not far from here. Your people have been taken there and will be well taken care of by the villagers there. So long as no harm is done here, they will be kept safe, so I swear,” Helian says, Merlin translating for Driant.
Letting out a tight sigh, Driant nods. “Will the Fisher King be dining with us?” Merlin asks.
“No, warlock. You will share each other’s company,” Helian says. With that, he bows and leaves them to their baths.
They split off and Merlin and Arthur end up in a room again. A servant waits inside for them, head bowed. “You go first,” Arthur says, motioning towards the bath that steams in the corner. Nodding Merlin walks over and starts to strip out of his salt stained clothing. They’re the ones that Mordred had given to him. It feels like that day was a lifetime ago.
Although he wants to linger in the heated water, Merlin forces himself to get out once he is cleaned so that Arthur can go after him. The servant comes forward as Merlin steps out and hands him a towel to dry himself off. He holds out and outfit for Merlin. It’s a little large on his thin frame, he’s lost some weight recently, but the clothing is clean and soft and for the first time in a while, he feels human again.
Thanking the man, Merlin slips out of the room, new boots thumping on the stone floor. Arthur goes in and Merlin goes to the bed where Aithusa has stationed himself, eyes taking in everything around the room. It is well furnished, half damaged tapestries hanging off of the walls, slightly tarnished candle sticks. It all looks like it has been sitting at the bottom of the sea and Merlin realizes that it probably was.
Stroking down Aithusa neck ridge, Merlin shivers slightly at the morbid atmosphere he feels in the room. Arthur takes even less time than Merlin and is soon coming out of the room, looking better now that he is cleaned.
The servant bows and leaves them, disappearing behind a tapestry that must cover the servant’s entrance. Sighing, Merlin follows Arthur as he heads back out into the main room where some of the others are finished and waiting for them.
Once everyone was together, they ate. They ate well that night, most of the dishes made of things caught from the sea. The room is quite for the most part, only the sound of their breathing and their cutlery on their plate disturbing the quiet.
Merlin gazes at the somber faces all around him. He looks over at Gwaine and his friend’s face seems the most somber of all, his eyes down cast, his brow pinched. Aithusa nudges Merlin’s cheek and he feeds another slice of fish to the little dragon.
As the finish and the servants take away the dishes, Petit takes a drag from his goblet and starts to talk. “So we have a riffle to solve,” he says softly.
Standing, Merlin walks over to look out the window. It is dark out and all he can see is his reflection in the glass, the light from the candles behind him like stars in the night sky. He sees Driant coming up behind him before he hears the Hibernian. “You know,” is all he says. Merlin nods. “There’s a price,” he continues when Merlin doesn’t answer.
Merlin nods glumly, staring at his reflection. “There is always a price,” Merlin just says. “To give something, something else must be taken in order for the Balance to be kept.”
“I will pay it if I must,” Driant says evenly.
“What’s going on?” Petit asks, looking between the warlock and the Frumgar.
“Ask Merlin,” Gwaine says evenly. “He thinks he has solved it.”
Merlin looks over at Gwaine, but his friend has his back to him, his shoulders and odd mixture of tension and exhaustion, as if his body can’t decide which to choose. “What have you figured out?” Petit asks, eyes worried as he looks at Merlin.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Arthur asks, staring at Merlin hard.
“No,” Merlin admits with a saddened smile.
~*~
Merlin doesn’t sleep well that night, tossing and turning with his thoughts. He can hear Arthur on the other side of the room, his breathing light and even and it sooths him some. Aithusa chirps softly in his ear and Merlin strokes the dragon’s head softly.
With morning, they all rise, whiling away the hours until they are summoned to stand before the Fisher King. The stairs don’t seem to be as hard to climb this time as they had been before. The Fisher King is standing where they left him yesterday.
“Do you have an answer?” he asks.
When the silence stretches out, Merlin swallows and nods. “Yes, my lord. One of us must take your place.”
“And is one of you willing to take my place?” he asks softly, looking at Merlin.
Merlin gulps, his throat tightening as he forces the words out, “I am.”
“No!” It takes Merlin a second to realize that it is Gwaine who has spoken up. “This is not your sacrifice to make, Merlin. I will stay.”
“What! No, Gwaine, this is my choice,” Merlin hisses, walking over to his friend.
Gwaine shakes his head sadly, gripping Merlin by the shoulders. “Do you remember when I told you of Gylden’s visions?” he asks softly, words just for the two of them. Merlin nods slightly. “She saw me on an island…this island.” Merlin shakes his head stubbornly. “Merlin, you are needed in Camelot. I’m just a drunk who’s good with a sword. If I can do some good in this world by staying on this island, than I will.”
Merlin shakes his head again, but Gwaine just hugs him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to the warlock.
“Have you decided?” the Fisher King asks.
“Yes,” Gwaine says. “I will take your place.”
“So be it. You will remain on this island and learn under me until such a time as I deem you worthy of taking my place,” The Fisher King says.
“Are we free to cross?” Driant asks as the silence grows around them.
“You will have free passage. And as I promised, I will aid you so much as I can. Come,” he motions and the pool of water from before seeps back up onto the rock. The Fisher King touches it with his trident and it grows dark, showing images.
“I will show you all that has passed in Camelot and the five kingdoms. And I will see your men and horses safely to the shore. Will you see it now?” he asks and looks at Merlin.
Merlin can feel himself trembling slightly. Taking a breath, he shakes his head, “May we have some time?” he asks.
The Fisher King nods. “I will summon you the hour before sundown,” he says.
~*~
Back in their common room, Merlin waits until Gwaine is in the room and the door shut before rounding on his friend. “Why did you do that?” Merlin asks sharply.
Gwaine sighs, stepping towards Merlin. “When I was younger, I had my fortune told once, by an old soothsayer. She told me that my destiny was far away from Camelot surrounded by sea and sky. I never understood what she meant by that until recently. At first I thought she’d meant I was to be a sailor, but then I met you and paths change. The next time I went back to her, she cackled and said my destiny had not changed. In fact it was stronger than ever.”
“Why not tell me?” Merlin asks softly. They’re alone now; the other’s giving them privacy to talk.
“Because I was having too much fun with you to bring it up and you had your own worries.” Gwaine grins impishly down at Merlin. “For the longest time, I thought we would end up together, the rogue and the warlock. And then the princess came and I realized that that would never happen. Besides, knowing our luck, the moment we hit solid ground, that idiot would just swim back the way we came and curse us all. One day he’ll realize just how much he is in love with you. I’d love to be there to see his face when it happens,” Gwaine says with a smirk.
Merlin can feel tears in his eyes. “I would have…with you. All you had to do was ask and I would have in an instant,” Merlin admits.
“Not anymore, Merlin. Your heart belongs to his, as it should be. Just, go easy on him. Our princess is delicate,” Gwaine jokes.
Merlin swallows and looks away, a small weak laugh bubbling up in his throat. “You’ll go mad here, you know. You are the least likely person to be here. There’s no ale for one,” Merlin mutters.
“Then I’ll teach the locals how to brew some. I learned how from one of the brewers,” Gwaine says. “And besides, I’ve got something that the Fisher King doesn’t have?”
“What?” Merlin croaks out.
“A friend who is good with riddles. If anyone can figure out how to get me free, it is you Merlin,” Gwaine says softly.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to get you free,” Merlin says softly, pulling Gwaine into a hug.
“That’s all I ask,” he says softly. “Also, I need to write out my will, for my things. Could you deliver it to Earl? He’ll know what to do and my crew deserves it.” Merlin nods against his chest. “Thank you.”
Merlin pulls back a little. “You call me an idiot for trying to be a hero and yet you’re doing it yourself,” Merlin says softly.
“Can’t let you win them all,” Gwaine jokes. His face grows somber, “Be careful of Nimueh.”
“I will,” Merlin says softly. Gwaine smiles and hugs him again.
~*~
They leave Gwaine in his room as they troop back up the stairs to the Fisher King. He is already there waiting for them when the step onto the top of the mountain. Are you ready?” he asks.
“Yes,” Merlin says and they step up to stand around the pool of water. The Fisher King nods and taps the water with his trident. The water ripples and darkens. When the ripples fade away, an image appears.
“War,” is all the Fisher King says. And it is. It showed first thousands of Picts raining through the passes, armed to the teeth, mouths open in silent war chants. Even with no sound, Merlin can hear it clearly as if he is standing there. Shivering, he looks on. Next it shifts to a view of a river and a burning bridge. “The Gathen River Bridge,” Merlin whispers.
They watch the Picts stare across the raging water at the Alban forces massed there. The Picts cannot cross, but there are still other places they can ford across. There’s an order and the archers fire, raining arrows down on the Picts who turn and flee far enough away from the arrows.
It switches again to the mountains. D’Alene sits in his armor atop his horse, his men ranging behind him. His banner flapping in the breeze behind them, the three snakes stark against the ragged backdrop of the mountains. Merlin’s heart is in his throat, dreading the worst.
“Wait,” the Fisher King says and the image shifts again.
It shows more Picts sweeping into the western pass. Ahead is the Escetian flag flies high and below it, the personal banner of Persant de Dieu, steward of Escetia. Behind him ranges the Escetian army, bracing for the impact of the Pictish invasion force.
Above, D’Alene waits, about to descend upon the unsuspecting Escetians who have eyes only for the Picts in front of them. D’Alene’s hand rises to give the command and Merlin holds his breath. Then confusion breaks out, D’Alene’s men scattering and it take Merlin to realize why.
D’Alene’s own rearguard falls upon their comrades. Peeking out here and there is a banner and it takes Merlin a second to realize just who they are. Dillon’s Men fight for their lost leader, their dead prince in a vain attempt to bring back his lost honor. Merlin can feel tears running down his face as they are slain.
But it had worked; their distraction had allowed Persant’s men to take on the incoming Picts without being caught unawares. Furious, D’Alene motions for them to bring one of the captured men forward, he asks something. The man laughs at Valiant, eyes defiant, even in the face of his own death.
When he answers, Merlin sees D’Alene’s face go white. He hadn’t known of Arrœk’s betrayal. Face contorting, he motions for them to kill the prisoner. D’Alene has his men follow those who escaped and they are forced to watch as the last of Dillon’s Men flee D’Alene and head straight into the Pictish army. They are killed quickly, that much can be said.
Valiant, seeing this, turns his men around, unseen by Arrœk’s forces. He flees, back into the mountains, his men following. The image leaves Valiant and turns back onto the main battle as the Escetian forces battle on. Merlin can see flags from the other kingdoms, troops sent to help defend the five kingdoms: Escetia, Mercia, Acestir, Tintagel, but no Camelot. All of Camelot’s troops are centered on keeping the eastern pass defended.
Merlin blinks as a familiar face comes into view, Kay l’Ector’s face in a scowls as he fights beside his men. The battle is even for a while but more and more Picts pour out of the pass and soon, the Escetian army is overwhelmed. The order to retreat is called and the army pulls back.
Merlin watches as the archers stand grimly behind the retreating army, securing their flight. Most of them die, the rest saved by L’Ector’s Calvary. They fall back to Fæstenn, a fortress right on the border between Camelot and Escetia.
Morgana is there, to stand or die. It is the same image that they had seen the first time and Driant makes a noise in the back of his throat at the image of her. It fades away to reveal a map. “The Camelot army is here,” the Fisher King says, pointing, stations at Highpass and along the river, keeping the Picts from breaking through and coming up behind the rest of the army. Morgana and the main army are in Fæstenn and the fighting has come to a standstill. They are well stocked and can withstand a siege for up to a month, two if they ration.”
“But even then their food supply is limited,” Merlin says, “while the Picts have the whole kingdom to forge from. It’s a waiting game until they are forced out.”
“Cowards,” Petit mutters, glaring down at the map.
“More troops do come. Duc L’Ector has sent a request to his Emperor who has granted him foot soldiers, but they will be some days in getting there and may not arrive in time. The other kingdoms are sending more troops as well, but they are spread thin at the moment trying to protect their own borders should Camelot and Escetia fall.”
The Fisher King turns to Petit, “Your men are at the river, helping the Camelot army with the Escetian fleet.” Petit nods in approval.
“Where is D’Alene?” Merlin asks.
The Fisher King points, “He has holed himself up in a valley here.”
“And Nimueh?” Merlin asks.
“I do not know this woman and only the large events can be shown in the pool,” he says. He straightens, looking at them. “I cannot leave this island. But I can help you get to Albion faster. Where do you need to go?”
Merlin looks at Petit. “To the mouth of the Gathen River,” he says. “We’ll meet up with the rest of my fleet there and then sail up the river.”
“Tomorrow at dawn then,” the Fisher King says and the water lightens and starts to seep back into the ground. “Be ready.”
They leave and head back down the stairs. They are all quiet, lost in their own thoughts when they return to their rooms. Merlin glances at Gwaine’s room and sighs before heading to his room. Aithusa chirps softly from his spot on the bed, curled up. Smiling down at the dragon, Merlin slips out of the clothing and crawls under the blankets, hoping that sleep will be easier to get tonight.
~*~
Merlin wakes up to the fire burning low and the windows still dark with night. He’d been able to get a few hours’ sleep, but his thoughts wouldn’t sit still for long. Slipping out from under the blankets, Merlin pads out of the room in his night clothes, bare feet tapping against the cold stone.
He pauses outside Gwaine’s room before pushing the door open without knocking. He’s not surprised to see Gwaine is still awake in bed. Gwaine doesn’t say anything, just lifts the blankets for Merlin.
Sliding into the bed, Merlin curls up next to his friend. “I couldn’t sleep,” Merlin admits softly. “Camelot’s going to be so different without you there.”
“I know,” Gwaine says.
“Why do you have to be such a stupid hero?” Merlin asks, clutching at Gwaine’s knight shirt, pressing his face into Gwaine’s chest.
“I guess you and the princess rubbed off on me,” Gwaine says softly, running a hand down Merlin’s arm.
Grabbing Gwaine’s shirt tighter, Merlin pulls the man down, kissing him, trying to get as much of Gwaine as he can before he leaves. Gwaine sighs into the kiss and presses back for the barest moment before he pulls Merlin away. “No,” he says softly.
“But-,” Merlin starts.
“No, Merlin. Don’t think this is the only way you have to say goodbye, please. I don’t want you to be that way with me. And I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself if you keep doing that. You never have to be that way with me,” Gwaine says softly.
Merlin’s eyes fill up and he presses his face back into Gwaine’s chest. “I hate you so much,” he mutters into Gwaine’s chest.
Gwaine chuckles, “I know.”
“I’ll miss you,” Merlin says again.
“I know,” Gwaine murmurs. They fall asleep like that, tangled together.
~*~
They set sail with the dawn. Merlin stands at the back of the ship, watching as the island steadily grows smaller. On the very top, Gwaine watches them leave. Merlin cries again, a piece of his heart staying on the island. He’ll return one day to his friend.
Arthur is a silent presence behind him. When he can no longer make out Gwaine, Merlin dries his tears, straightening his shoulders. “We have a war to get to,” Merlin says finally, turning to look at Arthur.
“Merlin,” Arthur starts to say.
Merlin shakes his head, “Please don’t. I know this was for the greater good, but it still hurts.”
“I was going to say that I’ll help you free him, whatever it takes,” Arthur says softly, looking at the warlock.
“Oh,” Merlin says and smiles a little. “Thank you.”
The humming noise from before started up and behind them, a wave rose. Slipping under their ship, it rose and carried them northward, towards the Gathen River’s mouth where it plunges into the sea. What felt like forever only took about a day. As they neared the shoreline, the wave shrank and dissipated until they were sailing under their own power.
Ahead, they could make out the rest of their fleet. They had been brought ahead. They are camped upon the sandy shores and when they saw the flag ship, Hibernian and Alban alike let out a cheer. Men swim out and mooring lines are tossed down. The row boat is lowered and soon, the crew is back amongst everyone else.
There had been loses. Fifteen men and four horses had been lost to the Fisher King’s anger when he had first appeared. Everyone else is alive and though it hurt Merlin to think about it, Gwaine sacrifice saved them all. More would have been lose had he not remained.
Petit wastes no time in gathering his men. He selects his fastest rider to head east further into Camelot. The Comte de Dieu, the Royal Commander, would be seeing to the defense of Camelot and the Highpass just north of the Gathen River and so would the rest of Petit’s fleet.
“They will bring my fleet,” he tells Driant, Merlin translating. Driant nods in understanding. That night, they camped on the beach, waiting for the ships to arrive.
~*~
They move out in the morning, along the river. Only a few ships besides the flag ship are in good enough shape to make the journey up river. So most of the army travels on foot, Merlin with it. They travel like this for nearly two days when the pounding of horse hooves brings the army to a stop as their messengers arrive back.
“My lord,” one of the sailors cries out from atop his horse, “Your fleet.” As he says it, the ships come into view, their sails bulging in the wind as they sail down the river. There are cheers all around as the ships slow and finally stop, anchors dropping to the riverbed. There are over thirty ships all told and it is like a forest of masts.
Petit is quick to send out orders, organizing the stowing of men and horses on board his ships. When the last man and horse is on board and the sails drop, a wind rises from behind them, catching the sails. The Fisher King is keeping his promise of help. With the wind behind them, they sail up the river, towards war.
~*~
Even with the wind, it is slow going up the river and it takes them another day to make it far enough west. There are plenty of men to man the oars when the wind slacks and dies down. They make it through and during that time, the sailors tell them what has been happening.
It seems that Morgana had indeed gone through with her decision and Cenred de la Escetia had been called back from exile. He is commanding half of the troops to hold the border with the Comte de Dieu. They had burnt all the bridges that the Picts could use to cross and they are holding off any attempts to cross at the shallower points in the river. The ships are keeping the rest of the river secure.
As they round a bend in the river, the sounds of battle can be heard. Looking ahead they can see the Picts massing at the first bridge. In Petit’s fleet’s absence, they had started to repair the bridge. The archers across the river are trying to hold them off, but the Picts have started thinking and use their shields clustered together to shield the works.
A few hundred have made it across, the rest pressed back by the archer. The fleet has arrived just in time. The ships turn and ground the ships along the river’s edge. The moment planks are lowered, Driant’s army boils over the sides, singing war chants and yelling battle cries. It’s not surprising that the Picts break ranks and run.
It’s over quicker than Merlin expected. Nearly all the Picts have been slain and those that survived had either been captured or had escaped back into the pass and into the mountains. The Hibernians return blood spattered and victorious. On the other side of the river, the Camelot army cheers. At its head is Pellinore, seated regally on his horse and coming up behind him, Cenred, eyes burning fierce.
It takes nearly fifty men to move the firmly stuck flag ship from the river bank. The fleet will remain here to keep defending the river and Highpass while Driant’s army follows them westward, towards Fæstenn and Arrœk.
As Merlin gets out of the row boat on the other side of the river, Pellinore and Cenred come forward to greet them. They nod to Petit as he stands behind Merlin. Pellinore arches a brow at the admiral, “I didn’t believe it when your messengers told me.” Coming up behind Merlin is Driant, Æcran and Æcrania behind him.
Merlin steps forward, “My lords, this is Driant mab Drekana, the Frumgar of Hibernia. And this is Æcran mac Laren and Æcrania mac Laren, the Lords of the Wigend.” Merlin repeats it to the others so they will understand. They nod to the two lords.
“It is good to see you, Merlin,” Pellinore says softly to Merlin and Merlin nods. Pellinore had been a friend of Kilgharrah’s.
“My lord, there is not much time to tell our tale, but the short of it is that I have done as Her Majesty has asked and brought the Frumgar and his army to help aid in stopping this invasion,” Merlin says.
“Indeed you have. Bring the rest ashore and we’ll get to work on how to go about our march to Fæstenn,” Pellinore says motioning to them to follow him.
~*~
They gather in Pellinore’s tent. A wooden foldable table is there, map spread across it. “They’re holed up inside. With a deep well, they have plenty of water, but even with the fort well stocked, they can’t last forever,” Pellinore says, pointing to the point on the map where Fæstenn is.
“How many Picts?” Merlin asks, already guessing the number is high.
“Thirty-odd thousand,” Cenred says nearby, leaning against a chest as he stares at them. Merlin quickly translates for Driant and the others.
“What about in the fortress?” Petit asks.
“We’re unsure of how many losses we took. Seven thousand before the battle started. The fortress is nearly impenetrable. There are trenches and stake pits all around it, plus archers along the wall. There is also a second wall inside as well. But we’ve been getting reports of the Picts working on something. They think it might be siege towers, but none have gotten a good look just yet.”
“Any word from the Emperor’s troops yet?” petit asks.
“None,” Pellinore says. “They were supposed to have arrived two days ago, but something has delayed them it seems. We can’t rely on the hope that they will arrive in time.”
Merlin frowns at the map, recalling his time amongst the Picts. “There may be something else we can do. Arrœk’s army is full of individual tribes and clans. Many have been feuding for years now, bad blood between them. If we can just break his discipline over them, they might turn on each other,” Merlin says looking up.
“And do you propose we do that?” Cenred asks, eyeing Merlin.
“The Picts have never seen the Hibernians. You saw what happened on the battle field today when Hibernians came at them. They were afraid. They broke ranks and ran. We can use that to our advantage,” Pellinore says. “They’re a superstitious bunch from what I’ve seen. We could harry their troops. But, we’ll need someplace to retreat to in the mountains.”
Merlin holds off on translating, “How many of us would survive?”
Pellinore looks at him. “None. We would survive by pure luck. But it’s the only way to help at the moment. It may be slim, but it’s worth a shot.”
Nodding, Merlin turns and translates for Driant and the Wigend. They’re faces are somber as they take in Merlin’s words.
“I’m willing to take them back. We didn’t ask them to commit suicide for us,” Petit says softly.
Driant seems to understand though because he speaks before Merlin can start, “And what of your friend Gwaine?” Merlin swallows. If I do not wed Morgana, if I die or she does, the curse remains unbroken. There will be no way for us to return home when the very seas will swallow our attempts. Not even you could sing down his wrath at that,” Driant says softly.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin says softly.
“You only did as you were commanded, but my destiny is my own and I will follow it to its end. I will give my people a choice though. To go against this army or to go against the Fisher King.” Driant nods and he and the Wigend leave to speak with their people. Merlin translates his words.
“Understandable,” Pellinore says. “But I will be going with you, warlock. My sons are in Fæstenn and I will be by their side, no matter what.”
~*~
Merlin finds Arthur on the edge of the war camp seated under a tree. Above, the stars shine down in the thankfully clear night. Throughout the camp, fires burn as Driant’s people talk into the night, deciding their fate.
“Do you think there will be any knights you know there?” Merlin asks quietly.
“Probably. I knew a few of them from training had gotten positions in courts: Marrok and Balin, Percival and Elyan, Gwen’s brother. They all will be there to protect their charges. I haven’t seen them since I was made your knight,” Arthur admits. “I wonder, do they think me a murderer?”
“If they know you truly, they will not believe it,” Merlin says softly.
Arthur snorts humorlessly. “Perhaps and perhaps they think I have changed. It’s happened. Serving as a knight is a hard life sometimes.”
“I don’t know what to tell you Arthur. If they think it of you, then it means we will have to try harder to get to Fæstenn to prove to them that you are not what they have heard,” Merlin says.
“If we can survive it,” Arthur says softly.
“There is that,” Merlin agrees. He leans against Arthur’s side, the knight tucking him under his shoulder.
~*~
With the sun comes Driant’s answer. “We will stay and fight,” he says simply. Pellinore nods at Merlin’s translation. “But, should we fall, we want word to be sent to our home so that each and everyone will know how we fought in bravery and honor for freedom.”
Merlin steps forward, eyes saddened but hard, “I promise it.” Merlin looks at Driant. “Whatever it takes, they will know of your deeds.”
Arthur makes a soft sound behind him, the knight having understood some of what was said. But he doesn’t say anything as Merlin translates for Pellinore and the rest.
“Then it is settled. We ride out a dawn tomorrow,” Pellinore says.
~*~
Another dawn and they are moving again. Merlin bids farewell to Petit who is staying to guard the river with his fleet and sailors. Cenred remains as well, holding the pass with his men. A quarter of the Camelot army follows them. The sailors who Merlin had titled are released to go with Merlin, guards for the warlock. Merlin wants to protest, but the sailors ignore him with knowing looks on their faces.
Merlin just sighs and lets them come.
They travel along the river for the day and camp on its shores. In Pellinore’s tent, Merlin begs off a piece of parchment. Sitting down, he quickly drafts a letter. Blowing on it gently to dry the ink, he hands it to the sailor who has just entered the tent. “I need you to ride this to Camelot. It is for Queen’s Poet, Juliana de Listinoise.” The sailor sketches a bow and leaves, clutching the parchment in his hand.
“What was that about?” Arthur asks, watching the sailor leave.
“It was in case we do not make it. Juliana can fulfill my promise to Driant to bring their story to Hibernia,” Merlin says simply, looking up at the knight.
“I’ll protect you, to the end I will protect you,” Arthur says quietly, his gaze intense as he stares down at Merlin.
Merlin smiles sadly and nods, “I know you will, my knight. That is all I can ask of you.”
~*~
The next morning, they turn away from the river. It will soon turn north and they need to head west if they are to reach Fæstenn to be of any help. They do turn slightly northward for half a day, taking a longer route to avoid being detected by Pictish scouts.
In the rolling hills of the north, they arrive at the western pass. It has mostly been left clear, Arrœk’s army further south attacking Fæstenn. A few groups linger south of the pass, scouts to warn Arrœk of anyone approaching behind.
It takes only a small force sent against the lingering Picts to take them out, none escaping. With the way clear, their army heads south, towards Fæstenn. Hidden in the hills, they arrive unnoticed. Any scouts that see them are taken out by their own Hibernian scouts, experts at stealth.
They find Arrœk’s army amassed around the fortress. “There’s so many of them,” Merlin says softly, laying on his belly and staring down at the thousands of Picts. It’s one thing to see them through scrying, another to see the numbers first hand.
“There,” Pellinore says pointing to where the Picts have already raised a few siege towers. They are ready for use and only need to be pushed up against the wall of Fæstenn’s wall. “That will be where we strike. It should slow them down and cause enough damage to make them come after us.” Merlin gulps and readies for flight.
~*~
“Could you use magic?” Arthur asks as they wait for dawn to come. Driant has already taken his men closer to the Pictish army in preparation to attack just before the sun rises.
“I don’t know. Maybe, if I was close enough. I could light fire to the siege towers. I never learned battle magic though,” Merlin says softly. Merlin glances up as one of their scouts comes riding up. “They’re attacking,” he says.
They ready their mounts. The moment that the Hibernians appear, they press their heels to the mounts side, spurring them forward. Behind them, Merlin can hear the roars and yells of the Picts following them.
There’s a shriek and Merlin glances up to see Aithusa following in the sky, wings outstretched. Merlin glances back once and his heart seems to stop as he sees the masses of Picts following. Turning back forward, Merlin spurs his horse faster. They flee into the mountains, drawing the Picts after them.
Merlin knows the traps are there, but it still hard to believe when they are triggered and the Picts are taken by surprise. The avalanche of rocks and boulders takes them by surprise and they have no time to escape as they are crushed. It’s a horrible sight to behold.
They had timed the release just so that they caught the tail end of the following Picts, blocking off an escape route. They flee deeper into the mountains and higher up, the archers take aim, firing calmly and steadily down at the Picts.
As the archers run out of arrows they fade back into the crags of the mountain. They can survive better on their own. What remains of the Picts follow their retreat further into the mountains. They pick them off a bunch at a time until eventually they are deep in the mountains and the Picts following are no more.
They camp that night knowing they hadn’t done much of a difference. So they had taken a few hundred, maybe a thousand out. There are still thousands more besieging Fæstenn. Merlin stares glumly at the fire, poking at it with a stick.
A Hibernian scout comes up to Merlin speaking quickly and quietly, pointing to the south. “What is he saying?” asks Pellinore.
Merlin turns wide eyes on those gathered around the fire, “he says there’s an Alban army encamped in a valley a mile south of here.”
~*~
“It’s D’Alene,” Pellinore says.
Merlin quickly explains who D’Alene is to Driant who frowns at the information. Merlin, wide awake, goes to speak with the scout some more. Afterwards, he seeks out Pellinore tending to his horse. “My lord, how many more warriors would you need to take on Arrœk?” Merlin asks softly.
Pellinore frowns, “Ten thousand, maybe less if we could somehow coordinate with those in the fortress. Why?” he asks, eyeing Merlin.
“I have an idea,” Merlin says simply.
~*~
“This is a mad plan,” Arthur hisses as the army breaks camp to start marching south. They leave the horses with a guard. They will need stealth if they’re to sneak up on D’Alene unawares.
“If you can come up with some alternate solution to finding more men to fight, then by all means, spit it out,” Merlin says back. Around them the forest is nearly silent except for the soft rustle of leaves. Merlin’s eyes glow in the dark, hiss magic sizzling under his skin, the only thing keeping D’Alene’s scouts from hearing their approach.
It takes so little time to surround the valley that D’Alene is in. The few sentries he had posted are taken out silently, no sound beyond a soft thump as they drop to the ground unconscious. Then they wait and listen, watching the camp down below.
As the sun breaks over the mountains, Pellinore signals and his man steps forward, blowing his battle horn, others following the signal and blowing as well. The army stands up along the edge, banners fluttering in the breeze and spears clashing against spears. It is certainly a sight to behold.
D’Alene’s troops are taken completely by surprise. Merlin looks at them and sees hungry, desperate faces. Maybe this won’t be as hard as he had thought. One alone stands and stares up at them, fearless, hand gripping his sword hilt.
Duc Valiant d’Alene, traitor of Camelot and the five kingdoms.
“Valiant d’Alene!” Pellinore calls down. “We send messengers under a white flag of peace; will you honor the codes of war?”
Valiant gives a bow to the words. Two men are sent down, one a white banner held in his hands. As they reach the bottom of the valley, they are surrounded by D’Alene’s men and checked for weapons. Merlin waits with baited breath to see if Valiant will honor the flag.
He does, listening to their message. Looking up at their gathered troops, Merlin can see the way his shoulders sag in defeat. Standing straight, he motions to one of his men and they bring a horse forward. He and five men ride up the winding trail to the top of the valley.
Armed and covered in armor, he rides through the masses of soldiers to dismount in front of Pellinore. “I have come as bid. What do you want?” he asks with eyes like ice.
Pellinore shakes his head. “Tis not I that will speak with you. The Queen’s Ambassador will speak with you,” he says and motions Merlin forward.
Merlin steps forward slowly and bows slightly to Valiant, “My lord.”
“You,” Valiant says sharply, eyes narrowing. Merlin just remains silent, staring at the man. “Kilgharrah’s warlock, I thought you lost amongst the Pictish wilds. I remember Nimueh asking me to have my men take you there, for ‘safe keeping’ as she put it. I had no hand in your lord’s death,” he says sharply. Merlin remains silent.
“Why have you come here?” he asks, staring around at the mixed armies.
“My lord, we have come to give you a choice: you may die here a traitor, hated across the land and sea and no one will remember your name.”
“Or?” Valiant asks wearily.
“Or you can fight with us and die with honor as the man who helped save Albion from invasion. It is your choice,” Merlin says simply.
“And why should I believe this?” Valiant asks.
“Because you are dead no matter what you chose,” Merlin says. “Arrœk will not let a Nædre live poised so close to his throat. He will cut its head off before he allows you to stab him in the back.” Valiant pales as Merlin used the Pictish name he has been given. “Nimueh is in league with him. There is no escaping this.”
Valiant is silent as he takes in Merlin’s words. Merlin wishes he could read his thoughts as he turns to stare down in the valley where his men wait. Finally, he turns back to them, “Will you feed them?” he asks. “Morgana has cut off our supply trains.”
“We will,” Pellinore says.
“What is it that you propose?” he asks, eyeing the commander.
“A united assault on Arrœk’s forces. We strike hard and fast, pinning him between the fortress and us,” Pellinore says evenly.
“Arrœk is mine,” Valiant says quietly, his eyes hard.
“Swear your loyalty and he will be,” Pellinore says back.
“You have it,” Valiant says softly.
~*~
Part 10
Merlin can only stare at the bay before them. The people Driant had sent ahead of them had been busy. Boats of all sizes float in the water before them, even rafts. It is an odd fleet, but it is the best they can do.
“This is not going to be pretty,” Petit mutters next to Merlin.
He is right. It takes nearly two days to figure out how to stow everyone onto all the boats, including the horses. Merlin frets the entire time they work, Aithusa on his shoulder. Merlin is next to Driant when a wizened old woman hobbles up to them.
“My lord, you must tell your men not to fish the deep waters. That is the Fisher King’s domain and he does not tolerate trespassers,” she says with a bow.
“I will tell them,” Driant says with a serious nod to the woman. And he does, imprinting the seriousness of his words. They cannot fail in this crossing or all of Albion will be lost. Merlin stands back and watches as Driant gives his speech to his men, his words inspiring. Merlin wonders what it must be like, to have so many placing their very lives in your hand, to have people hanging on your very words. It must be heady and a little terrifying.
With a yell, his men surge forward in a war cry, their blood singing with the battle to come. Merlin swallows nervously. Soon, Merlin is back in the row boat, heading for the flag ship. Gwaine is already there, eyes staring across the waters towards home, though they can’t see its shoreline from here.
“What’s the matter?” Merlin asks, seeing the distant look in Gwaine’s eyes. The last time he had seen Gwaine like this had been after Gwaine had told him that Emrys was not Kilgharrah’s true last name. Merlin still remembers those words uttered from an unseen source. He had regretted learning Kilgharrah’s past because his search for answers had caused the man’s- dragon’s- death.
Gwaine shakes his head, smirking at Merlin. “It’s nothing, just wool gathering.” Gwaine knocks his fist against Merlin’s shoulder gently and saunters off down the deck, calling out to one of the sailors hanging off of the main mast. Merlin’s gut clinched in worry, the feeling that something is coming hanging heavy over him.
Soon they are off with a good tail wind driving them forward, towards Albion. He should have realized that things have been too easy for them. Merlin looks up at yells, Arthur following his glance. They cross the deck to the other side.
One of the rafts is rocking in the water, men shouting and laughing, tossing words of advice and encouragement. One of the sailors placed on the raft is on his back, grappling with a large fish, tuna it looks like.
One of the Hibernians comes forward, grinning with the oar raised to land a heavy blow on the fish’s head. It gives one last wiggle and lies still. Merlin is frozen to the spot as he realizes his mistake. He’d never translated Driant’s words for the Albans. They had no idea that they couldn’t fish here.
The world goes strangely silent, like everything is holding its breath. “No,” Merlin barely gets out before the wind howls around them. Merlin can hear the screams of the panicked horses below deck. Arthur grabs his arm as the ship rocks violently in the wrathful sea.
There’s an odd humming filling the air and Merlin turns around, looking for the source. He can only stare at the towering wave rushing towards their makeshift fleet. It towers higher than their main mast. It shrinks some as it rushes up to them.
Merlin clings to the railing next to Arthur as it lifts their boat up like a toy. He watches as a man not so lucky gets swept away. Merlin’s expecting the wave to shrink back down completely. It doesn’t. It keeps going, carrying them away from the fleet, carrying them south.
~*~
Merlin feels his heart drop into his stomach as an island comes into view. It rises out of the water, a dark thorn in the blue depths. It is mostly flat, but from its center rises a mountain. Merlin can see stone columns standing on top.
As they near, the wave shrinks and slows until their momentum carries them into a bay, cliffs towering around them. Merlin can hear shrieks from above. It doesn’t sound like gulls. One of the Hibernians on the ship yells out, pointing. Two cloaked figures stand on a ledge watching them. Behind them, stairs lead up the cliff face and disappear over the top.
As the ships slows and comes to a stop, Merlin realizes that the ledge comes level with the deck of the boat. “I will go,” Driant says evenly, stepping forward. Merlin can’t help admiring Driant’s resolve.
Still, Merlin steps forward, placing a hand on the man’s arm. “No, I will go. You are needed and Morgana is waiting for you,” Merlin says softly. He can feel Arthur glaring at his back even as he says the words.
“The master will see you,” one of the hooded figures says and starts to point. He signals out Petit, Driant, Merlin, Arthur and Gwaine. Merlin hesitates for a second, but Gwaine shrugs and as a plank is slid across the gap to the ledge, they all clamber across to solid ground.
“Helian will take you to the master,” one of the hooded people says and the second steps forward. Lowering his hood, Merlin sees he is a young man, probably only a few years older than Merlin. “I will see to the rest of your crew.”
Before Merlin can say anything, Helian beckons and they are forced to follow. The stairs are steep and Merlin is wheezing by the time he reaches the top. Next to him, Driant is resilient, going despite the fact that his crippled leg must be hurt him. Straightening, Merlin forces himself to keep going.
Once at the top of the cliff, they follow their guide down a trail. The only word Merlin can come up with for the lands surrounding them is barren. There is nothing green and the smell of death and rot is everywhere.
Merlin sees something circling in the sky up head, but they’re too far away to make out what the creatures are. Helian seems indifferent to the acrid lands around them, just walking ahead. Merlin’s already sweating heavily in the heat and they’ve only just started.
Merlin wants to groan as they come to more stairs, this time up the side of a mountain. They aren’t as steep as the cliff stairway, but there’s nearly three times as many stairs to climb up. Sighing softly, Merlin starts climbing, the rest following.
~*~
The top is nothing but barren rock, nothing growing on it. It is nearly perfectly smooth rock; as if some giant had come along and cleaved the top of the mountain clean off. Around its edge, columns of rock stand tall, stark against the blue sea and sky. A few are missing chunks and one is broken near the top, but the rest stand tall.
A man stands in the center of the circle of stones, his back to them. His hair is white, falling down to nearly his waist. His clothing, though once fine looking, is dingy and dirty, hanging in rags off of his thin frame.
When he turns Merlin can only stare, seeing the power in this man’s eyes. They are standing before the Fisher King.
Merlin can feel the power radiating off of him, awed by it. His knees give out and he falls to the ground. “My lord,” Merlin says.
“Enough, warlock,” the man says, his words rolling like thunder. As if his words alone had broken a spell, Merlin is able to stand up again, no longer weighted down by his power.
“My lord, you gave your word that should I regain my throne, you would grant us passage across your waters to Albion,” Driant says, coming forward. “Why have you brought us to your island?”
“You were warned, Frumgar. And still you and your allies hunted in my waters,” the Fisher King says, voice even. It takes Merlin a minute to realize that he had heard the Fisher King speak in Alban, yet Driant understood his every word.
Merlin shakes himself and steps forward. “You tricked us,” Merlin says. “You knew something like this would happen no matter what. Why have you brought us here?”
“Why?” The Fisher King’s eyes seem to become a dark raging blue, like the sea during a storm. Merlin gulps and takes a step back. “Since before the creation of the five kingdoms, I have been chained to this rock to watch over these waters as punishment for a deed that was not my own and you ask me why?”
“You hold our people hostage,” Driant yells over the howling wind that had picked up at the Fisher King’s anger. “Why?”
At his words, the Fisher King calms, looking over the Hibernian with a curious eye. “You are a curious thing, Frumgar. You are willing to cross uncertain waters to land in turmoil for love. Your sister saw it, in her visions. The Red Hart and the Golden Dragon, intertwined in battle and in love. But you know of only half of a prophesy made long before you were born.”
It clicks then, somewhere deep inside Merlin. He has been trained for this, to see patterns where others see chaos and twisted knots. “You are bound here against your will and you want to break free. But you need two things. One is the union between Morgana and Driant, made in love, not politics. What is the other?”
“Kilgharrah taught you well, warlock. You have a riddle to solve. Figure it out and I will let you free to finish crossing,” the Fisher King says softly, eyeing Merlin. From nowhere, the Fisher King pulls out a golden trident. At his feet, a pool of water bubbles forth. He touches the tip of the trident to the water and it ripples, an image appearing in its depths. Inside, Morgana looks out at them.
“Find the answer and I will aid you in full. Do not and you will never leave this island alive. You have until noon tomorrow,” he says and dismisses them, turning away once more. The water sinks back into the ground, the picture of Morgana gone.
~*~
Helian leads them back down the side of the mountain. Instead of going back the way they had come, he leads them to another trail, around the base of the mountain. A small castle comes into view. It looks run down in some places but most of the walls are still standing.
Inside, Helian leads them to what looks like a common room with many doors leading into it. “You will be sharing rooms for you stay. You will find baths and clothing waiting for you and food will be served shortly,” Helian says.
“And what of the rest of my people?” Driant asks, Merlin quickly translating.
“There is a second island not far from here. Your people have been taken there and will be well taken care of by the villagers there. So long as no harm is done here, they will be kept safe, so I swear,” Helian says, Merlin translating for Driant.
Letting out a tight sigh, Driant nods. “Will the Fisher King be dining with us?” Merlin asks.
“No, warlock. You will share each other’s company,” Helian says. With that, he bows and leaves them to their baths.
They split off and Merlin and Arthur end up in a room again. A servant waits inside for them, head bowed. “You go first,” Arthur says, motioning towards the bath that steams in the corner. Nodding Merlin walks over and starts to strip out of his salt stained clothing. They’re the ones that Mordred had given to him. It feels like that day was a lifetime ago.
Although he wants to linger in the heated water, Merlin forces himself to get out once he is cleaned so that Arthur can go after him. The servant comes forward as Merlin steps out and hands him a towel to dry himself off. He holds out and outfit for Merlin. It’s a little large on his thin frame, he’s lost some weight recently, but the clothing is clean and soft and for the first time in a while, he feels human again.
Thanking the man, Merlin slips out of the room, new boots thumping on the stone floor. Arthur goes in and Merlin goes to the bed where Aithusa has stationed himself, eyes taking in everything around the room. It is well furnished, half damaged tapestries hanging off of the walls, slightly tarnished candle sticks. It all looks like it has been sitting at the bottom of the sea and Merlin realizes that it probably was.
Stroking down Aithusa neck ridge, Merlin shivers slightly at the morbid atmosphere he feels in the room. Arthur takes even less time than Merlin and is soon coming out of the room, looking better now that he is cleaned.
The servant bows and leaves them, disappearing behind a tapestry that must cover the servant’s entrance. Sighing, Merlin follows Arthur as he heads back out into the main room where some of the others are finished and waiting for them.
Once everyone was together, they ate. They ate well that night, most of the dishes made of things caught from the sea. The room is quite for the most part, only the sound of their breathing and their cutlery on their plate disturbing the quiet.
Merlin gazes at the somber faces all around him. He looks over at Gwaine and his friend’s face seems the most somber of all, his eyes down cast, his brow pinched. Aithusa nudges Merlin’s cheek and he feeds another slice of fish to the little dragon.
As the finish and the servants take away the dishes, Petit takes a drag from his goblet and starts to talk. “So we have a riffle to solve,” he says softly.
Standing, Merlin walks over to look out the window. It is dark out and all he can see is his reflection in the glass, the light from the candles behind him like stars in the night sky. He sees Driant coming up behind him before he hears the Hibernian. “You know,” is all he says. Merlin nods. “There’s a price,” he continues when Merlin doesn’t answer.
Merlin nods glumly, staring at his reflection. “There is always a price,” Merlin just says. “To give something, something else must be taken in order for the Balance to be kept.”
“I will pay it if I must,” Driant says evenly.
“What’s going on?” Petit asks, looking between the warlock and the Frumgar.
“Ask Merlin,” Gwaine says evenly. “He thinks he has solved it.”
Merlin looks over at Gwaine, but his friend has his back to him, his shoulders and odd mixture of tension and exhaustion, as if his body can’t decide which to choose. “What have you figured out?” Petit asks, eyes worried as he looks at Merlin.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Arthur asks, staring at Merlin hard.
“No,” Merlin admits with a saddened smile.
~*~
Merlin doesn’t sleep well that night, tossing and turning with his thoughts. He can hear Arthur on the other side of the room, his breathing light and even and it sooths him some. Aithusa chirps softly in his ear and Merlin strokes the dragon’s head softly.
With morning, they all rise, whiling away the hours until they are summoned to stand before the Fisher King. The stairs don’t seem to be as hard to climb this time as they had been before. The Fisher King is standing where they left him yesterday.
“Do you have an answer?” he asks.
When the silence stretches out, Merlin swallows and nods. “Yes, my lord. One of us must take your place.”
“And is one of you willing to take my place?” he asks softly, looking at Merlin.
Merlin gulps, his throat tightening as he forces the words out, “I am.”
“No!” It takes Merlin a second to realize that it is Gwaine who has spoken up. “This is not your sacrifice to make, Merlin. I will stay.”
“What! No, Gwaine, this is my choice,” Merlin hisses, walking over to his friend.
Gwaine shakes his head sadly, gripping Merlin by the shoulders. “Do you remember when I told you of Gylden’s visions?” he asks softly, words just for the two of them. Merlin nods slightly. “She saw me on an island…this island.” Merlin shakes his head stubbornly. “Merlin, you are needed in Camelot. I’m just a drunk who’s good with a sword. If I can do some good in this world by staying on this island, than I will.”
Merlin shakes his head again, but Gwaine just hugs him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to the warlock.
“Have you decided?” the Fisher King asks.
“Yes,” Gwaine says. “I will take your place.”
“So be it. You will remain on this island and learn under me until such a time as I deem you worthy of taking my place,” The Fisher King says.
“Are we free to cross?” Driant asks as the silence grows around them.
“You will have free passage. And as I promised, I will aid you so much as I can. Come,” he motions and the pool of water from before seeps back up onto the rock. The Fisher King touches it with his trident and it grows dark, showing images.
“I will show you all that has passed in Camelot and the five kingdoms. And I will see your men and horses safely to the shore. Will you see it now?” he asks and looks at Merlin.
Merlin can feel himself trembling slightly. Taking a breath, he shakes his head, “May we have some time?” he asks.
The Fisher King nods. “I will summon you the hour before sundown,” he says.
~*~
Back in their common room, Merlin waits until Gwaine is in the room and the door shut before rounding on his friend. “Why did you do that?” Merlin asks sharply.
Gwaine sighs, stepping towards Merlin. “When I was younger, I had my fortune told once, by an old soothsayer. She told me that my destiny was far away from Camelot surrounded by sea and sky. I never understood what she meant by that until recently. At first I thought she’d meant I was to be a sailor, but then I met you and paths change. The next time I went back to her, she cackled and said my destiny had not changed. In fact it was stronger than ever.”
“Why not tell me?” Merlin asks softly. They’re alone now; the other’s giving them privacy to talk.
“Because I was having too much fun with you to bring it up and you had your own worries.” Gwaine grins impishly down at Merlin. “For the longest time, I thought we would end up together, the rogue and the warlock. And then the princess came and I realized that that would never happen. Besides, knowing our luck, the moment we hit solid ground, that idiot would just swim back the way we came and curse us all. One day he’ll realize just how much he is in love with you. I’d love to be there to see his face when it happens,” Gwaine says with a smirk.
Merlin can feel tears in his eyes. “I would have…with you. All you had to do was ask and I would have in an instant,” Merlin admits.
“Not anymore, Merlin. Your heart belongs to his, as it should be. Just, go easy on him. Our princess is delicate,” Gwaine jokes.
Merlin swallows and looks away, a small weak laugh bubbling up in his throat. “You’ll go mad here, you know. You are the least likely person to be here. There’s no ale for one,” Merlin mutters.
“Then I’ll teach the locals how to brew some. I learned how from one of the brewers,” Gwaine says. “And besides, I’ve got something that the Fisher King doesn’t have?”
“What?” Merlin croaks out.
“A friend who is good with riddles. If anyone can figure out how to get me free, it is you Merlin,” Gwaine says softly.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to get you free,” Merlin says softly, pulling Gwaine into a hug.
“That’s all I ask,” he says softly. “Also, I need to write out my will, for my things. Could you deliver it to Earl? He’ll know what to do and my crew deserves it.” Merlin nods against his chest. “Thank you.”
Merlin pulls back a little. “You call me an idiot for trying to be a hero and yet you’re doing it yourself,” Merlin says softly.
“Can’t let you win them all,” Gwaine jokes. His face grows somber, “Be careful of Nimueh.”
“I will,” Merlin says softly. Gwaine smiles and hugs him again.
~*~
They leave Gwaine in his room as they troop back up the stairs to the Fisher King. He is already there waiting for them when the step onto the top of the mountain. Are you ready?” he asks.
“Yes,” Merlin says and they step up to stand around the pool of water. The Fisher King nods and taps the water with his trident. The water ripples and darkens. When the ripples fade away, an image appears.
“War,” is all the Fisher King says. And it is. It showed first thousands of Picts raining through the passes, armed to the teeth, mouths open in silent war chants. Even with no sound, Merlin can hear it clearly as if he is standing there. Shivering, he looks on. Next it shifts to a view of a river and a burning bridge. “The Gathen River Bridge,” Merlin whispers.
They watch the Picts stare across the raging water at the Alban forces massed there. The Picts cannot cross, but there are still other places they can ford across. There’s an order and the archers fire, raining arrows down on the Picts who turn and flee far enough away from the arrows.
It switches again to the mountains. D’Alene sits in his armor atop his horse, his men ranging behind him. His banner flapping in the breeze behind them, the three snakes stark against the ragged backdrop of the mountains. Merlin’s heart is in his throat, dreading the worst.
“Wait,” the Fisher King says and the image shifts again.
It shows more Picts sweeping into the western pass. Ahead is the Escetian flag flies high and below it, the personal banner of Persant de Dieu, steward of Escetia. Behind him ranges the Escetian army, bracing for the impact of the Pictish invasion force.
Above, D’Alene waits, about to descend upon the unsuspecting Escetians who have eyes only for the Picts in front of them. D’Alene’s hand rises to give the command and Merlin holds his breath. Then confusion breaks out, D’Alene’s men scattering and it take Merlin to realize why.
D’Alene’s own rearguard falls upon their comrades. Peeking out here and there is a banner and it takes Merlin a second to realize just who they are. Dillon’s Men fight for their lost leader, their dead prince in a vain attempt to bring back his lost honor. Merlin can feel tears running down his face as they are slain.
But it had worked; their distraction had allowed Persant’s men to take on the incoming Picts without being caught unawares. Furious, D’Alene motions for them to bring one of the captured men forward, he asks something. The man laughs at Valiant, eyes defiant, even in the face of his own death.
When he answers, Merlin sees D’Alene’s face go white. He hadn’t known of Arrœk’s betrayal. Face contorting, he motions for them to kill the prisoner. D’Alene has his men follow those who escaped and they are forced to watch as the last of Dillon’s Men flee D’Alene and head straight into the Pictish army. They are killed quickly, that much can be said.
Valiant, seeing this, turns his men around, unseen by Arrœk’s forces. He flees, back into the mountains, his men following. The image leaves Valiant and turns back onto the main battle as the Escetian forces battle on. Merlin can see flags from the other kingdoms, troops sent to help defend the five kingdoms: Escetia, Mercia, Acestir, Tintagel, but no Camelot. All of Camelot’s troops are centered on keeping the eastern pass defended.
Merlin blinks as a familiar face comes into view, Kay l’Ector’s face in a scowls as he fights beside his men. The battle is even for a while but more and more Picts pour out of the pass and soon, the Escetian army is overwhelmed. The order to retreat is called and the army pulls back.
Merlin watches as the archers stand grimly behind the retreating army, securing their flight. Most of them die, the rest saved by L’Ector’s Calvary. They fall back to Fæstenn, a fortress right on the border between Camelot and Escetia.
Morgana is there, to stand or die. It is the same image that they had seen the first time and Driant makes a noise in the back of his throat at the image of her. It fades away to reveal a map. “The Camelot army is here,” the Fisher King says, pointing, stations at Highpass and along the river, keeping the Picts from breaking through and coming up behind the rest of the army. Morgana and the main army are in Fæstenn and the fighting has come to a standstill. They are well stocked and can withstand a siege for up to a month, two if they ration.”
“But even then their food supply is limited,” Merlin says, “while the Picts have the whole kingdom to forge from. It’s a waiting game until they are forced out.”
“Cowards,” Petit mutters, glaring down at the map.
“More troops do come. Duc L’Ector has sent a request to his Emperor who has granted him foot soldiers, but they will be some days in getting there and may not arrive in time. The other kingdoms are sending more troops as well, but they are spread thin at the moment trying to protect their own borders should Camelot and Escetia fall.”
The Fisher King turns to Petit, “Your men are at the river, helping the Camelot army with the Escetian fleet.” Petit nods in approval.
“Where is D’Alene?” Merlin asks.
The Fisher King points, “He has holed himself up in a valley here.”
“And Nimueh?” Merlin asks.
“I do not know this woman and only the large events can be shown in the pool,” he says. He straightens, looking at them. “I cannot leave this island. But I can help you get to Albion faster. Where do you need to go?”
Merlin looks at Petit. “To the mouth of the Gathen River,” he says. “We’ll meet up with the rest of my fleet there and then sail up the river.”
“Tomorrow at dawn then,” the Fisher King says and the water lightens and starts to seep back into the ground. “Be ready.”
They leave and head back down the stairs. They are all quiet, lost in their own thoughts when they return to their rooms. Merlin glances at Gwaine’s room and sighs before heading to his room. Aithusa chirps softly from his spot on the bed, curled up. Smiling down at the dragon, Merlin slips out of the clothing and crawls under the blankets, hoping that sleep will be easier to get tonight.
~*~
Merlin wakes up to the fire burning low and the windows still dark with night. He’d been able to get a few hours’ sleep, but his thoughts wouldn’t sit still for long. Slipping out from under the blankets, Merlin pads out of the room in his night clothes, bare feet tapping against the cold stone.
He pauses outside Gwaine’s room before pushing the door open without knocking. He’s not surprised to see Gwaine is still awake in bed. Gwaine doesn’t say anything, just lifts the blankets for Merlin.
Sliding into the bed, Merlin curls up next to his friend. “I couldn’t sleep,” Merlin admits softly. “Camelot’s going to be so different without you there.”
“I know,” Gwaine says.
“Why do you have to be such a stupid hero?” Merlin asks, clutching at Gwaine’s knight shirt, pressing his face into Gwaine’s chest.
“I guess you and the princess rubbed off on me,” Gwaine says softly, running a hand down Merlin’s arm.
Grabbing Gwaine’s shirt tighter, Merlin pulls the man down, kissing him, trying to get as much of Gwaine as he can before he leaves. Gwaine sighs into the kiss and presses back for the barest moment before he pulls Merlin away. “No,” he says softly.
“But-,” Merlin starts.
“No, Merlin. Don’t think this is the only way you have to say goodbye, please. I don’t want you to be that way with me. And I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself if you keep doing that. You never have to be that way with me,” Gwaine says softly.
Merlin’s eyes fill up and he presses his face back into Gwaine’s chest. “I hate you so much,” he mutters into Gwaine’s chest.
Gwaine chuckles, “I know.”
“I’ll miss you,” Merlin says again.
“I know,” Gwaine murmurs. They fall asleep like that, tangled together.
~*~
They set sail with the dawn. Merlin stands at the back of the ship, watching as the island steadily grows smaller. On the very top, Gwaine watches them leave. Merlin cries again, a piece of his heart staying on the island. He’ll return one day to his friend.
Arthur is a silent presence behind him. When he can no longer make out Gwaine, Merlin dries his tears, straightening his shoulders. “We have a war to get to,” Merlin says finally, turning to look at Arthur.
“Merlin,” Arthur starts to say.
Merlin shakes his head, “Please don’t. I know this was for the greater good, but it still hurts.”
“I was going to say that I’ll help you free him, whatever it takes,” Arthur says softly, looking at the warlock.
“Oh,” Merlin says and smiles a little. “Thank you.”
The humming noise from before started up and behind them, a wave rose. Slipping under their ship, it rose and carried them northward, towards the Gathen River’s mouth where it plunges into the sea. What felt like forever only took about a day. As they neared the shoreline, the wave shrank and dissipated until they were sailing under their own power.
Ahead, they could make out the rest of their fleet. They had been brought ahead. They are camped upon the sandy shores and when they saw the flag ship, Hibernian and Alban alike let out a cheer. Men swim out and mooring lines are tossed down. The row boat is lowered and soon, the crew is back amongst everyone else.
There had been loses. Fifteen men and four horses had been lost to the Fisher King’s anger when he had first appeared. Everyone else is alive and though it hurt Merlin to think about it, Gwaine sacrifice saved them all. More would have been lose had he not remained.
Petit wastes no time in gathering his men. He selects his fastest rider to head east further into Camelot. The Comte de Dieu, the Royal Commander, would be seeing to the defense of Camelot and the Highpass just north of the Gathen River and so would the rest of Petit’s fleet.
“They will bring my fleet,” he tells Driant, Merlin translating. Driant nods in understanding. That night, they camped on the beach, waiting for the ships to arrive.
~*~
They move out in the morning, along the river. Only a few ships besides the flag ship are in good enough shape to make the journey up river. So most of the army travels on foot, Merlin with it. They travel like this for nearly two days when the pounding of horse hooves brings the army to a stop as their messengers arrive back.
“My lord,” one of the sailors cries out from atop his horse, “Your fleet.” As he says it, the ships come into view, their sails bulging in the wind as they sail down the river. There are cheers all around as the ships slow and finally stop, anchors dropping to the riverbed. There are over thirty ships all told and it is like a forest of masts.
Petit is quick to send out orders, organizing the stowing of men and horses on board his ships. When the last man and horse is on board and the sails drop, a wind rises from behind them, catching the sails. The Fisher King is keeping his promise of help. With the wind behind them, they sail up the river, towards war.
~*~
Even with the wind, it is slow going up the river and it takes them another day to make it far enough west. There are plenty of men to man the oars when the wind slacks and dies down. They make it through and during that time, the sailors tell them what has been happening.
It seems that Morgana had indeed gone through with her decision and Cenred de la Escetia had been called back from exile. He is commanding half of the troops to hold the border with the Comte de Dieu. They had burnt all the bridges that the Picts could use to cross and they are holding off any attempts to cross at the shallower points in the river. The ships are keeping the rest of the river secure.
As they round a bend in the river, the sounds of battle can be heard. Looking ahead they can see the Picts massing at the first bridge. In Petit’s fleet’s absence, they had started to repair the bridge. The archers across the river are trying to hold them off, but the Picts have started thinking and use their shields clustered together to shield the works.
A few hundred have made it across, the rest pressed back by the archer. The fleet has arrived just in time. The ships turn and ground the ships along the river’s edge. The moment planks are lowered, Driant’s army boils over the sides, singing war chants and yelling battle cries. It’s not surprising that the Picts break ranks and run.
It’s over quicker than Merlin expected. Nearly all the Picts have been slain and those that survived had either been captured or had escaped back into the pass and into the mountains. The Hibernians return blood spattered and victorious. On the other side of the river, the Camelot army cheers. At its head is Pellinore, seated regally on his horse and coming up behind him, Cenred, eyes burning fierce.
It takes nearly fifty men to move the firmly stuck flag ship from the river bank. The fleet will remain here to keep defending the river and Highpass while Driant’s army follows them westward, towards Fæstenn and Arrœk.
As Merlin gets out of the row boat on the other side of the river, Pellinore and Cenred come forward to greet them. They nod to Petit as he stands behind Merlin. Pellinore arches a brow at the admiral, “I didn’t believe it when your messengers told me.” Coming up behind Merlin is Driant, Æcran and Æcrania behind him.
Merlin steps forward, “My lords, this is Driant mab Drekana, the Frumgar of Hibernia. And this is Æcran mac Laren and Æcrania mac Laren, the Lords of the Wigend.” Merlin repeats it to the others so they will understand. They nod to the two lords.
“It is good to see you, Merlin,” Pellinore says softly to Merlin and Merlin nods. Pellinore had been a friend of Kilgharrah’s.
“My lord, there is not much time to tell our tale, but the short of it is that I have done as Her Majesty has asked and brought the Frumgar and his army to help aid in stopping this invasion,” Merlin says.
“Indeed you have. Bring the rest ashore and we’ll get to work on how to go about our march to Fæstenn,” Pellinore says motioning to them to follow him.
~*~
They gather in Pellinore’s tent. A wooden foldable table is there, map spread across it. “They’re holed up inside. With a deep well, they have plenty of water, but even with the fort well stocked, they can’t last forever,” Pellinore says, pointing to the point on the map where Fæstenn is.
“How many Picts?” Merlin asks, already guessing the number is high.
“Thirty-odd thousand,” Cenred says nearby, leaning against a chest as he stares at them. Merlin quickly translates for Driant and the others.
“What about in the fortress?” Petit asks.
“We’re unsure of how many losses we took. Seven thousand before the battle started. The fortress is nearly impenetrable. There are trenches and stake pits all around it, plus archers along the wall. There is also a second wall inside as well. But we’ve been getting reports of the Picts working on something. They think it might be siege towers, but none have gotten a good look just yet.”
“Any word from the Emperor’s troops yet?” petit asks.
“None,” Pellinore says. “They were supposed to have arrived two days ago, but something has delayed them it seems. We can’t rely on the hope that they will arrive in time.”
Merlin frowns at the map, recalling his time amongst the Picts. “There may be something else we can do. Arrœk’s army is full of individual tribes and clans. Many have been feuding for years now, bad blood between them. If we can just break his discipline over them, they might turn on each other,” Merlin says looking up.
“And do you propose we do that?” Cenred asks, eyeing Merlin.
“The Picts have never seen the Hibernians. You saw what happened on the battle field today when Hibernians came at them. They were afraid. They broke ranks and ran. We can use that to our advantage,” Pellinore says. “They’re a superstitious bunch from what I’ve seen. We could harry their troops. But, we’ll need someplace to retreat to in the mountains.”
Merlin holds off on translating, “How many of us would survive?”
Pellinore looks at him. “None. We would survive by pure luck. But it’s the only way to help at the moment. It may be slim, but it’s worth a shot.”
Nodding, Merlin turns and translates for Driant and the Wigend. They’re faces are somber as they take in Merlin’s words.
“I’m willing to take them back. We didn’t ask them to commit suicide for us,” Petit says softly.
Driant seems to understand though because he speaks before Merlin can start, “And what of your friend Gwaine?” Merlin swallows. If I do not wed Morgana, if I die or she does, the curse remains unbroken. There will be no way for us to return home when the very seas will swallow our attempts. Not even you could sing down his wrath at that,” Driant says softly.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin says softly.
“You only did as you were commanded, but my destiny is my own and I will follow it to its end. I will give my people a choice though. To go against this army or to go against the Fisher King.” Driant nods and he and the Wigend leave to speak with their people. Merlin translates his words.
“Understandable,” Pellinore says. “But I will be going with you, warlock. My sons are in Fæstenn and I will be by their side, no matter what.”
~*~
Merlin finds Arthur on the edge of the war camp seated under a tree. Above, the stars shine down in the thankfully clear night. Throughout the camp, fires burn as Driant’s people talk into the night, deciding their fate.
“Do you think there will be any knights you know there?” Merlin asks quietly.
“Probably. I knew a few of them from training had gotten positions in courts: Marrok and Balin, Percival and Elyan, Gwen’s brother. They all will be there to protect their charges. I haven’t seen them since I was made your knight,” Arthur admits. “I wonder, do they think me a murderer?”
“If they know you truly, they will not believe it,” Merlin says softly.
Arthur snorts humorlessly. “Perhaps and perhaps they think I have changed. It’s happened. Serving as a knight is a hard life sometimes.”
“I don’t know what to tell you Arthur. If they think it of you, then it means we will have to try harder to get to Fæstenn to prove to them that you are not what they have heard,” Merlin says.
“If we can survive it,” Arthur says softly.
“There is that,” Merlin agrees. He leans against Arthur’s side, the knight tucking him under his shoulder.
~*~
With the sun comes Driant’s answer. “We will stay and fight,” he says simply. Pellinore nods at Merlin’s translation. “But, should we fall, we want word to be sent to our home so that each and everyone will know how we fought in bravery and honor for freedom.”
Merlin steps forward, eyes saddened but hard, “I promise it.” Merlin looks at Driant. “Whatever it takes, they will know of your deeds.”
Arthur makes a soft sound behind him, the knight having understood some of what was said. But he doesn’t say anything as Merlin translates for Pellinore and the rest.
“Then it is settled. We ride out a dawn tomorrow,” Pellinore says.
~*~
Another dawn and they are moving again. Merlin bids farewell to Petit who is staying to guard the river with his fleet and sailors. Cenred remains as well, holding the pass with his men. A quarter of the Camelot army follows them. The sailors who Merlin had titled are released to go with Merlin, guards for the warlock. Merlin wants to protest, but the sailors ignore him with knowing looks on their faces.
Merlin just sighs and lets them come.
They travel along the river for the day and camp on its shores. In Pellinore’s tent, Merlin begs off a piece of parchment. Sitting down, he quickly drafts a letter. Blowing on it gently to dry the ink, he hands it to the sailor who has just entered the tent. “I need you to ride this to Camelot. It is for Queen’s Poet, Juliana de Listinoise.” The sailor sketches a bow and leaves, clutching the parchment in his hand.
“What was that about?” Arthur asks, watching the sailor leave.
“It was in case we do not make it. Juliana can fulfill my promise to Driant to bring their story to Hibernia,” Merlin says simply, looking up at the knight.
“I’ll protect you, to the end I will protect you,” Arthur says quietly, his gaze intense as he stares down at Merlin.
Merlin smiles sadly and nods, “I know you will, my knight. That is all I can ask of you.”
~*~
The next morning, they turn away from the river. It will soon turn north and they need to head west if they are to reach Fæstenn to be of any help. They do turn slightly northward for half a day, taking a longer route to avoid being detected by Pictish scouts.
In the rolling hills of the north, they arrive at the western pass. It has mostly been left clear, Arrœk’s army further south attacking Fæstenn. A few groups linger south of the pass, scouts to warn Arrœk of anyone approaching behind.
It takes only a small force sent against the lingering Picts to take them out, none escaping. With the way clear, their army heads south, towards Fæstenn. Hidden in the hills, they arrive unnoticed. Any scouts that see them are taken out by their own Hibernian scouts, experts at stealth.
They find Arrœk’s army amassed around the fortress. “There’s so many of them,” Merlin says softly, laying on his belly and staring down at the thousands of Picts. It’s one thing to see them through scrying, another to see the numbers first hand.
“There,” Pellinore says pointing to where the Picts have already raised a few siege towers. They are ready for use and only need to be pushed up against the wall of Fæstenn’s wall. “That will be where we strike. It should slow them down and cause enough damage to make them come after us.” Merlin gulps and readies for flight.
~*~
“Could you use magic?” Arthur asks as they wait for dawn to come. Driant has already taken his men closer to the Pictish army in preparation to attack just before the sun rises.
“I don’t know. Maybe, if I was close enough. I could light fire to the siege towers. I never learned battle magic though,” Merlin says softly. Merlin glances up as one of their scouts comes riding up. “They’re attacking,” he says.
They ready their mounts. The moment that the Hibernians appear, they press their heels to the mounts side, spurring them forward. Behind them, Merlin can hear the roars and yells of the Picts following them.
There’s a shriek and Merlin glances up to see Aithusa following in the sky, wings outstretched. Merlin glances back once and his heart seems to stop as he sees the masses of Picts following. Turning back forward, Merlin spurs his horse faster. They flee into the mountains, drawing the Picts after them.
Merlin knows the traps are there, but it still hard to believe when they are triggered and the Picts are taken by surprise. The avalanche of rocks and boulders takes them by surprise and they have no time to escape as they are crushed. It’s a horrible sight to behold.
They had timed the release just so that they caught the tail end of the following Picts, blocking off an escape route. They flee deeper into the mountains and higher up, the archers take aim, firing calmly and steadily down at the Picts.
As the archers run out of arrows they fade back into the crags of the mountain. They can survive better on their own. What remains of the Picts follow their retreat further into the mountains. They pick them off a bunch at a time until eventually they are deep in the mountains and the Picts following are no more.
They camp that night knowing they hadn’t done much of a difference. So they had taken a few hundred, maybe a thousand out. There are still thousands more besieging Fæstenn. Merlin stares glumly at the fire, poking at it with a stick.
A Hibernian scout comes up to Merlin speaking quickly and quietly, pointing to the south. “What is he saying?” asks Pellinore.
Merlin turns wide eyes on those gathered around the fire, “he says there’s an Alban army encamped in a valley a mile south of here.”
~*~
“It’s D’Alene,” Pellinore says.
Merlin quickly explains who D’Alene is to Driant who frowns at the information. Merlin, wide awake, goes to speak with the scout some more. Afterwards, he seeks out Pellinore tending to his horse. “My lord, how many more warriors would you need to take on Arrœk?” Merlin asks softly.
Pellinore frowns, “Ten thousand, maybe less if we could somehow coordinate with those in the fortress. Why?” he asks, eyeing Merlin.
“I have an idea,” Merlin says simply.
~*~
“This is a mad plan,” Arthur hisses as the army breaks camp to start marching south. They leave the horses with a guard. They will need stealth if they’re to sneak up on D’Alene unawares.
“If you can come up with some alternate solution to finding more men to fight, then by all means, spit it out,” Merlin says back. Around them the forest is nearly silent except for the soft rustle of leaves. Merlin’s eyes glow in the dark, hiss magic sizzling under his skin, the only thing keeping D’Alene’s scouts from hearing their approach.
It takes so little time to surround the valley that D’Alene is in. The few sentries he had posted are taken out silently, no sound beyond a soft thump as they drop to the ground unconscious. Then they wait and listen, watching the camp down below.
As the sun breaks over the mountains, Pellinore signals and his man steps forward, blowing his battle horn, others following the signal and blowing as well. The army stands up along the edge, banners fluttering in the breeze and spears clashing against spears. It is certainly a sight to behold.
D’Alene’s troops are taken completely by surprise. Merlin looks at them and sees hungry, desperate faces. Maybe this won’t be as hard as he had thought. One alone stands and stares up at them, fearless, hand gripping his sword hilt.
Duc Valiant d’Alene, traitor of Camelot and the five kingdoms.
“Valiant d’Alene!” Pellinore calls down. “We send messengers under a white flag of peace; will you honor the codes of war?”
Valiant gives a bow to the words. Two men are sent down, one a white banner held in his hands. As they reach the bottom of the valley, they are surrounded by D’Alene’s men and checked for weapons. Merlin waits with baited breath to see if Valiant will honor the flag.
He does, listening to their message. Looking up at their gathered troops, Merlin can see the way his shoulders sag in defeat. Standing straight, he motions to one of his men and they bring a horse forward. He and five men ride up the winding trail to the top of the valley.
Armed and covered in armor, he rides through the masses of soldiers to dismount in front of Pellinore. “I have come as bid. What do you want?” he asks with eyes like ice.
Pellinore shakes his head. “Tis not I that will speak with you. The Queen’s Ambassador will speak with you,” he says and motions Merlin forward.
Merlin steps forward slowly and bows slightly to Valiant, “My lord.”
“You,” Valiant says sharply, eyes narrowing. Merlin just remains silent, staring at the man. “Kilgharrah’s warlock, I thought you lost amongst the Pictish wilds. I remember Nimueh asking me to have my men take you there, for ‘safe keeping’ as she put it. I had no hand in your lord’s death,” he says sharply. Merlin remains silent.
“Why have you come here?” he asks, staring around at the mixed armies.
“My lord, we have come to give you a choice: you may die here a traitor, hated across the land and sea and no one will remember your name.”
“Or?” Valiant asks wearily.
“Or you can fight with us and die with honor as the man who helped save Albion from invasion. It is your choice,” Merlin says simply.
“And why should I believe this?” Valiant asks.
“Because you are dead no matter what you chose,” Merlin says. “Arrœk will not let a Nædre live poised so close to his throat. He will cut its head off before he allows you to stab him in the back.” Valiant pales as Merlin used the Pictish name he has been given. “Nimueh is in league with him. There is no escaping this.”
Valiant is silent as he takes in Merlin’s words. Merlin wishes he could read his thoughts as he turns to stare down in the valley where his men wait. Finally, he turns back to them, “Will you feed them?” he asks. “Morgana has cut off our supply trains.”
“We will,” Pellinore says.
“What is it that you propose?” he asks, eyeing the commander.
“A united assault on Arrœk’s forces. We strike hard and fast, pinning him between the fortress and us,” Pellinore says evenly.
“Arrœk is mine,” Valiant says quietly, his eyes hard.
“Swear your loyalty and he will be,” Pellinore says back.
“You have it,” Valiant says softly.
~*~
Part 10