Merlin Fanfiction: Love As Thou Wilt | Part 5b
The day is clear, but cold when they emerge from the main hall. The fengels make a sport of the Anwig and set to work with boards, flattening the snow into a solid field. They make a rough circle about fifteen feet across. Hay is brought out and scattered across the snow, giving the fighters traction.
Most of the fengels gather around Ban, helping him get ready and offering advice. Arthur watches this, still confused. Finally, he walks over to Hoel, “What is this manner of fight, if I might ask?”
“You challenged and did not know what you asked?” Hoel asks with a smirk. “It is an Anwig: two fighters and one sword and one shield each. The first to draw blood wins and the one to break through the lines is considered fleeing and forfeits.” Hoel eyes Arthur before nodding, “You defend your honor well and so I will lend my second best sword, but you will have to find your shield elsewhere.”
Arthur stares at the sword and tries to hand it back. “My lord, I am bound by oath to draw my sword only to kill,” Arthur tells him.
Hoel just grins, “You should hope to kill him or he will keep challenging you. Besides, I have a bet on you.” With a loud clap to Arthur shoulder, Hoel walks off.
Merlin can see the conflict on Arthur’s face and takes the choice out of his hands, “He will kill you surely and leave me unprotected. I will not tell you what to do, though,” Merlin whispers in Alban.
Hervis comes walking up and thrusts a shield at Arthur, “Here, it is not an Anwig if one of the fighters has an advantage.” He leaves before Arthur can thank him. Arthur settles the shield on his arm and tests his ranges, adjusting to the weight.
Hoel calls out, “Any more bets?” No one calls out, “Than let the Anwig begin and the challenged be given the first blow.”
Arthur walks over to the circle, Merlin behind him. When the two are inside, the men close ranks, forming a human ring. Merlin is squeezed between Hoel and another Pict and watches anxiously, heart beating loud in his ears as the two fighters settle into a fighting stance.
Ban gives a roar and charges Arthur. Arthur holds his ground and when Ban’s blade comes down, raises the shield. It holds under the blow enough, but shatters. Arthur throws the ruined shield away. He’s used to fighting without a shield anyways.
Ban yells again as he goes into a second charge. Arthur ready this time, dances out of the way at the last second, circling around Ban back. He strikes out and Ban barely has time to bring his shield up. It holds under Arthur’s blow.
Arthur parries a strike and ducks under another. Feinting to the right, he comes in under Ban’s swing and strikes point first against Ban’s shield. Yanking, he pulls the shield off of Ban’s arm. It snaps under Arthur’s boot when he stomps on it.
Ban’s face goes white as Arthur moves forward like flowing water, knocking blows aside with little effort. Ban backs up until he is pressed against the ring of men. “Please,” he says softly.
“I will not be toyed with, Pict. Either step out of the ring, or die,” Arthur says softly.
Merlin watches Ban closely. If it had just been him and Arthur, the Pict might have yielded, but with everyone watching, how could he? To lose against a slave is one thing, but to flee from one? It is one thing he cannot do.
Merlin forces himself to watch as Ban gathers his courage and charges Arthur one last time. Arthur dodges Ban’s attack and getting under his guard, rams the sword into his body, angled up. It is a death blow and when Arthur tugs the sword out, Ban falls to the ground dead, his blood staining the snow red.
Arthur stands there, shaking from adrenalin and cold, face pale. Merlin remembers that this is Arthur’s first kill. Slowly he kneels beside Ban and bows, murmuring something too soft for anyone to hear. Slowly, Arthur rises and cleaning off the blade, hands it back to Hoel. “Thank you for allowing me to defend my honor. I am sorry for the loss of your man,” Arthur says.
“Ban brought it on himself,” Hoel says, looking between the dead man and Arthur. “But perhaps you could take his place?”
“What?” Arthur asks, stunned.
“I am tempted to take another risk on you. How about it, if I give you back your things, will your oath stand? Will you protect and serve me?”
Arthur swallows and looks at Merlin. Squaring his shoulders, he nods, “I will do it, so long as Merlin remains safe.”
“Good,” he says and claps Arthur on the shoulder again. “Let’s hear it than for the wolf-cub,” he yells out and the men cheer. They all crowd around Arthur, congratulating him while Ban lays dead and cooling in the snow not ten feet away.
Merlin watches for a while, but eventually he goes inside to help Shera and the women prepare. He isn’t sure if this has made matters better or worse.
~*~
It is strange to see Arthur in his knight’s attire, sword at his hip and chainmail shirt peeking out from under his black tunic. Hoel gives him more freedom, allowing Arthur time in the morning to exercise like he used to.
Around them, the steading prepares for the ride to the Folcgemot. Merlin wishes he had a map. He could easily pinpoint where they are on the map and where they will be going, but he has no skill at navigating besides the use of the sun. All he knows is that they are close to the Highpass and that Hoel says the ride to the Folcgemot is a good seven days’ ride.
Merlin and Arthur are to go with them, though Hoel hasn’t mentioned Merlin being a gift to Arrœk. Twenty fengels will ride with them, as will Shera and four other women. Although Hoel does not want to take the women, he does not want to face Shera’s wrath.
The day they leave, a priest is called to check to see if the omens favor the journey. He pulls out a bag of white bones, from what creature Merlin isn’t sure, and stones. He tosses them into a pan of snow. As he studies the way they landed and the marks left in the snow, the Picts seem to hold their collective breath. Finally the priest looks up and nods, the omens are good.
The Picts cheer and continue to prepare for the journey. Arthur sidles up to Merlin, “Was that real magic?”
Merlin shrugs, “Who knows? To them it was. Besides, I have no skill when it comes to divination, so I can’t say for sure.” Arthur shrugs and walks off, following behind Hoel.
They rise with dawn and Hoel comes to Merlin with his arms laden with furs, a gift to keep him warm on the journey. He shows Merlin how secure everything and doesn’t pull away once he has settled the fur cloak over Merlin’s shoulders. “You will not be forgotten,” he says and presses a kiss to Merlin’s forehead.
His words nearly undo Merlin until he see Nimueh’s collar still at his throat. Taking a breath, Merlin pulls Hoel’s head down and kissed his forehead as well, a thank you to the man for the clothing. Hoel grins and stands, helping Merlin to his feet. Merlin shudders and doesn’t know if it is from the cold or the realization that Hoel intends to give him to Arrœk.
The journey takes nine days and Merlin spends them huddled in the saddle, burrowing as much as he can into his furs. The horses trudge through the snow and each night, the Picts see to their mounts first. They sleep in crude tents and Merlin huddles close to Hoel, unashamed of take warmth where he can. Arthur seems to fare better and Merlin is jealous of the ease of which Arthur rides through the cold and snow.
Eventually though, they reach the meeting place. It is settled in an enormous valley that is nearly a perfect bowl shape. At its center is a lake and around it are the tents of all the tribes of the Picts. Arrœk’s steading stands off to the side, the buildings easily twice as large as Hoel’s had been if not larger.
They aren’t unannounced; Arrœk’s sentries had seen them some distance from this place, appearing as if from nowhere with their white furs the let them blend into the snows so easily. Even Hoel seems to be surprised, but when Arthur moves to defend, the leader holds up his arm, stilling Arthur. “It is good that you will defend me, but not at the cost of Arrœk’s hospitality.” He nods to the three men. “I am Hoel Peredur of the Ar, summoned to the Folcgemot.”
“What do you bring amongst us, brother?” One of them asks, looking between Arthur and Merlin.
“What I bring is for Arrœk to reveal. They are loyal to me,” he takes on. Arthur bows at his words, the move awkward on his horse.
“You will answer for them,” one says. One of them turns and starts to walk away. Hoel, nodding to the remaining two, follows the third as he leads him down.
The encampment is controlled chaos when they finally enter it. Men, women and children all around, busy with whatever it is needed doing, the noise only just under shouting. Although it isn’t visible, Merlin can see the lines between each tribe. Gaps between tents, different markings on tents, all stand out to Merlin’s eye as they walk from territory to the next. Merlin shifts nervously, feeling the tension in the air, his horse shifting under him at his nervousness.
Merlin shifts his horse closer to Arthur’s as all eyes turn to stare at them. They stand out so easily, especially Arthur with his bright blonde hair. Their guide shows them to a spot to set up their camp and goes to leave without says another word.
“I must speak with Arrœk,” Hoel tells the man.
“If anything is to be said, it will be during the Folcgemot so all might here. Tributes will be paid in the evening when the sun is a finger’s width from the edge, he points to the rim of the valley. With a final nod, their guide leaves them. Arthur and the others start to set up camp and Merlin is left unsure of what else to do.
When Shera beckons him over after talking with Hoel, he dismounts stiffly and allows Hervis to take his reins. She and another woman, Kendra, lead him away. Merlin can feel Arthur’s eyes on him as he leaves and Hoel’s words, “He will be safe. He goes to a king and you as well.” Merlin glances back to see Arthur staring after him.
Shera leads him to the bath house, thankfully clear of others. Merlin watches as she and Kendra secure the room, giving them some privacy. “What did Hoel ask of you?” Merlin asks her.
“To make you presentable,” she tells him gently.
Sighing softly, Merlin slowly peals the furs he is wearing off until he stands nude with them a puddle at his feet. “Did he say why?” Merlin asks, but he can already guess why.
“Yes,” she says as Merlin steps forward, towards the large tub. “If I could do anything, I would, but this is a man’s world,” she says softly, a hand on Merlin’s face.
“Thank you, Shera, for your kindness, It is more than I deserve,” Merlin tells her with a smile.
“You made life a little brighter. You took our songs and made them beautiful. You deserve more than this,” she tells him.
Before she can see the tears in his eyes, he steps past her and sinks into the heated water. Wiping at his eyes, he forces the tears back. He can’t afford emotions like this at the moment. Dunking his head under water, he lets the heat seeping into his chilled bones.
By the time he is finished and dressed in a tunic and breeches of combed white wool, the sun is nearing the lip of the valley. His hair has been combed and tamed somewhat, though it will be wild once it dries. Slipping his boots back on, he stands for their inspection. “Am I ready?” he asks with a flat humor.
“If Arrœk has seen anything better, I will eat my shoe,” Shera declares and Merlin cracks a small grin at her words. She walks forward and folds him into a hug. “I will miss you child, you and that lad of yours.”
“Their gathering,” Kendra says, coming back into the room. Shera helps him into his cloak, settling the garment over his shoulders. With a nod, they leave the bath house. People stare as he walks, but he ignores them. Hoel is beaming with pride as they come up to him, Arthur just behind him, his blue eyes narrowed.
Overhead, the sun continues to lower and soon, it reaches a finger width’s distance from the lip of the valley. Arm around Merlin’s shoulders, Hoel leads them towards the great hall.
~*~
Hoel allows the other steading members to go first, keeping Merlin and Arthur hidden near the back. Even as tall as he is, all Merlin can really see is a sea of Pictish men and some women gathered in one place.
Four steadings wait for an audience with Arrœk that evening: two from the Ar tribe, including theirs, one of the Mæstling and another of the Isern. The more powerful Gold and Seolfor tribes had arrived earlier.
All seem to have brought some sort of tribute. From gold to beautifully carved wooden pieces. They follow behind the Isern tribe who give beautifully cured white pelts from all different animals. Murmurs abound at this since Arrœk’s Silent Ones, the sentries they met, used them as a symbol of who they are.
Although he can’t see Arrœk, Merlin can hear the man. His voice is deep and even and he knows how to use it like a true leader. As the men ahead of them clear out of their way, Merlin can finally catch a glimpse of the man he will be given to.
He is large, larger than Hoel, his shoulders broad. He reclines in a large throne-like chair, staring at Hoel and his men as they greet their war leader. Merlin can’t see his face, but he won’t have to wait much longer. “Hoel Peredur of the Ar, well met, brother. It is good to meet our brothers who guard and win so many battles on our southern border.”
Behind Hoel, Shera bobs her head nervously. Shifting, Merlin can finally make out Arrœk’s face, his eyes a dark brown. He looks at Shera and the women, “Be welcome as well,” he says to them.
“I also bring tribute,” Hoel says, stepping to the side. The rest follow and Merlin is given his first unobstructed view of Arrœk. “Two southern slaves, purchased with southern money paid to us to raid. They are yours.”
He shows no surprise since he must have heard of their arrival, but he still lifts a curious brow as he takes them in. Merlin bows as he was taught by Kilgharrah, bowing to foreign royalty. Beside him, Arthur makes his usual bow, arms crossed over chest.
He is handsome for a Pict. Dark brown locks swept back into a sort of club, a trimmed beard adorning his chin. In his mid-thirties, he watches them from his easy position. Merlin can feel Arrœk’s eyes on him and glances up through his fringe and knows the man is staring at his eyes.
Smirking, he looks at Hoel, “You give me two more mouths to feed?”
Shifting nervously, he shakes his head. “He is trained to please kings,” Hoel says, looking at Merlin. “My lord,” he tacks on to the end, an acknowledgement of Arrœk position, of his kingship.
“And the other?” he asks, looking at Arthur.
“A lord’s son and an oath-sworn warrior. He is bound to the boy and should you keep him safe, he will fight for you,” Hoel explains as his fengels nod behind him.
“Is it so?” he asks, looking Merlin over.
Merlin bows again, speaking. “It is so, my lord,” Merlin says, surprising Arrœk and the others who had not known he could speak Pictish. “Arthur du Bois is a knight of the Round Table Brotherhood. The five kings of Alban do not go anywhere without one knight always at their sides.”
“You speak our tongue and are trained to please kings. How do I know you have not been sent to spy on us? How is it that you became a slave?” Arrœk asks, leaning forward slightly.
Merlin looks Arrœk fully in the face, studying the markings covering his skin, each one declaring just who he is. Taking a breath, he answers, “I knew too much.”
He nods, believing Merlin’s words somewhat. He turns to Arthur, “And you, how did you get here?”
Arthur turns to look at Merlin, “Tell him I am oath-sworn to guard your life, that it is a matter of honor.”
Merlin translates quickly. “Do you swear by Hoel’s words, to guard my life?” he asks, eyeing Arthur.
Arthur stares back as well and finally, he bows again, “I swear it, so long as Merlin remains safe.”
“Mer-lin, that is how you are called?” has asks Merlin. Merlin nods. “Well then, Merlin, you will teach me Alban.” Merlin just nods again, not able to refuse. He turns to Arthur. “Let us see just what kind of warrior you are.” He makes a gesture to one of his fengels, one of the Silent Ones.”
The Pict springs forward, short spear aimed for Arrœk where he sits unmoving. Hoel grins smugly as Arthur moves into action, sliding between the fengel and Arrœk easily. Sword springing easily from his belt, Arthur parries the blow aside and kicks out, knocking the fengel back. Arthur turns away from the man and bows to Arrœk before stepping back to where he had been beside Merlin.
Arrœk appears satisfied as he stands. “You have given me an exceptional gift Hoel Peredur,” he says aloud, clapping Hoel on the shoulder and drawing him in close. Merlin glances around and shivers. Their arrival is not as welcome as it seems and from the face Merlin can see, many of the people resent them. They are among the enemy.
~*~
That night, Arrœk feasts, Hoel seated at his table to show his favor for Hoel’s gifts. Mead flows steadily, talk loud and boisterous, people breaking into songs and tales. Merlin stands behind Arrœk chair, serving him and the others at the table from a heavy jug. He soon looses count of how many times he refills his jug. He can count on one hand how often he refills Arrœk’s cup though.
The man remains sober, watching his men get drunk around them, eyes taking in everything and giving nothing back. His gaze also follows Merlin as he moves about refilling cups. Merlin tries to ignore him but its hard and it makes him self-conscious and clumsy, almost spilling twice before he forces himself to take a deep breath and steady his nerves.
Arthur attends him as well, behind his left shoulder. Two silent Ones keep an eye on Arthur as well. Merlin feels cold as he studies Arrœk. The man clearly wants to set himself up as king, but amongst these drunkard tribes he can’t achieve what he wants. Remembering his own home, Merlin shivers in fear.
There is no talk that night as they feast, only boasting and tales of their deeds. Two men, one from the Seolfor tribe and another from the Isern tribe, fall into a quarrel over a blood-feud. As drunk as they are, it doesn’t take long for swords to be drawn and a space cleared for the fight. Around them, bets are being made, Hoel in the thick of it.
The sound of Arrœk’s cup being slammed onto the table top has them all stilling and looking towards him. “Are you men or beasts? Any quarrel is to be brought up to me and if any wish to settle it will fight me? Do you wish to fight me?” he asks, looking at the two combatants in the eye until they look away. “Good, then shake hands and behave,” Arrœk growls out. The men do as asked.
“I have called you here because you have all learned to lead. You lead you folk well, but still you squabble over the smallest things. If we are to make this land truly great, then we must set aside our differences, our feuds and quarrels. We must unite under one banner and show those southerners that we are a mighty people, a force to be reckoned with!”
They cheer at his words. “You Hoel Peredur of the Ar. You wagered on the fight, did you not?”
Hoel looks down, ashamed. “I was caught up in the heat of the moment. Have you not done similarly on a cold winter’s night?” he asks, looking up at his leader.
“A wager is a challenge, Peredur and you are a guest in my hall. Will you wager that jewelry that circles your neck? A southern trinket, not doubt?” he asks Hoel.
Hoel glances at Merlin before answering, “If you admire it, then it is yours.”
“No, I will win it honestly. Come try your arm against mine,” Arrœk says, clearing the table in front of him. The men cheer at the new entertainment.
Taking the collar off, Hoel shakes his hands above his head, showing it off. Setting it on the table, he settles into a chair across from Arrœk and extends his arm. Merlin watches as their arms strain, the muscles cording out, faces turning red as they arm-wrestle.
For a second, Merlin thinks Hoel will win, but slowly, Arrœk pushes him back until at last his hand lands on the table with a loud thump. The men cheer their leader. Merlin thinks that is the end of until Arrœk beckons him forward. “Never let it be said that we are cruel master,” Arrœk says aloud.
Picking up the collar, he settles it around Merlin’s throat. Merlin shudders as the cool metal settles against his throat. Nimueh’s gift is back where is started. “What have we to fear from a people who are trained to serve?” he asks. Merlin stands there as the men cheer and feels dread knot up his stomach.
~*~
It is the next day that the Folcgemot meets. Merlin is grateful that Arrœk did not send for him that night, instead giving him a pallet in the servant’s quarters. He allows sleep to take him, ignoring the stares from the Picts.
The next morning, Arthur and Merlin are herded into a storeroom just off of the main room where the Folcgemot will meet. Each leader is allowed two fengels and their headwoman. Merlin presses his ear against the door, hoping he will hear something, but the room mutes all the sound coming in. Behind him, Arthur paces, having already tried to see if there is a way out.
“How bad was it?” Arthur asks suddenly.
“Shush,” Merlin hisses, trying to strain his hearing far enough. It’s no use though, he can’t hear anything. Sighing in frustration, he turns away from the door. Eyeing the barrels of mead in there with them, he measures them to the wall, trying to see if they are tall enough to get him up to the rafters above.
Scrambling onto one, Merlin reaches up, but he just isn’t tall enough. “Arthur, get up here and help me,” Merlin hisses down at the knight.
Sighing, Arthur complies. “You’re an idiot,” Arthur whispers as he stands next to Merlin on another barrel he had pressed closer.
“They’re planning something and if we manage to escape, do you want to tell Uther and Morgana the Picts are planning something, but sorry, we couldn’t hear? I need to get higher,” Merlin tells him.
It takes some doing, but eventually, he has Merlin on his shoulders. Reaching, Merlin’s fingers just brush the underside of the rafters. “Higher,” Merlin hisses. Grunting, Arthur grips Merlin’s feet and shoves with all his strength, lifting Merlin the last few inches needed.
When his fingers grip the rafter, Merlin pulls himself up quickly, thanking his old tumbling master silently. Looking down, Arthur seems a lot further down than it seemed getting up. Nodding to the knight, Merlin slowly inches his way along the great beam of timber, the voices of the Picts steadily getting louder and clearer.
Flat on his belly, he peers down at the assembled Picts. Hoping that none will look up and see him, he listens in one what they are saying. Sweating atop the rafter, Merlin realizes that he hasn’t missed much as a priest makes his way from the front after blessing the meeting.
Arrœk waits until the noise quiets before speaking. “In the beginning of our people, the Folcgemot was meant as a meeting place for the tribes to gather, to settle disputes and feuds, reaffirm borders and even arrange marriages. That is not why we are here today.” He stares out at them. “We are a warrior people, people fear us and yet they do not fear us enough to take us seriously. They sit safe inside their homes with the knowledge that our savagery is confined in the mountains while around us, kingdoms rise and fall.”
A murmur rises at his words as Arrœk slanders Pictish tradition. “What I say is true! Across the mountains to our south, the five kingdoms rule. Their lords walk around in silks and great palaces made of stone while we shiver in our cold wooden halls dressed in our leathers and furs.”
“We are better than that!” Arrœk yells out, the hall silent at his words. “You seek glory but what glory is found in slaying your brothers and sisters? It is time we make our mark in the land, not as some bogyman used to scare children but as a fierce proud nation that will bring the five kingdoms to their knees before us!”
Merlin clutches at the rafter as their cheers shakes it. He has won them over, even the women who imagine themselves decked out in fine silks and velvets. Merlin can’t blame them though, of wanting more. But they only grasp a small portion of what it took for the five nations to reach where they are now. They do not think of the cost that must be paid for their goal to come through. It will throw the entire Balance out of sync and bring death to them all.
One man stands up, though Merlin does not know who he is. “And how exactly do you wish to achieve this goal?” he asks pragmatically. “I know for a fact that the Southerners guard their boards closely. They may not be expecting us, but they are not unprepared either and can summon an army in little time.”
“They are not as prepared as they used to be. Already, one of the kingdoms has fallen into disorder, its king banished and a new ruler on its throne that none wish to follow while another slowly withers at its heart. They will kneel to us or they will dye fighting our might of arms.”
He is right. If the three kings to the south see Camelot and Escetia fall, they might be willing to treat with Arrœk, if only to secure their own kingdoms. The man nods. “Then where and how will we accomplish this? We have yet to win against them despite our numbers.”
Smiling, Arrœk pulls a letter from his belt, holding it up for all to see. “The Camelot king is weak and dying and has no heir except for a woman who is not even wed. I have had an offer from the Duc of d’Alene, whom men call Nædre. He wishes to be king with our aid. Should we hear his offer?”
With a collective cheer, Arrœk reads the letter slowly, translating it into Pictish. The gist of it is that the bulk of the Pictish army will come through the eastern most pass into the Escetian kingdom to engage the collective army of Escetia and Camelot, while a smaller group will go through the western most pass, west of Highpass, and attack the defenseless Camelot. Caught between the two forces, the army will have no choice but to surrender. Afterwards, the Picts will withdraw and Valiant will be made king. He will then give them Escetia and declare Arrœk king of the Picts.
Merlin can only stare in horror as he listens to Arrœk’s words. Thousands will die because one man wants more than he deserves. Tear prickle at the corner of his eyes and Merlin wipes them away furiously.
Below, Arrœk sets the letter aside and looks out at his men. “An interesting offer, but…I have a better offer. This Nædre is a cunning man and a bold fighter, but he does not understand Picts if he thinks we will settle for what he deems we should have. Instead, we shall take everything from him and give him nothing. So, instead, we will send only enough men to the eastern pass to make him think we have sent the most of our army and instead, we will amass in the western pass and sweep down through Camelot and Escetia and take everything. Caught between our two forces, he will have nothing to do but surrender.”
They jump to their feet at his words, cheering him on. “Shall we do this?” Arrœk asks. The men roar, caught up in the bloodlust and glory, but here and there, there are quieter faces, women thinking on how many will die, the losses that will be sustained to achieve this goal.
“We cannot fight in winter though. I have read many books and this I know for sure, an army travels on its belly. So we shall wait until summer, when food is plentiful. So until then, let every man go back to their steading and prepare. Let forges roar as they outfit our army and every woman count the stores in preparation for this day. What say you, how do you vote?”
Merlin isn’t surprised when no hand is raise against him. As Arrœk starts to go onto other matters, Merlin wiggles back slowly until he is at last back over the store room. Arthur watches him the entire time and once he is sure Merlin is in position; hisses at him “Get down!” Slowly, Merlin lowers himself until he hangs by his fingertips. “Let go, I’ll catch you,” Arthur tells him. Taking a breath, Merlin lets go of the rafter and drops.
His breath rushes out of him in a rush as he lands against Arthur who catches him easily, though he does stagger a little. They stand there, pressed chest to chest, Merlin still shaking with the shock of what he had learned. “They intend to invade,” Merlin whispers. “They will invade and Valiant has given them the keys to the kingdom,” Merlin spat out. “We need to find a way to warn them.”
“We will,” Arthur says softly, stepping back slightly. Taking Merlin’s face in his hands, he wipes away the furious tears Merlin hadn’t noticed he was crying, “I swear, Merlin, I will get us out of here.”
Nodding, Merlin steps back and they set about putting the storeroom back to the way it was. Merlin keeps glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. Finished, they listen but the Folcgemot is still going. Arthur settles onto the ground, back against the wall. Slowly, Merlin settles next to him.
“You know, when I was first assigned to you, I thought it was punishment for something, forcing me to guard someone’s expensive plaything,” Arthur admits.
“I am a plaything,” Merlin says bitterly. “That’s all I have ever been to everyone, including Nimueh.”
“Merlin, Nimueh is not your fault. Even if you hadn’t been there, I’m sure she had other plans to get the information she wanted. It was just your luck that you drew her attention,” Arthur says softly.
“I let her do those things to me, just like I’ll let Arrœk when he comes for me. And the whole time, I’ll slowly be dying inside from shame,” Merlin says softly, gripping a fistful of hair and tugging in frustration. “I won’t be able to stop myself.”
“Then do it and live,” Arthur hisses, gripping Merlin’s arm hard. Merlin looks up at him. “and when the time comes for him to set foot on Alban soil, I will plant my sword in his gut because I won’t be able to stop myself.”
Merlin can’t stop the laughter that bubbles up at his words, the absurdity of them. It dies in his throat though when the bolt to the door is pulled back and the door opens, one of the Silent Ones standing in the door way. The Folcgemot is over and the Picts are preparing for war.
~*~
That night, the fires run high and late as the Picts stay up celebrating the call of war. Arrœk allows it, even opening up his own stores to them and barrel after barrel is rolled out and carried to camps. In the great hall, only a select few are allowed to celebrate. Hoel and Shera are there, given statues for his gift of Alban slaves and his connection with D’Alene.
Shera is still flushed with the excitement, but there are still shadows in her eyes when she looks at Merlin. He can’t forgive her, despite her kindness, for not speaking out against this war.
Arrœk doesn’t even try to hide their plans, thinking they do not know the details. Still, Arrœk keeps a close eye on Arthur who is back in his position at Arrœk’s back. The two Silent Ones watch him closely, but the only thing that gives away Arthur’s emotions is the small furrow between his brows.
Arrœk Keep Merlin close at hand, displayed like a trophy for all to see. He isn’t as obviously possessive as Hoel had been but he shows it through small things, a touch to the back of the neck, feeding him bits from his plate, running a finger along the collar around Merlin’s neck.
Merlin endures it. He would have preferred for Hoel to just throw him over his shoulder, but this calculating manipulation gets to him worse as his mind whirls with the knowledge of Arrœk’s plan. His stomach is in knots the entire night.
His hopes that Arrœk will just dismiss him again like the night before are dashed when the man stands, tugging Merlin up as well. Handing him off to one of the Silent Ones, he says, “Bring him to my room.” Merlin swallows back bile that tries to rise as fear starts to take hold.
Merlin can only follow as he is led away from the main room down a side hall. Arrœk is already in his rooms when Merlin is pushed unceremoniously into the room and the door shut. Merlin had expected a larger version of Hoel’s room and it is, but there is more than he is expecting.
A bookshelf takes up an entire wall, filed with books and scrolls. A fire roars in its hearth and next to it is a pile of steel armor, shining in the firelight. A map is pinned to the wall showing the entirety of Albion and with details of the five kingdoms. A desk sits to the right of the great bed piled with parchment, more books and correspondences.
Merlin spies a book that he had read once. It is a history on the life of Hafoc Eage, a great hero who saved his people by uniting them in a time of war and invasion. Merlin looks up at his voice, “he is a hero of mine, a model of a true leader. Do you think so?”
Merlin sets the book back down, “He united his people in a time of need, but he was no invader.”
Arrœk furrows his brow, taken aback by Merlin’s words. Few would dare to speak so to him and someone in Merlin’s position most of all. But Merlin has always had a hard time keeping his mouth shut when he needs to most.
“You know, there are no Pictish books,” he says instead of letting his irritation get the better of him.
“There are some, my lord. Some scholars have translated the Pictish language phonetically into the Alban alphabet,” Merlin tells him.
“Is that so? Perhaps I will have to find these books later. Hoel did not tell me you are a scholar, Merlin.” He steps forward but Merlin doesn’t look up at him.
“I am a slave, my lord,” Merlin mutters.
“Have you read this book then?” he asks, holding one up. It is the Geornful Drycræft. Merlin wants to laugh at the irony of his situation. That is the first book he studied under Alice’s tutorage.
“Yes, I have studied this book,” Merlin says.
“I learned the scholars tongue from this book, my tutor an old warrior, but I never found someone who knew of such practices. Yet you do,” Arrœk says, gripping Merlin’s chin and forcing him to look up. Merlin nods against his hand.
“Hoel says that you are gifted by your gods that anyone to have you must please you,” Arrœk says softly. “He says the mark is in your eyes.
“The markings in my eyes show my connection to the Balance, nothing more and nothing less,” Merlin says.
“I please you now, do I not?” Arrœk asks, running a hand under Merlin’s eye.
“If that is what my lord wishes me to say, then yes you please me,” Merlin gets out.
“It pleases me as well,” he says softly. Letting Merlin’s face go, he steps back. “I wish to be served by one trained to serve kings. You will start on page one,” he orders.
Bowing his head Merlin begins by kneeling before Arrœk.
~*~
In the morning, Arrœk looks pleased, grinning slightly. Others notice and talk and jest, but Merlin ignores their words. He’s grateful when Arthur says nothing. Merlin had pleased Arrœk that much he knew.
Merlin learns later about Arrœk’s wife. How she was a match for him and how Arrœk loved her greatly. But she had gotten sick one winter and died by the spring thaw. He wonders if Arrœk’s wife had lived, would he be invading now.
Arrœk rides around the camp as it breaks up, talking with each leader of each camp. They will each be leaving one person behind to act as messengers. Since Merlin hadn’t been ordered to remain in the hall, he walked out amongst the camps towards Hoel’s camp.
Merlin doesn’t pay attention to where he is going, lost in thought and walks into a Mæstling fengel as he emerges from a tent. The man grins down at Merlin as he clutches at his waist in a vice like grip. “Look lads, it seems Arrœk has decided to give us one last honor.” Merlin tries to push away, but the man is stronger than he is.
It happens too fast to stop and Merlin ends up face first in the snow, his arm shoved up behind his back as the man fumbles at his clothing, trying to yank them down. Merlin’s stomach roils as he realizes he’s about to be raped in the middle of a Pictish camp in broad daylight.
Merlin writhes, trying to get away as the Pict finally yanks his breeches down to his knees. He’s fumbling at his laces when suddenly there is a roar added to the noise around them and the man holding Merlin down is lifted off of him.
Merlin scrambles up, pulling his breeches up as quickly as he can. Looking up, he sees Hervis holding the man in a headlock. He doesn’t hold him long before another Mæstling is on his back, forcing Hervis to let the man go. Another fengel grabs hold of Merlin before he can do anything, laughing at Merlin’s struggles.
No one notices Arrœk’s arrival. He’s about to yell something, but before he can, Arthur spots Merlin. Arthur’s off his horse before anyone can stop him, shouting Merlin’s name. He draws his sword unsheathed.
Two Mæstlings die before anyone realizes what’s happening. The man holding Merlin lets him go with a curse and charges Arthur, drawing his sword. Arthur fights on, trying to get to Merlin through the melee, seeming to be berserk in his goal to reach Merlin.
Arrœk dismounts soon after, wading after Arthur. Merlin had heard of Arrœk’s prowess with a sword, but he sees it now. The man seems to glide through the melee, knocking men out and tossing them aside with ease. “I order you to stop!” he roars at Arthur but Arthur is beyond hearing, continuing his attack.
As he reaches Arthur, he waits until the knight turns to attack before getting under his guard. Parrying his blow, he brings his sword up and brings its hilt down on Arthur’s temple. Arthur crumples like a puppet with its strings cut.
Arrœk stands over the still Arthur and shakes his head, “Kill him.”
“No!” Merlin shouts, rushing forward. He falls to his knees in front of Arrœk. “My lord, he was only honoring his vow to protect me. Please, spare his life and I will do anything you want.”
“You will do it anyways,” Arrœk says coolly, eyeing Merlin and Arthur. Merlin doesn’t say anything, but Arrœk must see the rebellion in Merlin’s eyes.
It doesn’t come to that though as Hervis limps over, pushing the fallen Mæstling over, and his limp cock still hanging out of his breeches. “Found him on top of the lad, my lord,” he says to Arrœk. “The boy is sworn to protect him. It was how Hoel was able to tame the warrior.”
“Who spoke against this?” Arrœk asks, his eyes cold as he stares at those around him. No one answers. “No one. No one spoke out against this. He is as much my property as my horse or my sword and no one spoke up against the theft of him?” Growling, he turns back to Merlin. “For you plea and the injury you have sustained, I will not kill him, but have him in chains.”
He motions to one of the Silent Ones. The man comes forward and picks Arthur up, carrying him off. He turns to the leader of the dead fengels, “I will pay feoh for the death of your fengels. Is that acceptable?” The man bows his acceptance. “Good, then leave me,” Arrœk says and soon the crowd is dispersed.
“What were you doing out here in the camps?” he asks, pulling Merlin to his feet.
“I… I was going to Hoel’s camp to bid farewell. Some of them had been kind to me,” Merlin says, looking up at Arrœk.
“You should have told me and I would have given you an escort. Take him to Hoel’s camp,” he tells one of the Silent Ones.
“I’ll do it, my lord,” Hervis says, coming forward.
It is the last thing Merlin wants to do now, worried over Arthur but he can’t push Arrœk any further than he has. Arrœk just grunts and gives Merlin an hour before he is gone. Merlin looks after the way they had taken Arthur, but he can’t see them anymore.
“You’ve done all you can,” Hervis says softly, leading Merlin away. “That lad’s a tough one and he’ll live, if he doesn’t force Arrœk’s hand again. Don’t go mourning him just yet.” Merlin just nods and allows himself to be led away towards the camp.
~*~
The farewells are awkward at best, both because of what has just happened and because they have just declared war on Merlin’s people. Still, Merlin puts on a smile and hugs Shera and the other women. Leaning into the head woman, Merlin whispers softly, “If Hoel asks you a fourth time, say yes. You two are well matched.” Shera pulls away with a sniff and nods.
Nodding to Hervis, Merlin allows the Pict to escort him back to the main hall. Merlin thanks his softly, giving him a hug before sending the Pict off. When Merlin can’t find Arthur, he asks Arrœk tentatively that night. Arrœk’s words are gruff, saying the knight is safe and Merlin is forced to accept his words.
Three days pass before anything happens and in those three days, Merlin finds himself as unwelcome in Arrœk’s steading as he could be. The men watch him with barely hidden contempt while the women sneer at him, jealousy clear in their faces. Only the children seem to like him and remembering his time with Freya, he braids their hair using bits of leather and cloth. He stops soon after when he sees the women undoing his work with quick, angry movements while the children cry out.
Arrœk isn’t unaware, but he doesn’t seem to understand his people’s dislike of Merlin. He tries to smooth things over by complementing Merlin, but it just makes them hate Merlin even more. So he keeps Merlin close, putting him to recreating the written language of the Picts. Merlin is glad for it allows him to hide out in Arrœk’s chambers. He even has Merlin go over maps of the five kingdoms, wanting clarifications on the details. Merlin lies as best he can without giving himself away. He can’t lie when teaching Arrœk Alban though.
At night, they work steadily through the Geornful Drycræft steadily. On the fourth day, Arrœk finally comes to Merlin, “Your companion will not eat. Maybe you should see him.”
Merlin pales at his words and quickly grabs his cloak. He follows Arrœk from the great hall, along a trail around the lake to a small hut. It is dark and dirty inside, a small straw pallet set up to the side. Arthur is knelt in the center of the hut, chained by his ankles and wrists with enough slack to reach the pallet. He chooses to kneel there.
He looks like hell. His eyes are bloodshot; dark circles stand out sharply against his pale face. Blood from where Arrœk struck him mats his hair and leaves dried streaks on his cheek. Merlin can’t hold back as he walks in. “You idiot! What are you doing?”
Arthur blinks up blearily at Merlin. “I dishonored my vow. I drew to kill,” Arthur says slowly, like it’s a great strain to talk.
“Is that all?” Merlin asks, kneeling in front of him. Merlin rubs at his face in frustration. Remembering Arrœk in the room, Merlin glances up. “He is atoning for his wrong doing,” Merlin explains.
“Tell him to live. I have atoned for the men he killed. Besides, I wish to learn his style of fighting,” Arrœk tells Merlin.
Arthur seems to follow Arrœk’s words because he laughs harshly, “You bested me. Why would you want to learn from me?”
“You were not expecting me to attack and you had given your word to protect me,” Arrœk says slowly so Arthur can follow.
“I cannot teach him,” Arthur tells Merlin in Alban. “I have failed you too many times and I have dishonored my vow. It’s better if I die.”
The sound of flesh slapping flesh startles everyone, including Merlin who stares at his hand and Arthur’s cheek where a red mark is starting to show. “You have not failed me, knight. Not yet any way. But if you keep of the pity trip you are and I will be sorely tempted to just leave you here.” Merlin leans closer, “This is another test Arthur and I can’t do this alone.”
“I can’t,” Arthur says miserably, looking at Merlin. “I can’t even protect you now,” Arthur turns to look at Arrœk, “I’m sorry, but I’m not worthy to live.”
Merlin swears then, long, loud and creatively in as many languages as he knows and some that seem almost made up. Shoving Arthur he glares down at him. “Damn it, knight, is that all the courage you have? I swear, if I ever get back, I am writing a letter to your captain to tell him how a sorcerous whore had more courage than one of his knights,” Merlin hisses at Arthur.
“You wouldn’t,” Arthur says, glaring up at Merlin from where he is struggling to rise.
“Try and stop me. Lifwraþu, knight,” Merlin says loudly. Merlin is terrified, but he can’t show it, not when Arthur needs him so much.
Arthur struggles up until he is kneeling. “It’s hard,” he says softly, tears in his bloodshot eyes.
“I know it is, but you aren’t alone in this,” Merlin tells him.
Arrœk walks up with a bowl of broth that one of the Silent Ones had brought with him. “Eat and live,” he says simply to Arthur in Pictish. Merlin looks back once to see Arthur lowering his head to sip from the bowl. One of the knots in his stomach loosens as that worry lets go. Arthur will heal, eventually.
~*~
Arthur continues to eat and regain his strength, though he develops inflammations on his wrists and hands where the manacles had chafed. They itch and ache and he uses them as a reason to put off teaching Arrœk his fighting style. Arrœk grants Merlin his request to visit Arthur once a day, seeing it as a way to encourage the knight to continue to live and heal.
Merlin looks forward to this. Arrœk is busy, so he sets a Silent One to escorting Merlin to and from the hut. Arthur continues to keep the extent of his knowledge of Pictish secret which arouse no suspicion when they speak in Alban.
There is not much to speak of. They can’t plan an escape with the camp so well-guarded. So they try to encourage each other, keeping them from letting depression truly take hold. Arrœk, impatient to learn from Arthur, sends for a priest and healer to see to Arthur’s hands.
Merlin rides with Arrœk to meet the priest the next day. Geberan the White-Eyed is not just a priest, he is a Hwata, a soothsayer. He gets his name from his eyes, which are such a pale blue, they appear almost white. He is an older man, his hair white with age, though still limber in his frame.
He doesn’t appear surprised when Arrœk and his men arrive at his hut in the woods. “Arrœk Gualdson,” the priest says, using a name Merlin hasn’t heard before for Arrœk.
“Hwata, this is Merlin nó Emrys of the five kingdoms. He has a companion whose wound will not heal,” Arrœk says, bowing his head in respect to this man. That surprises Merlin who has seen Arrœk bow to no one.
“Indeed he is,” the Hwata says, eyeing Merlin right behind him. “Come in then,” Geberan calls out, walking back into his hut.
Arrœk and Merlin follow behind him, the Silent Ones staying outside to guard. He looks Merlin over, staring longest at Merlin’s eyes. “And what do they call those?” he asks.
Merlin shakes his head, “They have no name,” Merlin murmurs, feeling a little off center. He’s never met a man like this before.
Geberan grunts, “Still means your marked, even without a name.”
“Hwata,” Arrœk starts to say.
“I know, I know. You want me to look at the lad’s hands and look this one over and give you advice. What advice can I give when you willingly take a weapon used by fate itself into your fold?” He snorts and walks over to a bag on a side table.
Merlin can feel Arrœk staring at him, a frown on his face, but he doesn’t look at him. He’s just as confused by the man’s words as Arrœk is. He’s never thought of himself as a weapon before. Grabbing his bag, Geberan follows them out and they mount up again, back towards the camp.
When they reach the hut that Arthur is in, he just walks straight in. Arthur jumps at his entrance. “Well, stop staring boy and let’s see them,” Geberan say gruffly. He examines Arthur inflamed wrists and hands, the skin cracked and red. “hmm, I’ve got something that’ll clear that up,” he mutters digging into his bag. Pulling out a jar, he unstoppers it and a rank smell suffuses the hut. Flinching at the smell, Arthur looks up at Merlin.
“He is a healer our lord Arrœk has asked to see to your wounds so that you may teach him,” Merlin says in simple Pictish.
Arthur bows his head, “I thank you and look forward to it.”
“Are you done Hwata?” Arrœk asks the priest.
“Nearly,” he says, wrapping bandages around Arthur’s appendages. Finished, he stands, wiping the ointment off on his breeches. “He will heal quickly,” he says and patting Arthur on the head, walks out with them. Merlin glances at Arthur before following.
Arrœk is talking with one of the Silent Ones, so Merlin approaches the priest. “Did you mean it, about me being a weapon?” Merlin asks softly, keeping one eye on Arrœk.
“Who knows what the gods plan. Anything can become a weapon in the right moment,” he looks Merlin over out of the corner of his eye, the irises almost white in the light. “Beware, young warlock, everything comes with a price and not everything is for you to pay for.”
With a salute, he walks off, back the way they had come. He’d refused a ride back, saying he’d rather walk. Merlin can only stare, gobsmacked. As Arrœk approaches, he schools his face into a neutral expression but stores the man’s word to go over later.
Arrœk’s response is to regard Merlin with suspicion after the priest’s visit. Instead of taking Merlin that night, he spends it studying Merlin’s Mearcung, tracing it’s bold lines. “Perhaps there are magic ruins inked in here.”
“The only magical thing about it is that it gives me freedom once it is complete,” Merlin says softly, holding himself still.
“You say the reason you were sold is because you knew too much. I would have just killed you. Why were you allowed to live?” he asks, turning Merlin over onto his back to face him.
Merlin remembers Nimueh’s words and shudders slightly. “I am the only one of my kind,” Merlin says simply. Arrœk just shrugs his words off, pulling Merlin closer as he runs a hand through his hair.
~*~
Arthur does heal quickly. Arrœk has his arms brought to him soon after and the training begins. Merlin had paid little heed to Arthur’s morning practices and their somewhat play bouts. He hadn’t realized that when he said he couldn’t train Arrœk, he meant that Arrœk couldn’t just add it to his fighting style.
The knights begin training at ten and continue throughout their lives, never stopping. Arrœk just can’t seem to understand that he has to unlearn all he knows of fighting if he is going to learn Arthur’s style of fighting.
Of course, when Arrœk starts to make a fool of himself and grows impatient. He stops the training and locks Arthur’s sword and armor in his cupboard in his rooms and keeps the shackle on Arthur permanent. He continues to be suspicious of them.
One of Arrœk’s men comes soon after with a letter from across the border. Merlin is too far away to read it, but he hears Arrœk words to the messenger, “Nædre suspects nothing!”
The messenger says something but Merlin doesn’t catch it, too busy staring at the sealing wax on it. The insignia impressed into it is one he knows by heart, an ancient symbol for House L’Isle: Nimueh’s mark. Merlin should have known. If she was clever enough to bring down the Escetian throne, it would be child’s play to her to play on both sides of a war.
Merlin is so shocked, he almost doesn’t hear Arrœk tell the messenger that they will be holding a great hunt on the next day to celebrate the continuation of their plans. A plan sparks into life at Arrœk’s words. Silently, Merlin slips away unnoticed.
He returns a few minutes later, letting Arrœk see his approach. Kneeling, he asks to visit Arthur and Arrœk waves his hand in absentminded approval and dismissal, sending one of the Silent Ones as his escort. Merlin studies the layout of the camp the whole way to the hut. It could work, if he can get Arthur to agree to it.
Arthur is exercising inside as much as he can, doing push-ups. Merlin’s escort give a quick glance around the hut before going back outside. Before Merlin can say anything, Arthur says, “Look.” He pulls on his chain, showing that the ring the chain connects to is loose in the plank of wood. “What’s happened? I can hear the camp stirring from here.”
“A messenger arrived. He bore a letter for Arrœk, from Nimueh,” Merlin says softly.
Arthur is silent for a minute before asking, “What did it say?”
Merlin shrugs, “I couldn’t see, but I know she told Arrœk that D’Alene suspects nothing.”
“Do you think it’s true?”
“I don’t know. She and D’Alene could be playing Arrœk. It is a possibility. Either way, a crown falls and she gains,” Merlin says. Taking a deep breath, he asks the question he had come here for, “Arthur, could you kill a man with your hands?”
Arthur pales, but asks, “Why?”
Merlin tells him his plan as quickly as possible.
Arthur paces the hut, brow furrowed. Each step clinks as his shackles rattle. “What you ask Merlin, it goes against everything I uphold. You want me to attack…to kill unprovoked. You ask me to do murder,” he says looking at Merlin.
“I know,” Merlin whispers. Despite everything he could say to excuse it, it is still just that: murder.
They are silent as Arthur thinks and paces, finally, he stills, looking down at Merlin. “I will do as you ask,” he says softly.
~*~
Merlin is restless the rest of the day. He spends it either in nervous sweats or fearful chills, his thoughts whirling, going over everything that can happen to make them fail. For once, Merlin is glad that Arrœk is busy with preparations. If he had been observing Merlin, he would have realized something was up.
That night, he still has Merlin. Merlin endures it, bracing against each of his thrusts, cursing the way his body responds despite his hatred of the man taking him. Afterwards, Arrœk sleeps and Merlin lies awake, staring straight ahead.
The fire, only embers now, strike something metallic. Merlin looks and sees Arrœk dagger resting on the headboard shelf above them. It would take little more than a bit of a stretch to reach it and he could bring it down on Arrœk’s throat.
Merlin shifts cautiously, reaching slowly. The bed creaks and Merlin almost jumps as Arrœk’s hand grasps his wrist. Heart in his throat, Merlin tries to play it off. Giving a sleepy protest, Merlin makes it look like he was going to wrap his arm around Arrœk, wanting to be closer to him.
Arrœk is surprised but pleased by Merlin’s supposed tenderness. Giving a soft laugh, he goes back to sleep with Merlin pressed close. Merlin lays awake most of the night, trying to slow his heart and easy the fear paralysis in his limbs. Eventually though, exhaustion takes him and puts him under.
~*~
The morning is clear as they make ready to leave for the hunt. One of the Silent Ones, Gauter, draws the short straw and is forced to stay to guard Merlin. Merlin can only feel sickening guilt that this man’s fate has been sealed by luck.
Soon, the hunt party leaves and the hall is left echoingly empty. Gauter lays about, clearly bored. Merlin waits a good ten minutes before making his way to Arrœk’s rooms. Inside, he quickly shuts the door and makes his way over to the cupboard where he stores Arthur’s things as well as other items of importance.
Bending the point of a brooch until it’s a hook, Merlin silently thanks Gwaine for teaching him how to pick locks. It doesn’t take long to get the lock undone. Inside is Arthur’s things as well as some coins, clothing and letters. Merlin sits down and quickly reads through the letter from Nimueh.
It is brief, confirming what Arrœk had said aloud. He rereads it just to be sure. He can feel it, that little bit of a spark that is her magic embedded in it. This is definitely her letter and her hand writing. Arrœk’s saddle bags are set off to the side, unneeded for a hunt. Merlin shoves the letter, clothing and a tender box into the bags.
Quickly fixing his makeshift lock pick back into his cloak, Merlin settles his cloak about his shoulders and heads back out. Gauter is still where he left him. “What do you want?” he asks.
“I wish to visit my friend, sir. My lord Arrœk allows me to visit him once a day,” Merlin says, trying to look as submissive as possible.
“I’ll take you later,” he says waving Merlin away.
Taking a breath, Merlin continues, “If you want, I could go alone. The steading is empty and it should be safe for me to go by myself.”
“Oh just let him go,” Wendra, one of the women there, says as she flutters her lashes at Gauter.
“And have word get back to Arrœk that I let him go alone?” standing, he shrugs on his white furs and jerks his head at Merlin. “Come on, and make it brief.”
Merlin nods and follows. His nerves have calmed now that he is actually doing it. Entering the hut, it takes Merlin’s eyes a moment to adjust. He see the center empty, the ring that had held Arthur to the floor, gone, pulled out of its hole. He spies Arthur to his right beside the doorway and moves further in.
Gauter follows. He gets two steps in before Arthur is on him, looping the chain around his neck and pulling back. Merlin forces himself to watch as Gauter dies a slow painful death as he gasps for air. Eventually though he falls unconscious. Arthur is quick and efficient, snapping the man’s neck.
Shuddering at the sound of his neck breaking, Merlin kneels and motions to Arthur to come closer. Using the brooch from before, he makes quick work of his shackles. “We need to strip him,” Merlin says grimly, looking up at Arthur.
Arthur just nods, his face a little pale, but set. It takes some time but soon they have Gauter stripped of his clothing. Arthur doesn’t even comment as he stands, striping his clothing off and pulling on the dead man’s clothing instead.
“Let me see,” Merlin says softly. Picking up some soot from the brazier in the room, he smudges it into Arthur’s hair and face. He will be less noticeable this way. Pulling the hood of the white furs down over his brow, Merlin nods. He will pass for a Silent One at a distance.
“Ready?” Merlin asks Arthur nods. “The great hall will be the hardest part, but I got as much as I could into the saddle bags. We can get supplies from the stores in the lesser halls.”
“I need my arms,” Arthur hisses.
“They’re not Pictish. Take Gauter’s,” Merlin says.
“I need my gauntlets at least. I can’t fight with a shield, you saw me in the Anwig.”
Sighing, Merlin nods. “Take them for now though. Slouch and look sullen. If anyone tries to talk, shake your head. If they persist, say ‘Arrœk’s orders. He’s making camp.’” Arthur repeats the words over and over until he can say them well enough to pass. “And treat me like dirt,” Merlin adds.
“Hang on,” Arthur says, just before they are about to leave. Kneeling, he says something softly to the man he just killed, closing his staring eyes. Standing up, he nods. “Let’s go.” Taking a breath, Merlin draws back the hide door and walks back out into the sunlight.
~*~
Part 6
Most of the fengels gather around Ban, helping him get ready and offering advice. Arthur watches this, still confused. Finally, he walks over to Hoel, “What is this manner of fight, if I might ask?”
“You challenged and did not know what you asked?” Hoel asks with a smirk. “It is an Anwig: two fighters and one sword and one shield each. The first to draw blood wins and the one to break through the lines is considered fleeing and forfeits.” Hoel eyes Arthur before nodding, “You defend your honor well and so I will lend my second best sword, but you will have to find your shield elsewhere.”
Arthur stares at the sword and tries to hand it back. “My lord, I am bound by oath to draw my sword only to kill,” Arthur tells him.
Hoel just grins, “You should hope to kill him or he will keep challenging you. Besides, I have a bet on you.” With a loud clap to Arthur shoulder, Hoel walks off.
Merlin can see the conflict on Arthur’s face and takes the choice out of his hands, “He will kill you surely and leave me unprotected. I will not tell you what to do, though,” Merlin whispers in Alban.
Hervis comes walking up and thrusts a shield at Arthur, “Here, it is not an Anwig if one of the fighters has an advantage.” He leaves before Arthur can thank him. Arthur settles the shield on his arm and tests his ranges, adjusting to the weight.
Hoel calls out, “Any more bets?” No one calls out, “Than let the Anwig begin and the challenged be given the first blow.”
Arthur walks over to the circle, Merlin behind him. When the two are inside, the men close ranks, forming a human ring. Merlin is squeezed between Hoel and another Pict and watches anxiously, heart beating loud in his ears as the two fighters settle into a fighting stance.
Ban gives a roar and charges Arthur. Arthur holds his ground and when Ban’s blade comes down, raises the shield. It holds under the blow enough, but shatters. Arthur throws the ruined shield away. He’s used to fighting without a shield anyways.
Ban yells again as he goes into a second charge. Arthur ready this time, dances out of the way at the last second, circling around Ban back. He strikes out and Ban barely has time to bring his shield up. It holds under Arthur’s blow.
Arthur parries a strike and ducks under another. Feinting to the right, he comes in under Ban’s swing and strikes point first against Ban’s shield. Yanking, he pulls the shield off of Ban’s arm. It snaps under Arthur’s boot when he stomps on it.
Ban’s face goes white as Arthur moves forward like flowing water, knocking blows aside with little effort. Ban backs up until he is pressed against the ring of men. “Please,” he says softly.
“I will not be toyed with, Pict. Either step out of the ring, or die,” Arthur says softly.
Merlin watches Ban closely. If it had just been him and Arthur, the Pict might have yielded, but with everyone watching, how could he? To lose against a slave is one thing, but to flee from one? It is one thing he cannot do.
Merlin forces himself to watch as Ban gathers his courage and charges Arthur one last time. Arthur dodges Ban’s attack and getting under his guard, rams the sword into his body, angled up. It is a death blow and when Arthur tugs the sword out, Ban falls to the ground dead, his blood staining the snow red.
Arthur stands there, shaking from adrenalin and cold, face pale. Merlin remembers that this is Arthur’s first kill. Slowly he kneels beside Ban and bows, murmuring something too soft for anyone to hear. Slowly, Arthur rises and cleaning off the blade, hands it back to Hoel. “Thank you for allowing me to defend my honor. I am sorry for the loss of your man,” Arthur says.
“Ban brought it on himself,” Hoel says, looking between the dead man and Arthur. “But perhaps you could take his place?”
“What?” Arthur asks, stunned.
“I am tempted to take another risk on you. How about it, if I give you back your things, will your oath stand? Will you protect and serve me?”
Arthur swallows and looks at Merlin. Squaring his shoulders, he nods, “I will do it, so long as Merlin remains safe.”
“Good,” he says and claps Arthur on the shoulder again. “Let’s hear it than for the wolf-cub,” he yells out and the men cheer. They all crowd around Arthur, congratulating him while Ban lays dead and cooling in the snow not ten feet away.
Merlin watches for a while, but eventually he goes inside to help Shera and the women prepare. He isn’t sure if this has made matters better or worse.
~*~
It is strange to see Arthur in his knight’s attire, sword at his hip and chainmail shirt peeking out from under his black tunic. Hoel gives him more freedom, allowing Arthur time in the morning to exercise like he used to.
Around them, the steading prepares for the ride to the Folcgemot. Merlin wishes he had a map. He could easily pinpoint where they are on the map and where they will be going, but he has no skill at navigating besides the use of the sun. All he knows is that they are close to the Highpass and that Hoel says the ride to the Folcgemot is a good seven days’ ride.
Merlin and Arthur are to go with them, though Hoel hasn’t mentioned Merlin being a gift to Arrœk. Twenty fengels will ride with them, as will Shera and four other women. Although Hoel does not want to take the women, he does not want to face Shera’s wrath.
The day they leave, a priest is called to check to see if the omens favor the journey. He pulls out a bag of white bones, from what creature Merlin isn’t sure, and stones. He tosses them into a pan of snow. As he studies the way they landed and the marks left in the snow, the Picts seem to hold their collective breath. Finally the priest looks up and nods, the omens are good.
The Picts cheer and continue to prepare for the journey. Arthur sidles up to Merlin, “Was that real magic?”
Merlin shrugs, “Who knows? To them it was. Besides, I have no skill when it comes to divination, so I can’t say for sure.” Arthur shrugs and walks off, following behind Hoel.
They rise with dawn and Hoel comes to Merlin with his arms laden with furs, a gift to keep him warm on the journey. He shows Merlin how secure everything and doesn’t pull away once he has settled the fur cloak over Merlin’s shoulders. “You will not be forgotten,” he says and presses a kiss to Merlin’s forehead.
His words nearly undo Merlin until he see Nimueh’s collar still at his throat. Taking a breath, Merlin pulls Hoel’s head down and kissed his forehead as well, a thank you to the man for the clothing. Hoel grins and stands, helping Merlin to his feet. Merlin shudders and doesn’t know if it is from the cold or the realization that Hoel intends to give him to Arrœk.
The journey takes nine days and Merlin spends them huddled in the saddle, burrowing as much as he can into his furs. The horses trudge through the snow and each night, the Picts see to their mounts first. They sleep in crude tents and Merlin huddles close to Hoel, unashamed of take warmth where he can. Arthur seems to fare better and Merlin is jealous of the ease of which Arthur rides through the cold and snow.
Eventually though, they reach the meeting place. It is settled in an enormous valley that is nearly a perfect bowl shape. At its center is a lake and around it are the tents of all the tribes of the Picts. Arrœk’s steading stands off to the side, the buildings easily twice as large as Hoel’s had been if not larger.
They aren’t unannounced; Arrœk’s sentries had seen them some distance from this place, appearing as if from nowhere with their white furs the let them blend into the snows so easily. Even Hoel seems to be surprised, but when Arthur moves to defend, the leader holds up his arm, stilling Arthur. “It is good that you will defend me, but not at the cost of Arrœk’s hospitality.” He nods to the three men. “I am Hoel Peredur of the Ar, summoned to the Folcgemot.”
“What do you bring amongst us, brother?” One of them asks, looking between Arthur and Merlin.
“What I bring is for Arrœk to reveal. They are loyal to me,” he takes on. Arthur bows at his words, the move awkward on his horse.
“You will answer for them,” one says. One of them turns and starts to walk away. Hoel, nodding to the remaining two, follows the third as he leads him down.
The encampment is controlled chaos when they finally enter it. Men, women and children all around, busy with whatever it is needed doing, the noise only just under shouting. Although it isn’t visible, Merlin can see the lines between each tribe. Gaps between tents, different markings on tents, all stand out to Merlin’s eye as they walk from territory to the next. Merlin shifts nervously, feeling the tension in the air, his horse shifting under him at his nervousness.
Merlin shifts his horse closer to Arthur’s as all eyes turn to stare at them. They stand out so easily, especially Arthur with his bright blonde hair. Their guide shows them to a spot to set up their camp and goes to leave without says another word.
“I must speak with Arrœk,” Hoel tells the man.
“If anything is to be said, it will be during the Folcgemot so all might here. Tributes will be paid in the evening when the sun is a finger’s width from the edge, he points to the rim of the valley. With a final nod, their guide leaves them. Arthur and the others start to set up camp and Merlin is left unsure of what else to do.
When Shera beckons him over after talking with Hoel, he dismounts stiffly and allows Hervis to take his reins. She and another woman, Kendra, lead him away. Merlin can feel Arthur’s eyes on him as he leaves and Hoel’s words, “He will be safe. He goes to a king and you as well.” Merlin glances back to see Arthur staring after him.
Shera leads him to the bath house, thankfully clear of others. Merlin watches as she and Kendra secure the room, giving them some privacy. “What did Hoel ask of you?” Merlin asks her.
“To make you presentable,” she tells him gently.
Sighing softly, Merlin slowly peals the furs he is wearing off until he stands nude with them a puddle at his feet. “Did he say why?” Merlin asks, but he can already guess why.
“Yes,” she says as Merlin steps forward, towards the large tub. “If I could do anything, I would, but this is a man’s world,” she says softly, a hand on Merlin’s face.
“Thank you, Shera, for your kindness, It is more than I deserve,” Merlin tells her with a smile.
“You made life a little brighter. You took our songs and made them beautiful. You deserve more than this,” she tells him.
Before she can see the tears in his eyes, he steps past her and sinks into the heated water. Wiping at his eyes, he forces the tears back. He can’t afford emotions like this at the moment. Dunking his head under water, he lets the heat seeping into his chilled bones.
By the time he is finished and dressed in a tunic and breeches of combed white wool, the sun is nearing the lip of the valley. His hair has been combed and tamed somewhat, though it will be wild once it dries. Slipping his boots back on, he stands for their inspection. “Am I ready?” he asks with a flat humor.
“If Arrœk has seen anything better, I will eat my shoe,” Shera declares and Merlin cracks a small grin at her words. She walks forward and folds him into a hug. “I will miss you child, you and that lad of yours.”
“Their gathering,” Kendra says, coming back into the room. Shera helps him into his cloak, settling the garment over his shoulders. With a nod, they leave the bath house. People stare as he walks, but he ignores them. Hoel is beaming with pride as they come up to him, Arthur just behind him, his blue eyes narrowed.
Overhead, the sun continues to lower and soon, it reaches a finger width’s distance from the lip of the valley. Arm around Merlin’s shoulders, Hoel leads them towards the great hall.
~*~
Hoel allows the other steading members to go first, keeping Merlin and Arthur hidden near the back. Even as tall as he is, all Merlin can really see is a sea of Pictish men and some women gathered in one place.
Four steadings wait for an audience with Arrœk that evening: two from the Ar tribe, including theirs, one of the Mæstling and another of the Isern. The more powerful Gold and Seolfor tribes had arrived earlier.
All seem to have brought some sort of tribute. From gold to beautifully carved wooden pieces. They follow behind the Isern tribe who give beautifully cured white pelts from all different animals. Murmurs abound at this since Arrœk’s Silent Ones, the sentries they met, used them as a symbol of who they are.
Although he can’t see Arrœk, Merlin can hear the man. His voice is deep and even and he knows how to use it like a true leader. As the men ahead of them clear out of their way, Merlin can finally catch a glimpse of the man he will be given to.
He is large, larger than Hoel, his shoulders broad. He reclines in a large throne-like chair, staring at Hoel and his men as they greet their war leader. Merlin can’t see his face, but he won’t have to wait much longer. “Hoel Peredur of the Ar, well met, brother. It is good to meet our brothers who guard and win so many battles on our southern border.”
Behind Hoel, Shera bobs her head nervously. Shifting, Merlin can finally make out Arrœk’s face, his eyes a dark brown. He looks at Shera and the women, “Be welcome as well,” he says to them.
“I also bring tribute,” Hoel says, stepping to the side. The rest follow and Merlin is given his first unobstructed view of Arrœk. “Two southern slaves, purchased with southern money paid to us to raid. They are yours.”
He shows no surprise since he must have heard of their arrival, but he still lifts a curious brow as he takes them in. Merlin bows as he was taught by Kilgharrah, bowing to foreign royalty. Beside him, Arthur makes his usual bow, arms crossed over chest.
He is handsome for a Pict. Dark brown locks swept back into a sort of club, a trimmed beard adorning his chin. In his mid-thirties, he watches them from his easy position. Merlin can feel Arrœk’s eyes on him and glances up through his fringe and knows the man is staring at his eyes.
Smirking, he looks at Hoel, “You give me two more mouths to feed?”
Shifting nervously, he shakes his head. “He is trained to please kings,” Hoel says, looking at Merlin. “My lord,” he tacks on to the end, an acknowledgement of Arrœk position, of his kingship.
“And the other?” he asks, looking at Arthur.
“A lord’s son and an oath-sworn warrior. He is bound to the boy and should you keep him safe, he will fight for you,” Hoel explains as his fengels nod behind him.
“Is it so?” he asks, looking Merlin over.
Merlin bows again, speaking. “It is so, my lord,” Merlin says, surprising Arrœk and the others who had not known he could speak Pictish. “Arthur du Bois is a knight of the Round Table Brotherhood. The five kings of Alban do not go anywhere without one knight always at their sides.”
“You speak our tongue and are trained to please kings. How do I know you have not been sent to spy on us? How is it that you became a slave?” Arrœk asks, leaning forward slightly.
Merlin looks Arrœk fully in the face, studying the markings covering his skin, each one declaring just who he is. Taking a breath, he answers, “I knew too much.”
He nods, believing Merlin’s words somewhat. He turns to Arthur, “And you, how did you get here?”
Arthur turns to look at Merlin, “Tell him I am oath-sworn to guard your life, that it is a matter of honor.”
Merlin translates quickly. “Do you swear by Hoel’s words, to guard my life?” he asks, eyeing Arthur.
Arthur stares back as well and finally, he bows again, “I swear it, so long as Merlin remains safe.”
“Mer-lin, that is how you are called?” has asks Merlin. Merlin nods. “Well then, Merlin, you will teach me Alban.” Merlin just nods again, not able to refuse. He turns to Arthur. “Let us see just what kind of warrior you are.” He makes a gesture to one of his fengels, one of the Silent Ones.”
The Pict springs forward, short spear aimed for Arrœk where he sits unmoving. Hoel grins smugly as Arthur moves into action, sliding between the fengel and Arrœk easily. Sword springing easily from his belt, Arthur parries the blow aside and kicks out, knocking the fengel back. Arthur turns away from the man and bows to Arrœk before stepping back to where he had been beside Merlin.
Arrœk appears satisfied as he stands. “You have given me an exceptional gift Hoel Peredur,” he says aloud, clapping Hoel on the shoulder and drawing him in close. Merlin glances around and shivers. Their arrival is not as welcome as it seems and from the face Merlin can see, many of the people resent them. They are among the enemy.
~*~
That night, Arrœk feasts, Hoel seated at his table to show his favor for Hoel’s gifts. Mead flows steadily, talk loud and boisterous, people breaking into songs and tales. Merlin stands behind Arrœk chair, serving him and the others at the table from a heavy jug. He soon looses count of how many times he refills his jug. He can count on one hand how often he refills Arrœk’s cup though.
The man remains sober, watching his men get drunk around them, eyes taking in everything and giving nothing back. His gaze also follows Merlin as he moves about refilling cups. Merlin tries to ignore him but its hard and it makes him self-conscious and clumsy, almost spilling twice before he forces himself to take a deep breath and steady his nerves.
Arthur attends him as well, behind his left shoulder. Two silent Ones keep an eye on Arthur as well. Merlin feels cold as he studies Arrœk. The man clearly wants to set himself up as king, but amongst these drunkard tribes he can’t achieve what he wants. Remembering his own home, Merlin shivers in fear.
There is no talk that night as they feast, only boasting and tales of their deeds. Two men, one from the Seolfor tribe and another from the Isern tribe, fall into a quarrel over a blood-feud. As drunk as they are, it doesn’t take long for swords to be drawn and a space cleared for the fight. Around them, bets are being made, Hoel in the thick of it.
The sound of Arrœk’s cup being slammed onto the table top has them all stilling and looking towards him. “Are you men or beasts? Any quarrel is to be brought up to me and if any wish to settle it will fight me? Do you wish to fight me?” he asks, looking at the two combatants in the eye until they look away. “Good, then shake hands and behave,” Arrœk growls out. The men do as asked.
“I have called you here because you have all learned to lead. You lead you folk well, but still you squabble over the smallest things. If we are to make this land truly great, then we must set aside our differences, our feuds and quarrels. We must unite under one banner and show those southerners that we are a mighty people, a force to be reckoned with!”
They cheer at his words. “You Hoel Peredur of the Ar. You wagered on the fight, did you not?”
Hoel looks down, ashamed. “I was caught up in the heat of the moment. Have you not done similarly on a cold winter’s night?” he asks, looking up at his leader.
“A wager is a challenge, Peredur and you are a guest in my hall. Will you wager that jewelry that circles your neck? A southern trinket, not doubt?” he asks Hoel.
Hoel glances at Merlin before answering, “If you admire it, then it is yours.”
“No, I will win it honestly. Come try your arm against mine,” Arrœk says, clearing the table in front of him. The men cheer at the new entertainment.
Taking the collar off, Hoel shakes his hands above his head, showing it off. Setting it on the table, he settles into a chair across from Arrœk and extends his arm. Merlin watches as their arms strain, the muscles cording out, faces turning red as they arm-wrestle.
For a second, Merlin thinks Hoel will win, but slowly, Arrœk pushes him back until at last his hand lands on the table with a loud thump. The men cheer their leader. Merlin thinks that is the end of until Arrœk beckons him forward. “Never let it be said that we are cruel master,” Arrœk says aloud.
Picking up the collar, he settles it around Merlin’s throat. Merlin shudders as the cool metal settles against his throat. Nimueh’s gift is back where is started. “What have we to fear from a people who are trained to serve?” he asks. Merlin stands there as the men cheer and feels dread knot up his stomach.
~*~
It is the next day that the Folcgemot meets. Merlin is grateful that Arrœk did not send for him that night, instead giving him a pallet in the servant’s quarters. He allows sleep to take him, ignoring the stares from the Picts.
The next morning, Arthur and Merlin are herded into a storeroom just off of the main room where the Folcgemot will meet. Each leader is allowed two fengels and their headwoman. Merlin presses his ear against the door, hoping he will hear something, but the room mutes all the sound coming in. Behind him, Arthur paces, having already tried to see if there is a way out.
“How bad was it?” Arthur asks suddenly.
“Shush,” Merlin hisses, trying to strain his hearing far enough. It’s no use though, he can’t hear anything. Sighing in frustration, he turns away from the door. Eyeing the barrels of mead in there with them, he measures them to the wall, trying to see if they are tall enough to get him up to the rafters above.
Scrambling onto one, Merlin reaches up, but he just isn’t tall enough. “Arthur, get up here and help me,” Merlin hisses down at the knight.
Sighing, Arthur complies. “You’re an idiot,” Arthur whispers as he stands next to Merlin on another barrel he had pressed closer.
“They’re planning something and if we manage to escape, do you want to tell Uther and Morgana the Picts are planning something, but sorry, we couldn’t hear? I need to get higher,” Merlin tells him.
It takes some doing, but eventually, he has Merlin on his shoulders. Reaching, Merlin’s fingers just brush the underside of the rafters. “Higher,” Merlin hisses. Grunting, Arthur grips Merlin’s feet and shoves with all his strength, lifting Merlin the last few inches needed.
When his fingers grip the rafter, Merlin pulls himself up quickly, thanking his old tumbling master silently. Looking down, Arthur seems a lot further down than it seemed getting up. Nodding to the knight, Merlin slowly inches his way along the great beam of timber, the voices of the Picts steadily getting louder and clearer.
Flat on his belly, he peers down at the assembled Picts. Hoping that none will look up and see him, he listens in one what they are saying. Sweating atop the rafter, Merlin realizes that he hasn’t missed much as a priest makes his way from the front after blessing the meeting.
Arrœk waits until the noise quiets before speaking. “In the beginning of our people, the Folcgemot was meant as a meeting place for the tribes to gather, to settle disputes and feuds, reaffirm borders and even arrange marriages. That is not why we are here today.” He stares out at them. “We are a warrior people, people fear us and yet they do not fear us enough to take us seriously. They sit safe inside their homes with the knowledge that our savagery is confined in the mountains while around us, kingdoms rise and fall.”
A murmur rises at his words as Arrœk slanders Pictish tradition. “What I say is true! Across the mountains to our south, the five kingdoms rule. Their lords walk around in silks and great palaces made of stone while we shiver in our cold wooden halls dressed in our leathers and furs.”
“We are better than that!” Arrœk yells out, the hall silent at his words. “You seek glory but what glory is found in slaying your brothers and sisters? It is time we make our mark in the land, not as some bogyman used to scare children but as a fierce proud nation that will bring the five kingdoms to their knees before us!”
Merlin clutches at the rafter as their cheers shakes it. He has won them over, even the women who imagine themselves decked out in fine silks and velvets. Merlin can’t blame them though, of wanting more. But they only grasp a small portion of what it took for the five nations to reach where they are now. They do not think of the cost that must be paid for their goal to come through. It will throw the entire Balance out of sync and bring death to them all.
One man stands up, though Merlin does not know who he is. “And how exactly do you wish to achieve this goal?” he asks pragmatically. “I know for a fact that the Southerners guard their boards closely. They may not be expecting us, but they are not unprepared either and can summon an army in little time.”
“They are not as prepared as they used to be. Already, one of the kingdoms has fallen into disorder, its king banished and a new ruler on its throne that none wish to follow while another slowly withers at its heart. They will kneel to us or they will dye fighting our might of arms.”
He is right. If the three kings to the south see Camelot and Escetia fall, they might be willing to treat with Arrœk, if only to secure their own kingdoms. The man nods. “Then where and how will we accomplish this? We have yet to win against them despite our numbers.”
Smiling, Arrœk pulls a letter from his belt, holding it up for all to see. “The Camelot king is weak and dying and has no heir except for a woman who is not even wed. I have had an offer from the Duc of d’Alene, whom men call Nædre. He wishes to be king with our aid. Should we hear his offer?”
With a collective cheer, Arrœk reads the letter slowly, translating it into Pictish. The gist of it is that the bulk of the Pictish army will come through the eastern most pass into the Escetian kingdom to engage the collective army of Escetia and Camelot, while a smaller group will go through the western most pass, west of Highpass, and attack the defenseless Camelot. Caught between the two forces, the army will have no choice but to surrender. Afterwards, the Picts will withdraw and Valiant will be made king. He will then give them Escetia and declare Arrœk king of the Picts.
Merlin can only stare in horror as he listens to Arrœk’s words. Thousands will die because one man wants more than he deserves. Tear prickle at the corner of his eyes and Merlin wipes them away furiously.
Below, Arrœk sets the letter aside and looks out at his men. “An interesting offer, but…I have a better offer. This Nædre is a cunning man and a bold fighter, but he does not understand Picts if he thinks we will settle for what he deems we should have. Instead, we shall take everything from him and give him nothing. So, instead, we will send only enough men to the eastern pass to make him think we have sent the most of our army and instead, we will amass in the western pass and sweep down through Camelot and Escetia and take everything. Caught between our two forces, he will have nothing to do but surrender.”
They jump to their feet at his words, cheering him on. “Shall we do this?” Arrœk asks. The men roar, caught up in the bloodlust and glory, but here and there, there are quieter faces, women thinking on how many will die, the losses that will be sustained to achieve this goal.
“We cannot fight in winter though. I have read many books and this I know for sure, an army travels on its belly. So we shall wait until summer, when food is plentiful. So until then, let every man go back to their steading and prepare. Let forges roar as they outfit our army and every woman count the stores in preparation for this day. What say you, how do you vote?”
Merlin isn’t surprised when no hand is raise against him. As Arrœk starts to go onto other matters, Merlin wiggles back slowly until he is at last back over the store room. Arthur watches him the entire time and once he is sure Merlin is in position; hisses at him “Get down!” Slowly, Merlin lowers himself until he hangs by his fingertips. “Let go, I’ll catch you,” Arthur tells him. Taking a breath, Merlin lets go of the rafter and drops.
His breath rushes out of him in a rush as he lands against Arthur who catches him easily, though he does stagger a little. They stand there, pressed chest to chest, Merlin still shaking with the shock of what he had learned. “They intend to invade,” Merlin whispers. “They will invade and Valiant has given them the keys to the kingdom,” Merlin spat out. “We need to find a way to warn them.”
“We will,” Arthur says softly, stepping back slightly. Taking Merlin’s face in his hands, he wipes away the furious tears Merlin hadn’t noticed he was crying, “I swear, Merlin, I will get us out of here.”
Nodding, Merlin steps back and they set about putting the storeroom back to the way it was. Merlin keeps glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. Finished, they listen but the Folcgemot is still going. Arthur settles onto the ground, back against the wall. Slowly, Merlin settles next to him.
“You know, when I was first assigned to you, I thought it was punishment for something, forcing me to guard someone’s expensive plaything,” Arthur admits.
“I am a plaything,” Merlin says bitterly. “That’s all I have ever been to everyone, including Nimueh.”
“Merlin, Nimueh is not your fault. Even if you hadn’t been there, I’m sure she had other plans to get the information she wanted. It was just your luck that you drew her attention,” Arthur says softly.
“I let her do those things to me, just like I’ll let Arrœk when he comes for me. And the whole time, I’ll slowly be dying inside from shame,” Merlin says softly, gripping a fistful of hair and tugging in frustration. “I won’t be able to stop myself.”
“Then do it and live,” Arthur hisses, gripping Merlin’s arm hard. Merlin looks up at him. “and when the time comes for him to set foot on Alban soil, I will plant my sword in his gut because I won’t be able to stop myself.”
Merlin can’t stop the laughter that bubbles up at his words, the absurdity of them. It dies in his throat though when the bolt to the door is pulled back and the door opens, one of the Silent Ones standing in the door way. The Folcgemot is over and the Picts are preparing for war.
~*~
That night, the fires run high and late as the Picts stay up celebrating the call of war. Arrœk allows it, even opening up his own stores to them and barrel after barrel is rolled out and carried to camps. In the great hall, only a select few are allowed to celebrate. Hoel and Shera are there, given statues for his gift of Alban slaves and his connection with D’Alene.
Shera is still flushed with the excitement, but there are still shadows in her eyes when she looks at Merlin. He can’t forgive her, despite her kindness, for not speaking out against this war.
Arrœk doesn’t even try to hide their plans, thinking they do not know the details. Still, Arrœk keeps a close eye on Arthur who is back in his position at Arrœk’s back. The two Silent Ones watch him closely, but the only thing that gives away Arthur’s emotions is the small furrow between his brows.
Arrœk Keep Merlin close at hand, displayed like a trophy for all to see. He isn’t as obviously possessive as Hoel had been but he shows it through small things, a touch to the back of the neck, feeding him bits from his plate, running a finger along the collar around Merlin’s neck.
Merlin endures it. He would have preferred for Hoel to just throw him over his shoulder, but this calculating manipulation gets to him worse as his mind whirls with the knowledge of Arrœk’s plan. His stomach is in knots the entire night.
His hopes that Arrœk will just dismiss him again like the night before are dashed when the man stands, tugging Merlin up as well. Handing him off to one of the Silent Ones, he says, “Bring him to my room.” Merlin swallows back bile that tries to rise as fear starts to take hold.
Merlin can only follow as he is led away from the main room down a side hall. Arrœk is already in his rooms when Merlin is pushed unceremoniously into the room and the door shut. Merlin had expected a larger version of Hoel’s room and it is, but there is more than he is expecting.
A bookshelf takes up an entire wall, filed with books and scrolls. A fire roars in its hearth and next to it is a pile of steel armor, shining in the firelight. A map is pinned to the wall showing the entirety of Albion and with details of the five kingdoms. A desk sits to the right of the great bed piled with parchment, more books and correspondences.
Merlin spies a book that he had read once. It is a history on the life of Hafoc Eage, a great hero who saved his people by uniting them in a time of war and invasion. Merlin looks up at his voice, “he is a hero of mine, a model of a true leader. Do you think so?”
Merlin sets the book back down, “He united his people in a time of need, but he was no invader.”
Arrœk furrows his brow, taken aback by Merlin’s words. Few would dare to speak so to him and someone in Merlin’s position most of all. But Merlin has always had a hard time keeping his mouth shut when he needs to most.
“You know, there are no Pictish books,” he says instead of letting his irritation get the better of him.
“There are some, my lord. Some scholars have translated the Pictish language phonetically into the Alban alphabet,” Merlin tells him.
“Is that so? Perhaps I will have to find these books later. Hoel did not tell me you are a scholar, Merlin.” He steps forward but Merlin doesn’t look up at him.
“I am a slave, my lord,” Merlin mutters.
“Have you read this book then?” he asks, holding one up. It is the Geornful Drycræft. Merlin wants to laugh at the irony of his situation. That is the first book he studied under Alice’s tutorage.
“Yes, I have studied this book,” Merlin says.
“I learned the scholars tongue from this book, my tutor an old warrior, but I never found someone who knew of such practices. Yet you do,” Arrœk says, gripping Merlin’s chin and forcing him to look up. Merlin nods against his hand.
“Hoel says that you are gifted by your gods that anyone to have you must please you,” Arrœk says softly. “He says the mark is in your eyes.
“The markings in my eyes show my connection to the Balance, nothing more and nothing less,” Merlin says.
“I please you now, do I not?” Arrœk asks, running a hand under Merlin’s eye.
“If that is what my lord wishes me to say, then yes you please me,” Merlin gets out.
“It pleases me as well,” he says softly. Letting Merlin’s face go, he steps back. “I wish to be served by one trained to serve kings. You will start on page one,” he orders.
Bowing his head Merlin begins by kneeling before Arrœk.
~*~
In the morning, Arrœk looks pleased, grinning slightly. Others notice and talk and jest, but Merlin ignores their words. He’s grateful when Arthur says nothing. Merlin had pleased Arrœk that much he knew.
Merlin learns later about Arrœk’s wife. How she was a match for him and how Arrœk loved her greatly. But she had gotten sick one winter and died by the spring thaw. He wonders if Arrœk’s wife had lived, would he be invading now.
Arrœk rides around the camp as it breaks up, talking with each leader of each camp. They will each be leaving one person behind to act as messengers. Since Merlin hadn’t been ordered to remain in the hall, he walked out amongst the camps towards Hoel’s camp.
Merlin doesn’t pay attention to where he is going, lost in thought and walks into a Mæstling fengel as he emerges from a tent. The man grins down at Merlin as he clutches at his waist in a vice like grip. “Look lads, it seems Arrœk has decided to give us one last honor.” Merlin tries to push away, but the man is stronger than he is.
It happens too fast to stop and Merlin ends up face first in the snow, his arm shoved up behind his back as the man fumbles at his clothing, trying to yank them down. Merlin’s stomach roils as he realizes he’s about to be raped in the middle of a Pictish camp in broad daylight.
Merlin writhes, trying to get away as the Pict finally yanks his breeches down to his knees. He’s fumbling at his laces when suddenly there is a roar added to the noise around them and the man holding Merlin down is lifted off of him.
Merlin scrambles up, pulling his breeches up as quickly as he can. Looking up, he sees Hervis holding the man in a headlock. He doesn’t hold him long before another Mæstling is on his back, forcing Hervis to let the man go. Another fengel grabs hold of Merlin before he can do anything, laughing at Merlin’s struggles.
No one notices Arrœk’s arrival. He’s about to yell something, but before he can, Arthur spots Merlin. Arthur’s off his horse before anyone can stop him, shouting Merlin’s name. He draws his sword unsheathed.
Two Mæstlings die before anyone realizes what’s happening. The man holding Merlin lets him go with a curse and charges Arthur, drawing his sword. Arthur fights on, trying to get to Merlin through the melee, seeming to be berserk in his goal to reach Merlin.
Arrœk dismounts soon after, wading after Arthur. Merlin had heard of Arrœk’s prowess with a sword, but he sees it now. The man seems to glide through the melee, knocking men out and tossing them aside with ease. “I order you to stop!” he roars at Arthur but Arthur is beyond hearing, continuing his attack.
As he reaches Arthur, he waits until the knight turns to attack before getting under his guard. Parrying his blow, he brings his sword up and brings its hilt down on Arthur’s temple. Arthur crumples like a puppet with its strings cut.
Arrœk stands over the still Arthur and shakes his head, “Kill him.”
“No!” Merlin shouts, rushing forward. He falls to his knees in front of Arrœk. “My lord, he was only honoring his vow to protect me. Please, spare his life and I will do anything you want.”
“You will do it anyways,” Arrœk says coolly, eyeing Merlin and Arthur. Merlin doesn’t say anything, but Arrœk must see the rebellion in Merlin’s eyes.
It doesn’t come to that though as Hervis limps over, pushing the fallen Mæstling over, and his limp cock still hanging out of his breeches. “Found him on top of the lad, my lord,” he says to Arrœk. “The boy is sworn to protect him. It was how Hoel was able to tame the warrior.”
“Who spoke against this?” Arrœk asks, his eyes cold as he stares at those around him. No one answers. “No one. No one spoke out against this. He is as much my property as my horse or my sword and no one spoke up against the theft of him?” Growling, he turns back to Merlin. “For you plea and the injury you have sustained, I will not kill him, but have him in chains.”
He motions to one of the Silent Ones. The man comes forward and picks Arthur up, carrying him off. He turns to the leader of the dead fengels, “I will pay feoh for the death of your fengels. Is that acceptable?” The man bows his acceptance. “Good, then leave me,” Arrœk says and soon the crowd is dispersed.
“What were you doing out here in the camps?” he asks, pulling Merlin to his feet.
“I… I was going to Hoel’s camp to bid farewell. Some of them had been kind to me,” Merlin says, looking up at Arrœk.
“You should have told me and I would have given you an escort. Take him to Hoel’s camp,” he tells one of the Silent Ones.
“I’ll do it, my lord,” Hervis says, coming forward.
It is the last thing Merlin wants to do now, worried over Arthur but he can’t push Arrœk any further than he has. Arrœk just grunts and gives Merlin an hour before he is gone. Merlin looks after the way they had taken Arthur, but he can’t see them anymore.
“You’ve done all you can,” Hervis says softly, leading Merlin away. “That lad’s a tough one and he’ll live, if he doesn’t force Arrœk’s hand again. Don’t go mourning him just yet.” Merlin just nods and allows himself to be led away towards the camp.
~*~
The farewells are awkward at best, both because of what has just happened and because they have just declared war on Merlin’s people. Still, Merlin puts on a smile and hugs Shera and the other women. Leaning into the head woman, Merlin whispers softly, “If Hoel asks you a fourth time, say yes. You two are well matched.” Shera pulls away with a sniff and nods.
Nodding to Hervis, Merlin allows the Pict to escort him back to the main hall. Merlin thanks his softly, giving him a hug before sending the Pict off. When Merlin can’t find Arthur, he asks Arrœk tentatively that night. Arrœk’s words are gruff, saying the knight is safe and Merlin is forced to accept his words.
Three days pass before anything happens and in those three days, Merlin finds himself as unwelcome in Arrœk’s steading as he could be. The men watch him with barely hidden contempt while the women sneer at him, jealousy clear in their faces. Only the children seem to like him and remembering his time with Freya, he braids their hair using bits of leather and cloth. He stops soon after when he sees the women undoing his work with quick, angry movements while the children cry out.
Arrœk isn’t unaware, but he doesn’t seem to understand his people’s dislike of Merlin. He tries to smooth things over by complementing Merlin, but it just makes them hate Merlin even more. So he keeps Merlin close, putting him to recreating the written language of the Picts. Merlin is glad for it allows him to hide out in Arrœk’s chambers. He even has Merlin go over maps of the five kingdoms, wanting clarifications on the details. Merlin lies as best he can without giving himself away. He can’t lie when teaching Arrœk Alban though.
At night, they work steadily through the Geornful Drycræft steadily. On the fourth day, Arrœk finally comes to Merlin, “Your companion will not eat. Maybe you should see him.”
Merlin pales at his words and quickly grabs his cloak. He follows Arrœk from the great hall, along a trail around the lake to a small hut. It is dark and dirty inside, a small straw pallet set up to the side. Arthur is knelt in the center of the hut, chained by his ankles and wrists with enough slack to reach the pallet. He chooses to kneel there.
He looks like hell. His eyes are bloodshot; dark circles stand out sharply against his pale face. Blood from where Arrœk struck him mats his hair and leaves dried streaks on his cheek. Merlin can’t hold back as he walks in. “You idiot! What are you doing?”
Arthur blinks up blearily at Merlin. “I dishonored my vow. I drew to kill,” Arthur says slowly, like it’s a great strain to talk.
“Is that all?” Merlin asks, kneeling in front of him. Merlin rubs at his face in frustration. Remembering Arrœk in the room, Merlin glances up. “He is atoning for his wrong doing,” Merlin explains.
“Tell him to live. I have atoned for the men he killed. Besides, I wish to learn his style of fighting,” Arrœk tells Merlin.
Arthur seems to follow Arrœk’s words because he laughs harshly, “You bested me. Why would you want to learn from me?”
“You were not expecting me to attack and you had given your word to protect me,” Arrœk says slowly so Arthur can follow.
“I cannot teach him,” Arthur tells Merlin in Alban. “I have failed you too many times and I have dishonored my vow. It’s better if I die.”
The sound of flesh slapping flesh startles everyone, including Merlin who stares at his hand and Arthur’s cheek where a red mark is starting to show. “You have not failed me, knight. Not yet any way. But if you keep of the pity trip you are and I will be sorely tempted to just leave you here.” Merlin leans closer, “This is another test Arthur and I can’t do this alone.”
“I can’t,” Arthur says miserably, looking at Merlin. “I can’t even protect you now,” Arthur turns to look at Arrœk, “I’m sorry, but I’m not worthy to live.”
Merlin swears then, long, loud and creatively in as many languages as he knows and some that seem almost made up. Shoving Arthur he glares down at him. “Damn it, knight, is that all the courage you have? I swear, if I ever get back, I am writing a letter to your captain to tell him how a sorcerous whore had more courage than one of his knights,” Merlin hisses at Arthur.
“You wouldn’t,” Arthur says, glaring up at Merlin from where he is struggling to rise.
“Try and stop me. Lifwraþu, knight,” Merlin says loudly. Merlin is terrified, but he can’t show it, not when Arthur needs him so much.
Arthur struggles up until he is kneeling. “It’s hard,” he says softly, tears in his bloodshot eyes.
“I know it is, but you aren’t alone in this,” Merlin tells him.
Arrœk walks up with a bowl of broth that one of the Silent Ones had brought with him. “Eat and live,” he says simply to Arthur in Pictish. Merlin looks back once to see Arthur lowering his head to sip from the bowl. One of the knots in his stomach loosens as that worry lets go. Arthur will heal, eventually.
~*~
Arthur continues to eat and regain his strength, though he develops inflammations on his wrists and hands where the manacles had chafed. They itch and ache and he uses them as a reason to put off teaching Arrœk his fighting style. Arrœk grants Merlin his request to visit Arthur once a day, seeing it as a way to encourage the knight to continue to live and heal.
Merlin looks forward to this. Arrœk is busy, so he sets a Silent One to escorting Merlin to and from the hut. Arthur continues to keep the extent of his knowledge of Pictish secret which arouse no suspicion when they speak in Alban.
There is not much to speak of. They can’t plan an escape with the camp so well-guarded. So they try to encourage each other, keeping them from letting depression truly take hold. Arrœk, impatient to learn from Arthur, sends for a priest and healer to see to Arthur’s hands.
Merlin rides with Arrœk to meet the priest the next day. Geberan the White-Eyed is not just a priest, he is a Hwata, a soothsayer. He gets his name from his eyes, which are such a pale blue, they appear almost white. He is an older man, his hair white with age, though still limber in his frame.
He doesn’t appear surprised when Arrœk and his men arrive at his hut in the woods. “Arrœk Gualdson,” the priest says, using a name Merlin hasn’t heard before for Arrœk.
“Hwata, this is Merlin nó Emrys of the five kingdoms. He has a companion whose wound will not heal,” Arrœk says, bowing his head in respect to this man. That surprises Merlin who has seen Arrœk bow to no one.
“Indeed he is,” the Hwata says, eyeing Merlin right behind him. “Come in then,” Geberan calls out, walking back into his hut.
Arrœk and Merlin follow behind him, the Silent Ones staying outside to guard. He looks Merlin over, staring longest at Merlin’s eyes. “And what do they call those?” he asks.
Merlin shakes his head, “They have no name,” Merlin murmurs, feeling a little off center. He’s never met a man like this before.
Geberan grunts, “Still means your marked, even without a name.”
“Hwata,” Arrœk starts to say.
“I know, I know. You want me to look at the lad’s hands and look this one over and give you advice. What advice can I give when you willingly take a weapon used by fate itself into your fold?” He snorts and walks over to a bag on a side table.
Merlin can feel Arrœk staring at him, a frown on his face, but he doesn’t look at him. He’s just as confused by the man’s words as Arrœk is. He’s never thought of himself as a weapon before. Grabbing his bag, Geberan follows them out and they mount up again, back towards the camp.
When they reach the hut that Arthur is in, he just walks straight in. Arthur jumps at his entrance. “Well, stop staring boy and let’s see them,” Geberan say gruffly. He examines Arthur inflamed wrists and hands, the skin cracked and red. “hmm, I’ve got something that’ll clear that up,” he mutters digging into his bag. Pulling out a jar, he unstoppers it and a rank smell suffuses the hut. Flinching at the smell, Arthur looks up at Merlin.
“He is a healer our lord Arrœk has asked to see to your wounds so that you may teach him,” Merlin says in simple Pictish.
Arthur bows his head, “I thank you and look forward to it.”
“Are you done Hwata?” Arrœk asks the priest.
“Nearly,” he says, wrapping bandages around Arthur’s appendages. Finished, he stands, wiping the ointment off on his breeches. “He will heal quickly,” he says and patting Arthur on the head, walks out with them. Merlin glances at Arthur before following.
Arrœk is talking with one of the Silent Ones, so Merlin approaches the priest. “Did you mean it, about me being a weapon?” Merlin asks softly, keeping one eye on Arrœk.
“Who knows what the gods plan. Anything can become a weapon in the right moment,” he looks Merlin over out of the corner of his eye, the irises almost white in the light. “Beware, young warlock, everything comes with a price and not everything is for you to pay for.”
With a salute, he walks off, back the way they had come. He’d refused a ride back, saying he’d rather walk. Merlin can only stare, gobsmacked. As Arrœk approaches, he schools his face into a neutral expression but stores the man’s word to go over later.
Arrœk’s response is to regard Merlin with suspicion after the priest’s visit. Instead of taking Merlin that night, he spends it studying Merlin’s Mearcung, tracing it’s bold lines. “Perhaps there are magic ruins inked in here.”
“The only magical thing about it is that it gives me freedom once it is complete,” Merlin says softly, holding himself still.
“You say the reason you were sold is because you knew too much. I would have just killed you. Why were you allowed to live?” he asks, turning Merlin over onto his back to face him.
Merlin remembers Nimueh’s words and shudders slightly. “I am the only one of my kind,” Merlin says simply. Arrœk just shrugs his words off, pulling Merlin closer as he runs a hand through his hair.
~*~
Arthur does heal quickly. Arrœk has his arms brought to him soon after and the training begins. Merlin had paid little heed to Arthur’s morning practices and their somewhat play bouts. He hadn’t realized that when he said he couldn’t train Arrœk, he meant that Arrœk couldn’t just add it to his fighting style.
The knights begin training at ten and continue throughout their lives, never stopping. Arrœk just can’t seem to understand that he has to unlearn all he knows of fighting if he is going to learn Arthur’s style of fighting.
Of course, when Arrœk starts to make a fool of himself and grows impatient. He stops the training and locks Arthur’s sword and armor in his cupboard in his rooms and keeps the shackle on Arthur permanent. He continues to be suspicious of them.
One of Arrœk’s men comes soon after with a letter from across the border. Merlin is too far away to read it, but he hears Arrœk words to the messenger, “Nædre suspects nothing!”
The messenger says something but Merlin doesn’t catch it, too busy staring at the sealing wax on it. The insignia impressed into it is one he knows by heart, an ancient symbol for House L’Isle: Nimueh’s mark. Merlin should have known. If she was clever enough to bring down the Escetian throne, it would be child’s play to her to play on both sides of a war.
Merlin is so shocked, he almost doesn’t hear Arrœk tell the messenger that they will be holding a great hunt on the next day to celebrate the continuation of their plans. A plan sparks into life at Arrœk’s words. Silently, Merlin slips away unnoticed.
He returns a few minutes later, letting Arrœk see his approach. Kneeling, he asks to visit Arthur and Arrœk waves his hand in absentminded approval and dismissal, sending one of the Silent Ones as his escort. Merlin studies the layout of the camp the whole way to the hut. It could work, if he can get Arthur to agree to it.
Arthur is exercising inside as much as he can, doing push-ups. Merlin’s escort give a quick glance around the hut before going back outside. Before Merlin can say anything, Arthur says, “Look.” He pulls on his chain, showing that the ring the chain connects to is loose in the plank of wood. “What’s happened? I can hear the camp stirring from here.”
“A messenger arrived. He bore a letter for Arrœk, from Nimueh,” Merlin says softly.
Arthur is silent for a minute before asking, “What did it say?”
Merlin shrugs, “I couldn’t see, but I know she told Arrœk that D’Alene suspects nothing.”
“Do you think it’s true?”
“I don’t know. She and D’Alene could be playing Arrœk. It is a possibility. Either way, a crown falls and she gains,” Merlin says. Taking a deep breath, he asks the question he had come here for, “Arthur, could you kill a man with your hands?”
Arthur pales, but asks, “Why?”
Merlin tells him his plan as quickly as possible.
Arthur paces the hut, brow furrowed. Each step clinks as his shackles rattle. “What you ask Merlin, it goes against everything I uphold. You want me to attack…to kill unprovoked. You ask me to do murder,” he says looking at Merlin.
“I know,” Merlin whispers. Despite everything he could say to excuse it, it is still just that: murder.
They are silent as Arthur thinks and paces, finally, he stills, looking down at Merlin. “I will do as you ask,” he says softly.
~*~
Merlin is restless the rest of the day. He spends it either in nervous sweats or fearful chills, his thoughts whirling, going over everything that can happen to make them fail. For once, Merlin is glad that Arrœk is busy with preparations. If he had been observing Merlin, he would have realized something was up.
That night, he still has Merlin. Merlin endures it, bracing against each of his thrusts, cursing the way his body responds despite his hatred of the man taking him. Afterwards, Arrœk sleeps and Merlin lies awake, staring straight ahead.
The fire, only embers now, strike something metallic. Merlin looks and sees Arrœk dagger resting on the headboard shelf above them. It would take little more than a bit of a stretch to reach it and he could bring it down on Arrœk’s throat.
Merlin shifts cautiously, reaching slowly. The bed creaks and Merlin almost jumps as Arrœk’s hand grasps his wrist. Heart in his throat, Merlin tries to play it off. Giving a sleepy protest, Merlin makes it look like he was going to wrap his arm around Arrœk, wanting to be closer to him.
Arrœk is surprised but pleased by Merlin’s supposed tenderness. Giving a soft laugh, he goes back to sleep with Merlin pressed close. Merlin lays awake most of the night, trying to slow his heart and easy the fear paralysis in his limbs. Eventually though, exhaustion takes him and puts him under.
~*~
The morning is clear as they make ready to leave for the hunt. One of the Silent Ones, Gauter, draws the short straw and is forced to stay to guard Merlin. Merlin can only feel sickening guilt that this man’s fate has been sealed by luck.
Soon, the hunt party leaves and the hall is left echoingly empty. Gauter lays about, clearly bored. Merlin waits a good ten minutes before making his way to Arrœk’s rooms. Inside, he quickly shuts the door and makes his way over to the cupboard where he stores Arthur’s things as well as other items of importance.
Bending the point of a brooch until it’s a hook, Merlin silently thanks Gwaine for teaching him how to pick locks. It doesn’t take long to get the lock undone. Inside is Arthur’s things as well as some coins, clothing and letters. Merlin sits down and quickly reads through the letter from Nimueh.
It is brief, confirming what Arrœk had said aloud. He rereads it just to be sure. He can feel it, that little bit of a spark that is her magic embedded in it. This is definitely her letter and her hand writing. Arrœk’s saddle bags are set off to the side, unneeded for a hunt. Merlin shoves the letter, clothing and a tender box into the bags.
Quickly fixing his makeshift lock pick back into his cloak, Merlin settles his cloak about his shoulders and heads back out. Gauter is still where he left him. “What do you want?” he asks.
“I wish to visit my friend, sir. My lord Arrœk allows me to visit him once a day,” Merlin says, trying to look as submissive as possible.
“I’ll take you later,” he says waving Merlin away.
Taking a breath, Merlin continues, “If you want, I could go alone. The steading is empty and it should be safe for me to go by myself.”
“Oh just let him go,” Wendra, one of the women there, says as she flutters her lashes at Gauter.
“And have word get back to Arrœk that I let him go alone?” standing, he shrugs on his white furs and jerks his head at Merlin. “Come on, and make it brief.”
Merlin nods and follows. His nerves have calmed now that he is actually doing it. Entering the hut, it takes Merlin’s eyes a moment to adjust. He see the center empty, the ring that had held Arthur to the floor, gone, pulled out of its hole. He spies Arthur to his right beside the doorway and moves further in.
Gauter follows. He gets two steps in before Arthur is on him, looping the chain around his neck and pulling back. Merlin forces himself to watch as Gauter dies a slow painful death as he gasps for air. Eventually though he falls unconscious. Arthur is quick and efficient, snapping the man’s neck.
Shuddering at the sound of his neck breaking, Merlin kneels and motions to Arthur to come closer. Using the brooch from before, he makes quick work of his shackles. “We need to strip him,” Merlin says grimly, looking up at Arthur.
Arthur just nods, his face a little pale, but set. It takes some time but soon they have Gauter stripped of his clothing. Arthur doesn’t even comment as he stands, striping his clothing off and pulling on the dead man’s clothing instead.
“Let me see,” Merlin says softly. Picking up some soot from the brazier in the room, he smudges it into Arthur’s hair and face. He will be less noticeable this way. Pulling the hood of the white furs down over his brow, Merlin nods. He will pass for a Silent One at a distance.
“Ready?” Merlin asks Arthur nods. “The great hall will be the hardest part, but I got as much as I could into the saddle bags. We can get supplies from the stores in the lesser halls.”
“I need my arms,” Arthur hisses.
“They’re not Pictish. Take Gauter’s,” Merlin says.
“I need my gauntlets at least. I can’t fight with a shield, you saw me in the Anwig.”
Sighing, Merlin nods. “Take them for now though. Slouch and look sullen. If anyone tries to talk, shake your head. If they persist, say ‘Arrœk’s orders. He’s making camp.’” Arthur repeats the words over and over until he can say them well enough to pass. “And treat me like dirt,” Merlin adds.
“Hang on,” Arthur says, just before they are about to leave. Kneeling, he says something softly to the man he just killed, closing his staring eyes. Standing up, he nods. “Let’s go.” Taking a breath, Merlin draws back the hide door and walks back out into the sunlight.
~*~
Part 6