Chapter Twenty Seven

Arthur has heard a lot of adages about storms. Most consist of weathering through them, waiting for them to pass, and are overall hopeful. But the one currently residing over Nottingham is stagnant with no clear pattern to its formation.

"You ever seen anything like it?" Percival asks from where they all perch on the edge of the forest, staring up at the clouds. The sky churns over itself in an ireful hue of bronze that casts out all color from the usual vibrant summer scene. It taints the grass a sickly color and overwhelms the floral scent with an earthy musk. The wind blows, but in no one direction, whipping about them in frantic swipes. It doesn't seem natural.

Perhaps it isn't. Along with adages, Arthur has heard about the power some magic holders possess; to wield objects, energy, life and death, even nature itself. He shutters, imagining the jewel-toothed man in Nottingham sitting on the throne as he summons wrath from the sky.

But no matter its origin, it doesn't stop the people of Mercia.

They trickle in from neighboring villages – men, women, some with children, others helping the elderly. All wearing old cloaks and tattered shoes as they trudge down the muddied road that leads straight to the front gates of Nottingham. Despite the weather, the market will be full of life by now, and freshly stocked. Whether or not the pockets of these people are deep enough for what they need is hard to say, but by the state of their dress, it looks as though these farmers and craftsmen will not be able to afford much.

And neither will Arthur.

From this moment on, everything counts. They're committed – soon quite literally, behind towering stone walls that will offer no easy escape. They'll have to be quick, strategic. And despite the nerves that continue to fray every time Arthur allows himself to wonder where the bloody hell Merlin could possibly be, they have to remain focused. And right now that means getting into the city.

They'll have to stagger.

The field surrounding the city of Nottingham is open, exposed. A pack of broad men – and two petite women – making for the front gates would no doubt earn suspicion from the guards atop the battlement, and while Arthur is sure the amount of soldiers left within the walls is meager compared to those out in the forest with Guy, it's a precaution worth taking. The group fans themselves out along the edge of the field ready to jump into the stream of patrons flowing towards the gates.

Will and Djaq go first. The lanky thief wraps his arm around her shoulders, and she leans into him, both keeping their faces cast down towards their shoes as they walk. Behind them, Much falls into step behind a butcher and his son carting their latest cuts ahead of them in a wheelbarrow. Leon is next, filing in with his cloak's hood hiked high over his head, and then Percival, who hitches a ride on the back of a cart where a little girl is delighted to talk his ear off with animated gestures. Sitting doesn't make him look quite so big, though Arthur throws a nervous glance towards the battlement anyway for signs of alarm. Little John follows after, veiling himself behind a horse, and while it certainly masks his girth, his head can still quite obviously be seen over top of the horse's backside.

"So far, so good," Robin says, watching the processional. He glances over at Marian and Arthur. "I told you this would work."

It's just the three of them left when they hear the rhythmic beat of hooves coming through the trees behind them. Robin immediately nocks an arrow, while Marian and Arthur unsheathe their respective blades, all turning to greet their incoming company.

"You were saying?" Marian says.

"Arthur!" The shout is not from a Nottingham soldier, but from Gwaine. Bruised and muddied, he breaks into view on the back of a horse, a second trailing behind him.

The three relax and Robin shakes his head. "You always doubt me."

"You often give me reason to," she says.

Robin opens his mouth to deliver a retort, but it stops short on his tongue when he sees who accompanies Gwaine on the second horse: Allan A. Dale. The traitor is still as pale as he was when they spotted him in the forest, dark rings surrounding his eyes, but this time, the shaft of an arrow protrudes out of the back of his shoulder. The feathers on it are black – a signature of the Nottingham guards.

Robin goes rigid at the sight of his former ally, but remains planted where he stands.

"What happened?" Arthur meets them halfway, reaching up to rest a hand on Gwaine's horse's muzzle, steadying the agitated animal. He looks around. "Where's Morgana?"

"Guy and his goons," says Gwaine. "They followed us. Infiltrated the town. There was nothing I could do-"

"And Morgana?"

"I don't know, but she-"

"You-" A wave of roiling heat flushes through Arthur's body. "How do you not know? You were meant to watch her!"

"I tried. I thought I could keep them from searching the church, draw their attention away from her, but—ah!" Gwaine cuts himself short, hissing in pain as he looks to Marian, whose hand is pulling away from his thigh, blood now coating her palm and trickling off the sides with the patter of rain.

"You're badly wounded," she says.

"Ah, so that's what hurts, eh?" He smiles despite the perspiration budding at his temples.

Marian gives a disapproving look, pinching the skin of his laceration together and withdrawing another pained hiss from the knight. "It'll need stitches."

His voice is strained. "Or a certain someone's tender, loving touch?"

She cocks an eyebrow at his request.

"Gwaine." Arthur steps in closer, trying to get him back on track. "Morgana. If she was found, if Guy has her-"

"I think it's what she wants," says Gwaine.

Between them, Marian rests her hand flat against Gwaine's wound and begins to whisper an enchantment. "Ic hæle þina þrowunga..."

"What she wants?" Arthur asks. "Why the hell would she want that?"

"I don't know, but I'm telling you...she gave herself way. She wanted to be found."

Arthur furrows his brow, trying to sort that out in his mind. Morgana couldn't possibly want to be found. Not when being found would mean being taken to Vaisey, and being taken to Vaisey would mean certain death for her.

"That's impossible. It doesn't make any sense."

"I never considered sense to be a particular strength of hers," says Gwaine as some of the bruising begins to fade from his face, leaving only the normal dirt and stubble behind. He lets out a breath of relief, massaging his newly restored leg as soon as Marian moves her hand. He shifts, slipping off his saddle and smiling down at her. "A true miracle worker..."

"I wouldn't get used to it," she says.

"He won't." Arthur nudges the knight back, preferring there to be more space maintained between Gwaine and Marian, but she notices the maneuver and gives Arthur a knowing smile.

"I don't mean to interrupt here, but we should get moving." Allan – on edge and feigning a sort of indifference – speaks up for the first time since their arrival. He shifts uncomfortably in the saddle as he sidles up closer to the group. "Gisbourne knows you're heading for the castle, and-"

Robin stalks closer. "Last we saw, Gisbourne and his men – including his newest chum – were heading west. I wonder what made them suddenly turn tail, stripping us of our one bloody advantage?"

The accusation is not lost on Allan. "You have no reason to believe me, I know that, but I'm just trying to help."

"Help?" Robin almost laughs. "Aren't you the one who spilled all our secrets? Nearly ruined everything we've been trying to achieve?"

"That wasn't my intent."

"It might not have been your intent, but it's what you did."

"Yeah, and I can't take it back now, can I?" Allan swings his leg over the saddle, hopping down to face Robin on level ground. He's clearly in no shape to fight by the looks of him, but that doesn't stop him from matching Robin's heat. "Look, I can stand here all day, all week, all year, trying to get you to trust me and it'd be a waste of breath. We don't have time for it. Any second, Gisbourne and his men are going to break through those woods. They're coming. Hundreds of them. And Gisbourne has his sights set on Marian."

"For me? Why?"

"If Vaisey goes, someone will have to take up the regency, won't they?"

"He...doesn't want it to be me?"

Marian once held great favor with Guy of Gisbourne. Even Arthur knew of his infatuation with her; witnessed it himself. He saw that Guy was protective and possessive of Marian upon Camelot's arrival, even threatening Arthur not to encroach on what he considered his territory, but then, somewhere along the way, amidst the shifting tides, things changed. His motives, and attention, also shifted. From Marian to...something else. Someone else?

It would have to be someone Guy can devote himself to. Someone who could reward that devotion by allowing him to ride on their coattails to the heights of status and power. It's all he wants. Arthur has seen men like him before and can spot them from a league away. Such an arrangement wasn't working out for Guy with Marian despite his compassion towards her. But there was another. Someone else to whom he has seen Guy show mercy, perhaps even kindness.

Arthur looks at Gwaine, reflecting on what he had said about the turn of events in Clun.

"Morgana," says Arthur, the pieces falling into place.

Gwaine looks at his king, but is unable to follow. "What?"

Before he can explain himself, Robin holds up a hand. "Wait."

They all fall silent. Listening.

Through the patter of the rain, they hear it. It rolls, a deep tremor, but it isn't thunder.

Soldiers.

Robin curses under his breath. He draws an arrow, simultaneously ducking to avoid one already shot in his direction.

Arthur and Gwaine spring apart, drawing their swords as Marian and Allan do the same.

The horse whinnies, rearing up onto its hind legs as shouts erupt and more arrows come flying in their direction. It bolts, taking its spooked comrade with it, escaping out from under the trees and barreling into the fields of Nottingham where unsuspecting farmers and merchants cry out in surprise and scramble to avoid being trampled.

Nottingham soldiers burst through the underbrush in a sudden swarm of black.

"Let's move!" says Arthur. An arrow whizzes past his ear.

The five sprint out from beneath the cover of the forest and into the open pasture where they find the villagers already in a panic. The steady stream of those heading to the market now race for the safety of the city walls. The knights and thieves that had hidden themselves among the throng now run against the tide to come to their aid.

"Master!" Much shouts as he sprints towards them. His face quickly twists in confusion as he takes notice of the prodigal thief, but before he can make sense or mention of Allan, Robin tries to wave them back.

"Go! Get to the city!"

Leon and Percival, already nearing their king, skid to a stop, their heels digging into the soaked earth and kicking up mud. Their eyes widen as they look beyond Arthur and the others to the woods. Arthur chances a glance.

A sea of black and silver pours out of the forest. It moves as one solid mass. More soldiers. More than they realized. They've abandoned their bows, taking up their swords instead, the sharp edges glistening off the periodic flashes of lightning. Their boots pound against the ground and their chainmail clatters in cadence with their hasty advance.

The knights and thieves don't wait. Nor do they need orders to do otherwise. They, too, move as one, running as fast as they can towards Nottingham's front gates. As they go, Robin nocks an arrow into his bow, taking out a guard atop the battlement, then another.

The gate.

It's already begun to close.

If it shuts before they can get inside, they'll be no better off than fish in a barrel – no cover, no escape, and no chance to get to the steward. They'll be surrounded.

His men are fast, as are Robin's. Their legs windmill across the plain in such a blur it's as though their feet only brush the ground as they pass over it. Percival pushes himself faster than any of them, his arms already flexed as if anticipating the need to stop the gates from closing them out. His strength is unparalleled. He can do it.

If he gets there in time.

A yell of exertion spills from the knight's mouth. He wills his legs to go faster. The gap in the gate is shrinking. He's not there yet. He reaches both arms out. His palms connect with the solid, weathered wood of the gates.

Just as they slam shut in front of him.

Sweat drips down Merlin's face. His lungs choke for breath, but the pain surrounding them has ebbed away to a dull ache. In the adjacent cell, the old woman remains crouched in front of him, her hand still grasping his. She squeezes.

"Now..." she says, "Something tells me there's new strength in these young bones of yours. Even if you do look as peaked as a sheared sheep."

Merlin ventures a wry smile. "Don't worry...I always look that way," he says. Gripping her hand, the young warlock takes his time, using her for support as he rises from the floor. The residual magic surging through him is disorienting in its magnitude, making his knees feel weak despite its strength, and it takes him a moment to fully rein it in.

"I'm inclined to tell you you ought to rest, but it seems we don't quite have the time for that, do we?" She lets her fingers slip from his grasp once he's gotten his footing and pats his cheek, reminding him of Gaius's comforting touch. "You, my boy, have a king who needs you."

"What is your name?" Merlin asks, finally able to regard her with clarity.

"My name matters not," she says. "I know you wish to express your gratitude, but whatever we have done for you pales in comparison to what you are doing for us. Being in your presence...that is honor enough, Emrys."

Merlin scans the room, a weighted blanket of humility falling over him as he struggles to meet the eyes of those who observe him with unwarranted devotion. He's done nothing to earn their loyalty. Certainly not to this degree. There is only the distant promise of a prophecy he has yet to fulfill.

But he can't very well bring it to pass from the depths of this dungeon.

All attention in the room shifts as a resounding clang penetrates the silence of their cell block. Then another, reverberating with a certain sickness in Merlin's stomach. The sound of the warning bells are deep and distant from their place beneath the ground, but no less familiar. The toll that echoes, crashing through the steady hum of rain, is not unlike the warning bells of Camelot, alerting the city and its guards to imminent danger.

In this case: Arthur.

He's here.

"We have to get out there." Merlin turns from the elderly woman to the door of his cell with a new sense of haste. His eyes clamp quickly onto the metal lock that keeps him prisoner. "Tospringe..." His vision burns gold. But the lock remains firmly in place. He furrows his brow. "Tospringe!"

"He's enchanted them," a little girl says, slipping between two pairs of legs to reach the front of the cell that sat across from him.

Of course he has. The steward would know an average cell could not hold them. He's no fool.

Not entirely.

A man to his right steps forward, the grey flecks in his hair catching the torchlight. His face is wrinkled and weathered, but his shoulders are strong."We follow your lead, Emrys."

It's hard to say what the limitations of Vaisey's spell are. They were able to travel between cells, healing Merlin within them, but what about casting magic beyond the cells? Would he be able to put the guards to sleep? Steal their keys? If he tried, and failed, what would the repercussions be? Would the druids receive more abuse should he fail?

He couldn't risk it.

All eyes are on him. He has to think. But all thoughts come to him in a scattered flurry knowing Arthur is out there and Vaisey will undoubtedly rush to meet him with his jewel-toothed grin and insatiable appetite for blood. Merlin needs to buy time. He needs help until he can get to Arthur's side. But there is no way to get help from in here. No one knows he's here. No one would hear him if he called out. No one, except, perhaps...

"O drakon! Emala soi ftengometh tesd'hup anankes!" It's a long shot, but Merlin has to try. He ignores the dozens of druids watching him as he shouts at the ceiling. "Teacht anóis. Cosain Arthur go dtí go bhfüil mé saor in aisce!"

He closes his eyes tight, willing the words of his plea to reach Kilgharrah's mind. There's no telling where his winged friend might be now, but he can only hope he's still soaring the skies somewhere in Mercia.

A warmth washes over his body.

Emrys...

The cell block door clatters open, flooding the corridor with light. Merlin lunges towards the bars of his cell, craning his neck to try and get a glimpse of their visitor, though he knows it's unlikely Kilgharrah has managed to not only get his message, but also squeeze his beastly frame through the halls of the castle to spring him from captivity.

"Oi!" A guard calls as he stalks down the hall, his keys jingling with each step. The confidence with which he approaches makes Merlin think his magic won't make it past the iron bars between them, much less to the guard himself. "Who's shouting rubbish in here?"

The druids shrink back from the bars, several of them eyeing the sharp end of the spear the soldier has gripped in his hand. Having been around enough pompous men in armor, Merlin didn't react in quite the same way, making him stick out among the others.

The Nottingham guard immediately latches his focus onto Merlin. "Hey...I thought you was supposed to be more worse for wear."

"I...am I?" Merlin says, stuttering over his words.

Boots thud against the stone floor as the guard takes a few calculated steps closer, scrutinizing the young warlock all the while. He stops just on the other side of the bars, his spear poking in between two of them to Merlin's left. Dried blood coats the tip of it. Druid blood?

The soldier squints. "You was near death."

Merlin knows there is an opportunity here. They won't be able to spring free from this prison with the use of magic. That's already been established. Past experience proves that Merlin is a horrible lock-pick, so that is out of the question as well. No, he's going to have to rely on something more rudimentary: his simple-minded, mortal ingenuity.

What would Arthur do?

"How you not almost dead no more? I thought-"

In one swift motion, Merlin backhands the helmet off the soldier's head, grabs the back of his skull and smashes his forehead into the iron bars separating them. The poor soldier's eyes roll into the back of his head as he slumps into a limp pile at Merlin's feet. The keys that once hung from his belt, now lay sprawled across the soldier's hip, shining up at Merlin.

Huh.

Sometimes brute force does work.

The soldiers are upon them.

Arthur, staring at the closed gates in front of him, breaks free from his shock, whirling around to block the raised blade of a Nottingham guard. He ducks beneath their locked arms, elbowing him out of the way just in time to block the next onslaught. He thrusts the soldier back, but they keep coming. It's a watercolor of chaos as black melds with silver and brown; the Nottingham army pierces the crowd, infiltrating the knights and thieves and civilians caught outside the city walls. All Arthur can do is counter as they come at him, tossing aside those he can and incapacitating those he can't. He ducks down, ramming his shoulder into an oncoming guard and flips him over his back. Somewhere behind him, he hears the thud of the landing.

"My Lord!" Leon calls over the clamor. He lets out an angered cry, surely in the midst of felling his own opponent. "They'll overrun us!"

They already have. But Arthur can't deny the eternal optimism of his knight. He has to think. He won't let them be slaughtered here – on the doorstep of what could ultimately be their victory.

Arthur turns on instinct, bringing his sword down to block a strike that was meant to slice him clear up his back. He pins the soldier's sword to the ground, driving an elbow up into his face, and throwing him by the back of his head into another guard charging his way. They both fall into a heap at the feet of a villager woman who gives a frightful shout. Arthur grabs her by the arm, pulling her out of the way just as Gwaine sends a soldier sprawling in her direction.

"The hole!" Gwaine says, advancing on the fallen guard to kick the blade free from his hand. It's only when he looks directly at Arthur that he realizes the knight is talking to him.

"The what?" Arthur quickly helps the woman navigate out of harm's way, and urges her through a brief opening. "Make for the forest," he tells her.

"The hole," Gwaine repeats, pointing towards the city. "The one the sorcerer blew into the northern wall."

Taking a moment to parry a few blows and shove his attacker back into the fray, Arthur turns to Gwaine again. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Gwaine!" Percival lays a soldier out flat with one punch to the jaw, sending him flying through the middle of Arthur and Gwaine's conversation. He lets out a few labored huffs. "You forget our dear king was unconscious for that part."

Gwaine snaps his fingers, nodding with sudden recall. "Ah, you're right. You missed quite a show, sire!" His lackadaisical air suddenly turns sharp. He dodges to the side, disarming a man and thrusting him to the ground.

"But it's there," Percival says to Arthur, taking over the discussion while Gwaine is temporarily preoccupied. "And it might be our only way in."

Arthur spins as Percival's gaze shifts over his shoulder. But where he expected to encounter Nottingham guards barreling down on him with gnashing teeth, he instead finds a field full of statues. Soldiers, villagers, his men, and the outlaws. They've all lost interest in the battle, standing stock-still and looking skyward with their eyes squinting against the rain.

He hears it before he sees it.

A guttural roar breaks across the open plain.

It can't be.

Arcing over the top of the castle walls, the creature's broad and formidable form breaks into view. Its scales are rough and weathered, creating an impenetrable armor over its sinew that allows the rain to slide off its body without affect and stirs not so much as a blink at the sight of armed men. Its not afraid. Not of one man's blade, not of hundreds.

Arthur has seen this dragon before.

Wings stretched out with such grandiose, it's as though they could span the width of the entire city. It soars with an easy grace overhead, serene, but its predatory eyes betray the docile confidence with which it flies. Golden. And hungry. Its eyes shine down at them with unrelenting fire.

A solitary arrow rises out from the battlement to strike its side. The little twig bounces off the dragon's hide, successful in nothing but incurring its wrath.

In an instant, the dragon's wings snap to its flanks as it makes a sharp turn, diving towards the battlement in retaliation. Men cry out in panic, giving rise to higher, pained wails as the beast rears back, skimming the top of the wall with its back talons. It snatches a guard, tossing him carelessly out into the field. The crowd screams and scatters, leaving an empty plot of land where the man's body hits the ground. They run for cover – only there is none to be found. Many cling to the base of the city wall, crying for the gates to be opened.

"Let us in!' A man shouts, shoving past Arthur to seek shelter in the shadow of the wall. Several others bang against the gate, desperate to get in. "Open the doors!"

Arthur turns, taking inventory of his allies. Percival and Gwaine still remain close at his side with Leon not too far off. The thieves are littered about more sparsely, but nearby he can see the ghostly pallor of Much's face as he stares, paralyzed by the beast.

Next to him, Robin grins up at it like a maniac. He always did find joy in the dangerous.

The crowd around the city withdraws like an ocean tide. While the forest is a risky destination, some try for it. Those making haste for the treeline aren't villagers, but Nottingham soldiers, the ones who have not yet fully closed in on the city. But now they flee, retreating back to the very spots they first sprouted from during the ambush.

The dragon sees.

Banking down, the great beast swoops across the field, snatching a few men at a time and flinging them from their feet into the air with an almost playful menace that only urges the soldiers back into the forest faster. Never once looking back, stopping to help, or giving the knights and thieves a second thought.

But as they withdraw into the woods, one man emerges. Sir Guy. He points at his men in fury from where he sits mounted atop his horse. He reaches down to grab the collar of one passing soldier and throws him back towards the city. He yells something indistinct, clearly displeased with their cowardice retreat.

"Wart, we have to move!" Robin grabs Arthur's arm, pulling him to run alongside the others who have already started to skirt the wall, making for the northern opening. But they aren't the only ones. The villagers and soldiers around them have the same idea.

Some of the Nottingham guards try to impede the knights and thieves progress, holding them up for a brief exchange of parries before they are ultimately cast aside with the thrust of a blade or the jab of a fist, but others of Vaisey's men don't seem quite so resolved in their mission. Instead of focusing on the demise of the small band, they put their efforts elsewhere – getting to safety, helping the villagers run, watching out for their comrades.

Following suit, Arthur takes another quick inventory of his knights; Percival and Leon up ahead, Gwaine a few paces behind him. He wonders briefly how Elyan is doing. If he's been able to keep himself and Leofrick out of the way of prying eyes.

If nothing else goes wrong, the two won't have much longer to wait.

Something blurs out of the corner of Arthur's eye just before a body crashes into him. They both fall into the stone wall where they grapple for the upper hand. The Nottingham soldier draws a knife, swinging it overhead and down towards Arthur, but the young king catches his wrist. He grimaces, struggling to keep the blade at distance.

In another blur of movement, Arthur hears a feminine voice grunt with effort before a small foot roundhouse kicks his opponent in the side of the face, sending his dagger flying and his body sprawling. In the aftermath stands Marian with balled fists, and jaw set, ready to strike again if necessary. But the man stays flat on his face.

Before either of them can say any more, Marian looks to the sky, a shadow falling over them.

They instinctively duck as the dragon swoops down overhead, picking another soldier off the battlement. Its talons clip the stone, sending debris raining down around them, and as it lengthens its wings, the dragon banks back around, igniting another round of shouts as it approaches the open stretch of land and those running across it.

Arthur keeps his grip protectively around Marian's arms, remaining crouched with her, hoping to shield her from the bits of rock that continue to fall.

"Arthur," she says. "Once we get inside the city, we need to split up."

"What are you talking about? It's better if we stay together."

"Guy is a rogue, Arthur. We can't be sure what he wants or what he's going to be willing to do to get it." She flinches when a larger stone falls nearby. "But if he's after me, then let me use it to our advantage. Let me draw him away from you. It'll be one less person to worry about at the very least."

"That's rubbish, then I'd be worrying about you."

"Now's our chance!" Leon says, kicking a defeated soldier free from his blade. "Go!"

The swarm of people, momentarily petrified by the dragon's approach, now become mobile again, desperate to get through the wall before the beast decides to sweep back around and claim another one of them.

"There's no time to argue," says Marian. "It's decided."

"Not by me."

"All the better then."

"Wart, what are you waiting for?" Robin shouts, running past him and Marian.

Marian springs to her feet, pulling Arthur to his. They're moving. Running along the wall, he starts to feel the wind shift as they turn with the curvature of the city wall to the north side, the stormy gales now hitting their back and propelling them ahead faster. When they reach the northern breach, crumbled rock still sits in piles from the destruction. There is only one small opening that would allow them to walk in, but no one seems to be willing to wait their turn. The villagers and soldiers climb, scrambling over the fallen stone that flanks the sides of the opening, jarring some of the rubble lose as they push themselves up and over.

Glancing back towards the sky, Arthur tries to keep an eye on the dragon as he gives Marian a boost onto one of the larger stone blocks. From there her natural agility kicks in and she disappears over the top of the wreckage. Somehow he knows she won't be there when he gets to the other side.

Guy takes no pleasure in watching the sad display from beneath the boughs of the forest. The leaves overhead offer a semblance of shelter for him as he looks out from the highland over the field surrounding Nottingham. It might be worse than what he witnessed in Clun. His men should have no trouble controlling the situation, but rather than maintain the proper formation and subduing those around them, they are scattered – retreating with their tails between their legs back towards the forest or joining in the desperate search for shelter within the city from the circling dragon overhead.

A dragon. One has not been spotted in Mercia for years. Centuries. But today of all days – of all times – the rare creature decides to show itself. To wreak havoc. Even now Guy cannot decide whether it is a gift or a curse, but either way he won't let his men make a show as invertebrates.

"The city is that way, you fool!" He grabs another retreating soldier by the scruff as he passes by and thrusts him back out towards the field. "After them!"

Guy searches the crowd amassing near the breach in the wall. He spots Percival's large form ambling over the rock, Hood's annoyingly swift ascent beside him, then among the others, he spots Marian. She may not be Morgana's doom as preordained by the prophecy, but what's to stop her from becoming his?

His attention snaps to another figure at the base of the rubble. One that has weaseled its way unnoticed into the masses. The High Priestess herself. Her posture regal even beneath the villager cloak she dons as a cover. She's in the middle of it all. More than that, she's positioned herself right at her brother's side.

The ignorance of Camelot's king causes a smile to tug at Guy's lips. He watches as Morgana, appearing as nothing more than a desperate civilian, knocks into Arthur's shoulder, catching him off guard. He staggers to the side as she climbs past him, easily maneuvering her way over the stone debris and into the city. Morgana's ink black hair spills out of the hooded cloak she shrouds herself in. How no one recognizes her unparalleled beauty among so much filth is beyond him. He would know her anywhere, disguised or not.

Digging his heels into its flanks, Guy urges his horse forward at full speed towards the city. He grits his teeth against the wind and rain, willing his steed on as the giant beast prowls the sky above them. It swoops and banks down, gnashing its teeth at the soldiers still on the field, letting out an angered roar that rattles the ground beneath his horse's hooves. But Guy will not be left out of this fight. Shrinking down into his saddle as the dragon skims overhead, he presses on, eyes fixed on the spot he last saw Morgana, knowing that not all who enter the city today will make it back out. And if fate is taking suggestions, he certainly has several he'd like to offer.

The guttural bay of his dear friend greets Merlin as he steps out across the castle's threshold and into the servant's side courtyard. He holds the door for the druids who file out one by one into the small enclosure lined with barrels and crates of provisions. Behind them, in the citadel's corridors, a string of Nottingham guards lie in heaps on the ground trailing all the way down to the dungeons. None of them bleed or cry, felled by a violent exodus. Rather they all snooze and snore, lost in a deep and peaceful slumber brought about by the light touch of a few whispered incantations.

Merlin remains steadfast at the door even after the last of them have come through, watching the Great Dragon as he soars the open air. It brings a smile to his face to see Kilgharrah sweeping over the city in faithful obedience, doing just as Merlin asked of him.

He becomes acutely aware that the druids have shifted, all turning to look at him as if waiting for their own instructions. Merlin lowers his gaze and scans their faces, each without so much as an additional scrape since they were first thrust into the dungeons. He wouldn't allow it. The enchanted cells may have rendered them impotent while behind its bars, but as soon as Merlin acquired the key, every door he unlocked unfurled the full capabilities of those who stepped out into freedom.

If only Arthur knew that with that freedom, not a single drop of blood was shed.

"Go," says Merlin, nodding to the gates of the courtyard. "The dragon will not hurt you. Help those you can get to safety."

The elderly woman slips between two druids to stand directly before him. She says nothing for a moment, making Merlin fidget uncomfortably. "I know now why it is you who is called to this destiny," she finally says. "Legend speaks of your power, yes, but we shall speak of your goodness. For you seek not to conquer, but to serve. We will carry that forth with us in your name, Emrys."

The woman doesn't wait for a response from Merlin, and for it, he's grateful. He has no words to say as he watches the druids bow their heads in farewell. Their sentiments of appreciation and goodwill drift through his head like passing thoughts, only instead of his voice he hears, it's theirs; the druid men and women, the old and the young; they overlap in a chorus of well wishes. Several glance back at him as they begin to disperse from the courtyard, but when he follows them out, the last of them have already been swallowed up by the turbulence of the city.

Out here the chaos is more than Merlin imagined. He is nearly trampled at every turn by frightened villagers. If only he could tell them that they need not fear Kilgharrah, that they were safe from his flashing fangs or sharpened talons – he's tempted to call the dragon off entirely and spare their nerves, but he cannot afford to eliminate such an effective distraction.

Smoke rises in the south.

Kilgharrah's old, husky voice infiltrates Merlin's mind, startling him as he rounds a street corner. He searches the sky for his friend as he slips through the market, dodging the masses.

"South? That's Locksley." He wills the dragon to hear his words.

It was Locksley. But much of it will be ash before long.

"They were looking for Arthur."

Arthur is not the only king the steward seeks.

Merlin flattens himself against the side of a building to avoid being run over, though the wind that's knocked out of him is hardly from the impact. He looks at Kilgharrah as he passes by, his shadow falling over him for the briefest of moments. "Leofrick. But Arthur's hidden him. Somewhere. With Elyan. Even I don't know where."

As soon as there's an opening, Merlin pushes himself off the wall and through the crowd. A few skids and turns, and he finds himself in a familiar spot in Nottingham. Rubble is still scattered, though some has been cleared away, and people spill into the city over the remaining pile.

Several lose their footing with a cry of terror as Kilgharrah roars overhead; the dragon decidedly putting a pause on their conversation to keep up his ruse. But while everyone stops what they're doing and crouches to avoid being snatched up in his claws, one remains tall – a certain arrogant, blond-headed clotpole in the middle of them all.

Arthur stands at the peak of the rubble, watching Kilgharrah make another pass, until the dragon disappears beyond the rooftops. If he's not careful, the fool's liable to get shot in such an exposed spot.

Merlin steps forward, ready to shout out to his friend, but common sense gets the better of him. He can't very well yell the name of the most wanted man in Mercia while surrounded by soldiers and citizens of unknown allegiance.

As if feeling his eyes on him, Arthur lowers his gaze from the sky, immediately resting his sights on Merlin despite the many that surround them. He furrows his brow, and Merlin can't tell from this distance if it's out of concern or annoyance. It's rather amazing how similar the two expressions are, and how often Merlin mistakes one for the other.

Arthur's blond hair disappears into the throng of people as he descends the rock as easily as stairs, slipping from Merlin's view. Circling overhead, Kilgharrah makes yet another pass. Merlin glances up towards the friendly beast as he presses upstream towards Arthur with a gruff urgency that does not come naturally to him. Hitting shoulders and brushing arms, he mutters apologies, hoping to soften an offense, though if truth be told, he is most assuredly the last of anyone's worries.

The steward is waiting, Merlin.

"Where is he? Can you see him?"

The courtyard. And he is not alone.

"Guards?"

Some. But that is not all. The knight and the child king...

"Merlin!" Arthur's voice cuts through the crowd.

Focused on The Great Dragon's reply, Merlin stops dead in his tracks, letting the crowd swell around him. "He found them."

"Merlin." Arthur's heavy hand falls on Merlin's shoulder, jostling his balance, and forcing the young warlock to snap his attention to his king. "Merlin, what is it?"

"It's Vaisey. He has Elyan and Leofrick..."