Seen at speed, a landscape is hard to understand. Trees lose their names, and where every stone and stream could tell a story, instead there is a torrent of meaningless colour and sound.

Mithian opened her eyes. She was riding astride, and Merlin sat behind her.

"Rest," said Merlin. His arms were clamped around her waist. She must have fainted. It seemed she was not as tough as she hoped in the moment of crisis.

The sky was sideways. She could not make sense of it. And the noise, why did their horse huff like an osprey over a puffin pool?

Merlin pressed his chin to her temple. He was warm and strong, and his voice was laden with power. "Sleep," he said, and although Mithian had just glimpsed leathery wings and the wooded ground impossibly far below, she closed her eyes and slept. And dreamed of how she got here.

Mithian was almost glad when soldiers leapt from the undergrowth and attacked her party. She was returning to Camelot, escorted by a selection of Arthur's most courteous knights, and his least gallant manservant. Her mission had been, once again, to find a suitable husband, and it had been, once again, unsuccessful. The attack seemed like a mercy.

The prospective husband had been even less suitable than most. He had power and lands - and grandchildren. Mithian rode away lonelier than ever.

She found herself often beside the servant Merlin as they rode. He was as solitary as she, and his wry silence was a comfort. He rode with easy skill, the reins loose in his right hand, his left hand resting on his thigh, he and the horse working together. When Mithian grew bored and spurred her horse ahead, her fine hunter should have easily outpaced Merlin's workaday mount, but he kept up, without acknowledging the skill this involved, or seeming to notice that their impromptu races took them beyond the sight of the guardian knights.

And so the attack was behind them when it came. Shouts and the clash of swords rang through the forest.

Merlin wheeled his horse around. "Morgana's soldiers," he said, and something like anger flickered in his eyes. Then he focused on Mithian. "It's you they want. A pawn to be used against Camelot in her war."

Mithian pressed her glove against her horse's neck to soothe the animal. "I won't be used," she said.

"I know," said Merlin, bringing about his horse. He shook his head at the sounds of battle. "Run," he said, and they put heels to their mounts and fled.

"This way," cried Merlin. He jumped to the ground, and dragged Mithian from the saddle. Side by side they crashed through brambles and young hazel, Mithian slashing with her stiffened arm at trailing growth, Merlin barging a path with brute force, to a large open clearing.

Merlin paced around, casting narrow glances at the afternoon sky.

"We can't hide here," Mithian said, grabbing his arm. He had always struck her as clever, with his bright eyes and fearless honesty, but to remain here, exposed, was madness. "Come on. I have a knife in my pouch, I can fight-"

"It's all right," he said. He patted her hand on his sleeve. His fingers were covered in scratches from their flight. "I'm going to call on an old friend."

"Will he have an army?" she asked. "Because we're going to need one."

He didn't answer, but pulled her to the edge of the clearing. Yells from nearby told her that their pursuers were at hand.

"Oh god," said Mithian.

"Trust me," said Merlin. "Do you trust me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

His eyes glinted. "Always. Say the word and we'll run again."

She shook her head. "I still have that knife."

"No need," he said. "Stand back."

Mithian shrank against an oak as Merlin stepped into the glade. And as she watched, his stance altered. The round-shouldered shuffle of the passive underling disappeared, and in its place was the square stride of a king, of a man of action. Mithian frowned.

"O Dragon!" cried Merlin in an awful voice. And then he spoke words in no language Mithian knew.

The beast which appeared had ancient skin and amused golden eyes. Its wings spanned the breadth of the glade and it's great about turned towards Mithian. "A female," it observed in a voice as dry as sand. "You are indeed growing up, young warlock. No longer the awkward boy but a man in the prime of his life."

"Shut up," said Merlin. "We need you to carry us out of here."

"To Camelot," said the beast, as if it was quite usual to act as porter for servants or princesses.

"No," said Merlin. "Princess Mithian is in danger. Take us somewhere secret and safe."

"I see your idea," said the dragon. "Are you sure the time is right for this?"

"If I am ever to be happy," said Merlin, "what choice do I have?"

The beast harrumphed like a doubtful old uncle. "Then climb aboard. My lady," it added, turning its golden head towards her.

Its breath smelled of the furnace, and its skin glowed like Merlin's eyes. "You are magical," she said, and she was thinking not only of the dragon but also the man who stood at her side.

"I am magic," said the dragon. "Can you not recognise power when you see it, lonely maiden?"

Mithian glanced at Merlin. His jaw was set and he held the dragon in his gaze. At his sides his hands were easy and relaxed, the beast fully at his command. "I can," she whispered, and it was as if a burden was carried away from her heart.

"She appears a little bewildered," said the dragon to Merlin. "Should I stun her?"

"No!" said Merlin, but the beast breathed on Mithian and she felt herself topple. The last thing she knew was the warmth of Merlin's arms and his curses as he lifted her onto the dragon's back.