Hi all! Once again, thank you to all my lovely reviewers, and thank you for all the alerts/favourites! I've made a decision to skip straight ahead to the action, as I'm boring myself writing all the lead-up scenes. Hopefully, it will be a seamless transition.

Disclaimer: I own nothing associated with BBC/Shine's Merlin.

Chapter Six

In hindsight, Arthur wished he'd insisted on a knight accompanying Merlin to gather firewood. They were in Cenred's territory now, and Cenred was a master of dirty tricks and surprises. But Merlin had muttered something about nonsense and normalcy and marched off, leaving behind a confused Arthur wondering what on earth Merlin was about.

Oh, how he regretted that now.

It hadn't taken any longer than fifteen minutes for Lancelot to come over, anxiety painted over his noble features. 'Arthur,' he'd said, 'Merlin should be back by now.' 'I know,' Arthur had replied.

They'd found the clearing where Merlin had stopped for wood to be deserted, no sign of the bright red and blue clothed servant in sight. In fact, the only signs that something had been disturbed were the tracks that pointed to the east. These tracks were so light and faint that they almost missed them, had it not started raining a while ago, water collecting in the indents.

'Who do we look for?' Elyan had muttered in despair to Percival. 'Merlin, or his mother?' Arthur, overhearing him, replied tersely, 'The tracks are headed east, the same way as Hunith probably is. We will follow on our original path and look for more clues.'

So onwards they rode again, filled with renewed tension and fury. These knights had felt responsible when Hunith had gone missing, but now they were filled with a raging hatred towards the foes that had taken Merlin. Leon, riding just abreast of Arthur, caught on his king's face a look of utter loathing mixed with despair; it was an unnatural sight on the young man's face. Leon himself had witnessed it very few times before, the last being when Uther had died and the old sorcerer missing. The knight shivered, and not from the grizzling rain.

There was darkness, and more darkness, no matter how hard Merlin tried to open his eyes. His lids felt heavy, like something had glued them shut. Giving up the futile attempt, he tried to focus his pounding head. Where am I? There were the gruff voices of men all around, but these were not the sounds of Arthur's knights. No; while Gwaine and Elyan could be crude at times, his friends were gentle and kindly. The men around Merlin now were loud and uncouth.

So he was in foreign territory. Think, Merlin! He urged his hazy mind. What happened last? It was too difficult to think through the cloud over his mind; only certain, useless details like the gold of the Pendragon crest and Gwaine's store of apples came back to him. Heaving a sigh that sent aches through his ribs—ribs, bruised, possibly broken, the physician's apprentice thought—Merlin switched his focus to the present situation. C'mon, Merlin, what do you know about the present?

He knew his ribs ached, that he was no longer with the knights or with Arthur but rather with rough strangers—bandits? The ground was hard beneath his back, but it gave in some places through an experimental shifting of his aching body, yet it was also prickly in others. Merlin had camped enough to know that this particular texture of ground could only mean a forest. Depending on how long he'd been unconscious for, and how fast the strangers had been riding, Merlin concluded that he was probably still in the forest of Ascetir. Right, so he was in enemy clutches—clearly, idiot, he could hear Arthur state sarcastically. Great, now Arthur was in his head. Alright, Prince Prat, how about this? I'm probably in Cenred's men's clutches.

Better, Arthur approved. Now, think some more. What can you hear? Smell? Merlin head still pounded. Too hard. Head not clear enough yet. Arthur's amused voice shot back, Well, you can polish all my armour and scrub the floor of the throne room when you get back, to clear your head. Merlin was about to come up with a witty retort to the head-Arthur when a burst of pain exploded in his already sore side.

'Get up, you mangy piece of filth!' A coarse voice roared. Merlin winced. He still couldn't see, but oh god was he in pain and this man was shouting like a king in battle. 'Get up, I say!'

When another violent blow landed on the same spot, Merlin decided he really should get or else be pounded into wyvern fodder. But his hands and feet were bound—why didn't I notice that before?—so coordination was even more difficult than usual. 'You little shit, are you playing games with me?' The coarse man roared again and then Merlin was being dragged up by a hand painfully rooted in his hair.

'For God's sake, Feydor, if you beat him to pieces now the boy will be useless later!' A new voice called exasperatedly from Merlin's right. 'You just mind yer own damn prey!' The coarse man yelled back. Prey? What the hell were they talking about? Merlin thought, bewildered. 'I am minding them, but it's simply amusing watching you flounce about with that boy, completely not in control of this very amusing situation.' The new voice sniped back. This man sounded noble, Merlin realized. His inflections and pronunciation were not unlike Arthur's, though slightly rougher, like Gwaine.

The hand wrenching Merlin's hair off let go and Merlin dropped like a limp rag, legs too weak to support himself. 'You maggot, shut yer mouth!' There was the sound of a scuffle and Merlin wished he could see where he was because a scuffle could mean a chance for escape. But there was no possibility when yet another voice roared out, even louder than the coarse man, 'QUIET, YOU FILTHY VERMIN!'

Silence descended. The newest voice spoke again. 'Both of you maggots, get up and stay away from each other. Feydor, the boy is covered in blood and grime. How the hell do you expect us to sell him if he looks like something the dogs dragged home? Get him clean, now. The other patrol already lost one of their captives, d'you want us to be as incompetent as them?'

Sell, Merlin though frantically. What?

'Nothing, sire. No tracks.' Leon reported to an irate King, who exclaimed, 'How can there be no tracks? There must be something. They can't be ghosts, for God's sake!'

King Arthur's knights stood silently, aware that their leader was on a short fuse. Hell, everyone was; it had been a whole day since Merlin had gone missing, and the tracks had ended about an hour after they resumed their search. With no tracks to go on with, they had no clue where to go.

Arthur let out a low growl, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Calmly now, he thought. You're the king. Your men—and Merlin—depend on you to lead. But the truth was, Arthur was completely lost. He didn't know which way to go, led on by no tracks, no clues, nothing. He couldn't very well march into Cenred's castle and ask, Have you taken my manservant and his mother?

A rustling in the undergrowth jerked him out of his hopeless thoughts. Reflex saw him and the knights unsheathe their swords, the whisper of metal cutting through the still, forest air. Their harsh breaths belied the unwavering steadiness of their sword arms, pointing straight at the source of the sound.

Gwaine had been three seconds away from plunging his sword into the bloody figure that emerged had he not seen the Pendragon crest in time. 'Sire!' The bloody man wept, throwing himself at his king's feet, barely realizing how close he'd come to being skewered. 'Sire, thank God, the woman, they've taken her! I couldn't stop them, they killed Olrick, then they took me and the woman but I escaped but I couldn't get her free as well, sire, please forgive my failure!'

Arthur grabbed the hysterical man by the shoulders and shook him. 'Calm down. I need you to calm down, Borrell. Breathe. In and out.' Still sobbing, Borrell continued to rush on, tripping over his words in his agitated state. A large hand passed over a water skin. 'Thank you, Percival.' Arthur took the skin and uncorked it, then gently grabbed Borrell's face in one hand. 'Drink.' Most of the water dribbled down the missing messenger's chin, but the little he did manage to swallow seemed to calm him somewhat.

'That's better,' Arthur said gently. 'Sit down, first, then tell me what happened.' They sat the distraught young man down on a log and Arthur crouched in front of him. 'Alright. What happened, Borrell? What happened to Olrick and Hunith?'

Borrell looked haunted, his eyes huge in his pale and bloody face. 'Th-they ambushed us,' he began, licking dry, cracked lips, 'when we were a few hours away from Ealdor. We couldn't even hear them coming, didn't know they were there! Silent…so silent.' He stared off into the distance, eyes telling the fear they must have felt towards these silent attackers. 'Someone dropped onto my horse from behind and they moved so quickly, I couldn't even get a glimpse before I fell unconscious. When I woke up, it was dark. At first I thought it must be night, but there was no fire, no stars, so it must have been a blindfold. My hands and feet were bound. I could them talking around me. Then one of them came and took my blindfold off. I thought maybe I could see them now, but they were dressed so dark they blended in with the night. There was no fire, only a burning torch. But I could see Hunith next to me. She was still unconscious, but she was bleeding from the head and her dress was torn. I don't—what if they raped—' Borrell broke off and looked around, frightened. The knights all looked grim, and the King—well, the king looked grim and incensed and sad all at the same time.

'Olrick,' Borrell suddenly blurted out. 'Olrick, he-he wasn't there! They must have killed him, oh God-'

Arthur interjected before Borrell could burst into another panic. 'Olrick made it back to Camelot alive. The night patrol found him.' 'So Olrick is alive?' Borrell cried, looking relieved. Arthur hesitated. 'No. He died soon after. His injuries were very serious.' Borrell looked as though he might burst into tears again, and Arthur didn't want to upset this distraught young man—not even old enough to be a palace guard yet, still a messenger—but time was of the essence and they desperately needed clues.

'How did you escape?' Borrell wiped his eyes and continued in an unsteady voice, 'They were a disagreeable lot, and two of them got into a huge argument. They got out their swords and everyone else was trying to stop them, so I tried to undo the ties on my feet. It took so long I thought I'd never manage, but then I remembered my brother had taught me a trick for getting out of restraints with my hands behind my back. They were fighting so badly I managed to slip away in the dark. They came after me, but not before I had time to hide in a deep tree hollow. I hid for hours, and they eventually gave up and rode away. Then I started turning back, hoping I would go in the right direction, and that's when you found me.'

'Did you hear anything, Borrell, that the men said? Anything at all that would be a clue to who they were or where they were going?' Arthur asked, trying not to let his frustration show through. Merlin, his inner voice screamed. Where are you, you-you clot-pole! Borrell frowned, the drying blood on his forehead cracking with the movement. One of the knights behind muttered, 'I'll go get some water, sire.'

'I remember they kept talking about their prey, or their capture. I guess that was me and Hunith.' 'Yes, but anything else? Did they sound like they worked for Cenred, were they bandits—' 'Oh, sire!' Borrell interrupted. 'They said something about selling their captured prizes, and whether they would make it to the market in time for the next auction!'

Arthur's heart grew cold. Oh, God. Behind him, several of the knights swore. They all knew what this meant, and who those men were. They knew Hunith's fate now.

She was to be sold as a slave.

End Chapter Six

Hope you all enjoyed that! I would really appreciate some feedback on this chapter in regards to whether the plot leap/jump worked well or not. Thank you all again for reading!