Merlyn's Fate

The Witch's Quickening P3

It was a short walk, weaving through tall, spindly trees, before the camp came into view. It looked deserted, a smothered campfire only waving wisps of grey smoke into the air, the silence almost unbearable amongst the quiet shuffling of the knights. A part of Merlyn was almost relieved: even if Alvarr and his people were intent on destroying Camelot, she didn't want any of her kind to get hurt. The crystal was nothing compared to the lives that would be lost in battle. Still, there was something eerily wrong about the situation. If Alvarr was the renegade he'd been portrayed to be, he wouldn't just leave his camp undefended, scattering into the safety of the forest. No, something was very wrong indeed.

Arthur, naturally, took no heed to the oddness of it all; after a quick assessment of the nearby area, he ran headfirst into the centre of the supposedly abandoned camp.

"Arthur, what are you doing?" she hissed, not wanting to break the far too quiet hush surrounding them. The knights, just as oblivious as their Prince, followed him blindly, sneaking remarkably efficiently, what with their bulky armour, between the tents. Arthur, feeling secure with the fact that nobody had tried to kill him yet, thrust the point of his sword into the ground, crouching to feel the warmth of coals on a nearby fire.

"Well, whoever was here, they're not here anymore." he stated, standing back up, scouring the clearing for any sign of life.

As if those words had awoken the renegades, Merlyn saw a bolt flying from a concealed part of the forest. With a flicker of gold, it dropped, useless on the ground, but it had been enough.

"Yes, they are." she breathed, cursing as she diverted an arrow from plunging into Arthur, hitting another knight instead. He clutched his arm in agony, but he would live, at least, if he made it through this fight.

There were too many projectiles to stop now, arrows and bolts flying towards them like deadly rain. Merlyn heard the Prince shouting commands over the battle cry of Alvarr's men, but she couldn't do much more than deflect the weaponry, occasionally turning arrows back onto their shooters. In the chaos, nobody seemed to notice the depleting number of archers, but as the witch drew her sword, she knew that she'd hardly turned the tide of the battle.

Butchering a couple of sneering sorcerers, she punched another in the face, glancing to see if the Prince was making any headway. She saw no fear in the eyes of those she cut down, all of them martyrs for the wrong cause. Perhaps if she had time to explain who she was, who Arthur was destined to be, they would put down their blades, but it was too late for that, and besides, their sheer hatred appeared to outweigh any guilt for slaughtering the Prince's men. But this wasn't the time for wishful thinking. The knights were falling fast, swords flying from their hands before they were cut down, left to bleed into the dirt. It was a wonder nobody had tried to disarm her yet, but she'd taken out the archers, leaving only those in hand-to-hand combat.

A woman, maybe a little older than Arthur, was losing badly against one of the knights, Sir Bors, she was sure. He was one of the elder men, barely in any sort of shape to fight, but his heavy blows almost disarmed the renegade. Merlyn had never liked him, his sneers always rather obnoxious for her liking, but even she winced when the woman ran up the side of a tree, jumping over the knight and bringing her sword down, slicing through the centre of his head. He collapsed, very dead, but Merlyn barely had a chance to monitor the woman before she was engaged in her next battle. Glimpsing Mordred in between the tents, she wondered what purpose Alvarr could possibly have for keeping him close to the action.

Run Mordred.

He turned towards her, and nodded, sprinting until his green cloak disappeared from view.

I will never forget this Emrys.

She sighed in relief, ducking behind a tree to avoid the two bolts that Alvarr had sent in her direction.