Chapter Text
prologue: infiltrated
Gwaine was a vagabond and adventurer at heart.
He might have been born a nobleman once, but anybody who had ever spent more than one minute with him knew that living in some manor, administrating lands and playing vassal to a king was not his calling.
Gwaine was made of different, tougher, more restless stuff. He was the kind of man to roam the many lands of Albion and discover what they had to offer. It was in Gwaine’s nature to flirt with beautiful women, drink the local ale, and, every once in a while, provoke a good fight to let off some steam.
It therefore had come to no one’s bigger surprise than his own that he ended up a knight of Camelot, shiny armour, fancy title and all. He hated most nobles with a passion, and he despised royalty especially. But not Arthur. Arthur Pendragon was – different. For him, Gwaine had left the vagabond lifestyle behind and donned a red cape.
What followed had been the best two years of Gwaine’s life. The Prince turned out to be every bit as adventurous as Gwaine, and not a week went by without Arthur and his most loyal circle of men riding out on some quest to slay beasts, protect villages from bandits or retrieve an object of King Uther’s desire.
Then, war broke out between Essetir and Mercia. Cenred won.
Then, Essetir attacked Nemeth, and Cenred won again.
Then King Uther died, and it was only a matter of time until Cenred would set his eyes on Camelot, once he was done with Tir Mor, of which he was currently occupying half.
Which was how Gwaine found himself standing in the war room of Camelot facing King Arthur, who was asking him to now lay down his red cape, the cape he had put on for Arthur specifically, and become a vagabond and adventurer again.
Of sorts, anyway.
“It’s a dangerous mission,” Arthur was saying just now.
“You know me, Arthur,” Gwaine replied with a lopsided grin. “I love dangerous.”
The king huffed. “This is serious. You might very well die. There is every chance you will be found out, or killed in battle.”
Gwaine could not quite contain his typical grin, but he did aim for a more sober tone when he replied, “I understand that. I’m happy to do it, sire.”
Arthur studied him. “Percival says you know the Essetir accent off pat.”
“Aye, m’lord, he’s a-tellin’ nuffin’ but the truf!” Gwaine replied cheekily.
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him.
“I’ll tone it down for the mission,” Gwaine promised. “Less aged farmer, more motivated foot soldier!”
“See that you do,” Arthur replied firmly. “I want you back alive, in six weeks, reporting on Cenred’s activities.”
Arthur was doing his best I-am-the-King-and-I-am-in-control impression, but Gwaine could sense the worry rolling off of him in waves. He did not want to send Gwaine out. He did not want to send anyone out. If he could, Arthur would do this himself, always keen on protecting his men. It was one of the reasons he had earned Gwaine’s loyalty.
But Arthur was King of Camelot, and they were on the brink of war with Essetir. A powerful Essetir. Cenred had made plans to take over all of the Five Kingdoms and more, and he was succeeding, too.
“Get me everything you can possibly get,” said Arthur. “Especially on Morgause and Emrys.”
Gwaine nodded. The last hint of his cheeky grin vanished and he felt his mouth set into a grim line instead.
Emrys. The ruthless sorcerer working for Cenred. Between him and the Priestess Morgause, Cenred’s armies had become almost unstoppable. Gwaine had never had qualms about magic, not like Camelot had. Cenred’s nefarious use of it, though, almost made Gwaine understand why King Uther had the practice of sorcery banned in its entirety. So much power, in the wrong hands, could be devastating. As it was, it looked like magic might in fact be devastating all of Albion.
Arthur was less of a hardliner on magic, Gwaine knew, but in the face of Cenred’s corruption, it was only understandable that changing his father’s laws was low on the agenda. Though privately, Gwaine thought a sorcerer or two might come in handy if Cenred eventually attacked Camelot.
“It’s decided, then, Sir Gwaine. You have your mission. You will leave tomorrow at dawn,” Arthur said and Gwaine straightened on the spot at the official tone.
“Yes, sire,” he said and inclined his head, though he could not help but give a little mock-salute, too, ruining the impression of obedient knight.
Arthur scowled, but there was an amused glint in his eyes when he sent Gwaine off with a strong clap on the shoulder. As Gwaine left the war room, he felt his stride go springy. Another adventure awaited him, and he was ready for it.
Three weeks later, Gwaine was sitting in a war camp, desperately holding his hands up to a weak campfire and freezing his bum off. Cenred provided what had to be the worst quality foot soldier uniforms in all of the Five Kingdoms. The cloth and leather were hardly thick enough to keep the sunlight off one’s back, let alone wind and rain, and the veiled turbans typical of the Essetir fashions did little to help.
Gwaine had already known Arthur to be an exception among otherwise heartless monarchs. Still, the way Cenred treated his people was even beyond Gwaine’s wildest imagination, and made him appreciate his own liege all the more. Arthur wouldn’t let his soldiers freeze in the hills of Tir Mor. And he wouldn’t feed them rations that were hardly fit for a pig, let alone a man.
“That’s dinner? Really?” sighed Gwaine as he accepted a piece of dingy-looking bread and a bowl of watery stew.
“I’ll take yer share, I’m not picky,” replied Gerbrandt. He was a red-haired, good-natured bloke, part of Gwaine’s unit. Gwaine had taken an instant liking to him and Gerbrandt had been surprisingly happy to take a new recruit under his wings.
“Oi, keep yer hands off,” Gwaine warned him, quickly dunking the bread in the soup. “Could eat a horse right about now!”
Gerbrandt grinned. “Worth a try, eh?”
As Gwaine ate his meagre share, he watched the man who was passing out the rations. It was a slim, small-statured, blond-haired fellow who shuffled his feet as he walked from fire to fire, pot and ladle at the ready. He looked about as miserable as Gwaine felt.
“Wonder what they’ll be eatin’,” Gwaine said, jerking his head at the man once he was out of earshot.
“Whatever’s left,” said Gerbrandt, voice laced with genuine pity. “Never been gladder not to have a magical bone in my body, I tell ya.”
Gwaine hummed in agreement as his eyes kept tracking the man with the pot.
As it turned out, Emrys and Morgause weren’t the only magic-users in Cenred’s army. There were dozens more, though most of them did not have enough magic to be of much use beyond lighting a fire or sharpening a dull sword.
It seemed Cenred not only loved to lord over his people, he especially liked to make a point of lording over sorcerers. It was them that he was the cruellest to. Perhaps it was an ego thing. Maybe Cenred did not have a spark of magic himself and needed to prove something to his men. If so, he proved it by treating sorcerers like scum.
They were little else but slaves. Priestess Morgause – an exception to aforementioned rule – had provided the king with tools to keep sorcerers and their powers in check. They were chainless shackles. Wristbands made of a glistening, black metal, wrapping tightly around the sorcerers’ arms. Cenred had the master key to them hanging off his neck. By owning that key, he owned the sorcerers. For they could not use their powers without their master’s explicit permission, and that made them as weak as any other man before the king.
Gwaine could see the evidence now, tight shackles glistening in the sheen of the campfire as another slosh of soup was ladled into a wooden bowl one group over. They looked uncomfortable and wrong around the man’s thin wrists. He wondered if there would be any stew left for the sorcerer when he was done with his work tonight.
Outside of battle, sorcerers worked the worst jobs in the camp. They were the ones shovelling horse dung, scrubbing the mud off everyone’s boots, carrying the heaviest loads and all that, naturally, without being allowed the use of their magic. At the end of the day, they got the scraps and left-overs of the already meagre rations and slept not in the tents, but huddled in literal cages.
It was very clearly all about breaking them, mentally and physically. Gwaine felt nothing but sorry for the poor sods. Many of them were young, skinny fellows like the one he was watching now, very clearly farm boys or former servants, some of them little more than children. At least, Cenred seemed to have drawn the line at conscripting women, apart from the Priestess.
“Well, I’m a-freezin’,” said Gerbrandt, who had by now finished his rations and was huddling close to the ever-weakening campfire. They had already used up their share of firewood for the day. It would be another cold, cold night in Tir Mor.
Gwaine grinned. This was his cue. “Might be yer lucky night,” he said. He looked around conspiratorially, then reached inside the pocket of his uniform to retrieve a small waterskin and lowered his voice, “Want some liquid heat, Gerb?”
Gerbrandt’s eyes widened. “Oi! Where’d you nick that?”
Gwaine touched his nose, flashing his comrade a grin. “Got a sniffer for the stuff.”
He took a sip of the questionable liquor he had stolen off another unit, grimacing at the burn, then passed the waterskin to Gerbrandt. The man took an impressive gulp and hissed appreciatively. In the matter of a few minutes, Gerbrandt was sporting red cheeks and talking, telling Gwaine all about his beautiful wife and four children waiting at home.
This is it, Gwaine thought. Time to find out more about Emrys.
The name was not often spoken in the camp. Gwaine needed to be subtle and could not just go asking around for information, but the few opportunities he had had to bring the topic up so far had not exactly been enlightening. Most people averted their eyes and hushed. Others hissed out a warning to shut Gwaine up.
But Gerbrandt, his tongue now loosened by the alcohol Gwaine had provided, finally dared to speak of the mighty sorcerer.
Gwaine learned three things about Emrys that night at the campfire. One, many thought him to be the most powerful warlock to ever walk the Earth. Two, he had killed more men alone than the entirety of Cenred’s army put together. Three, he never left King Cenred’s tent, except for battle.
That last piece of information was especially interesting to Gwaine. While he had gathered a lot of information for Arthur – about the size of the army, the kind of equipment and tactics used – he could not very well leave for Camelot without at least having set eyes on Emrys himself. If worse came to worst, they needed to be able to identify the man.
He got his chance, during a fierce battle at the eastern edges of Tir Mor. This was the grimmest part of Gwaine’s mission: killing Tir Mor soldiers for Cenred. He felt dirty, fighting in a war he knew was wrong, killing for a man he would never follow under any circumstances. Gwaine eased his guilt with the thought that he was not doing it for Cenred, and that sometimes hard sacrifices were necessary for the greater good.
As for the battle, he tried to do as little damage as he could without raising suspicion. So what if he looked incompetent? Where his unit was concerned, Gwaine was just another half-trained foot soldier, conscripted off some Essetir turnip field like the rest of them. Among these people, there was no shame in stumbling clumsily across the mud, ducking away from enemy swords and keeping to the edge of the battlefield, striking only if there was no other way. Nobody here willingly risked their neck for Cenred if they could help it.
Just now, Gwaine had successfully managed to knock an enemy out with the flat side of his sword rather than killing him, which was just as well.
Next to Gwaine, Gerbrandt was holding his own with a broadsword. Gwaine found himself impressed by the man’s skill, who he had learned was simply a miller’s third son. Between his swordsmanship and natural charisma, Gerbrandt might have made for a good knight under different circumstances.
Gwaine knew something was up when, ten minutes into battle, the skies turned dark. Not just grey, but almost pitch-black. One ominous rumble was all the warning they got. Then, lightning rained down on them. Not one, not two, but a hundred bolts of crackling heat. Magic! Instinctively, Gwaine threw himself onto the ground and shielded his head.
When he looked up again, the cries of battle had been replaced by pitiful whimpers and moans. Tir Mor’s forces had been decimated, but a fair lot of the smouldering bodies on the ground wore the remnants of Cenred’s snake crest. The lightning had not distinguished between friend and foe. The smell of freshly burnt flesh reached Gwaine’s nose. A few men were stumbling about screaming, some of them badly burnt, their skin seemingly melted off.
Gwaine hurriedly turned his head away, forcing down the bile climbing up his throat.
“Gerb?” he called out hoarsely as he propped himself up. “Gerbrandt?”
Then he spotted him. Gerbrandt was lying on the ground but three paces to his left, his body nothing but a scorched mess, his turban smouldering on the ground, and a tuft of curly, red hair all that was left to distinguish him from the corpses around him. With a last, horrified look at his fallen comrade, Gwaine scrambled onto his hands and knees, then got up, his stomach twisting with nausea. He pressed a hand against his mouth and nose, stumbling away until he had brought some distance between himself and Gerbrandt’s remains.
A few of Cenred’s knights were cleaning out the rest of the enemies at the far end of the battlefield. The battle had been won before even half an hour had passed. Another massacre. There was no honour to be found among these burnt carcasses.
This had to be Emrys’s doing. Hurriedly, Gwaine turned his head towards the edge of Cenred’s camp. He could make out Cenred and Morgause on their horses, but if Emrys was standing next to them, Gwaine had no chance of identifying him, especially with the sky still so eerily darkened.
By the time he had made it back into the camp, Cenred and his priestess were gone, along with Emrys. Gwaine had missed his chance to look the man in the face.
The brutality of that lightning spell, the carelessness in which Emrys had sacrificed Cenred’s own men to kill the enemy, got to him. Gerbrandt’s scorched features seemed to have been imprinted on Gwaine’s mind, etched into his skull, burned into his eyes, the stuff of nightmares.
Gwaine suddenly found himself hating Emrys with a passion, without ever having set eyes on him. Experiencing his handiwork up close had been enough.
They needed to stop him. For that, Gwaine would have to find a way to learn his identity.
It took Gwaine another week to inconspicuously approach Cenred’s tent. Under the cover of night, with his own unit fast asleep and the whole of the camp exhausted after another, smaller fight in Tir Mor, Gwaine managed to pass by the guards and ended up crouching at the back of the tent, where a slit in between two pieces of cloth provided a look inside.
Gwaine ended up learning more that night than he ever thought possible.
Inside the tent, Cenred was resting on an opulent armchair by a table. Opposite him, Gwaine could just make out the blonde hair of Priestess Morgause. He also saw the back of what looked like a skinny, dark-haired man in tattered clothes. He seemed to be holding onto a jug of wine, the shackles around his wrists marking him as a sorcerer. Poor bloke had got himself assigned a job as Cenred’s servant.
Gwaine edged closer until his ears could pick up their voices.
“… nearly finished with Tir Mor. A battle or two, and we own these lands,” Cenred said.
“I could not care less about Tir Mor,” replied Morgause dismissively. “I want Camelot.”
“Patience, my lady,” Cenred placated her, though his voice still carried an impressive amount of arrogance. “We will get to her next and you shall have the throne, as promised.”
“A pity Uther succumbed to illness,” Morgause spat. “I would so have enjoyed taking his pathetic life myself.”
“You can have your wicked way with Arthur instead,” Cenred said and laughed. “I hear he’s every bit his father’s son. Absolutely loathes magic, the fool!”
Gwaine bared his teeth at Cenred’s words, but did not make a sound. One day soon, that man’s body would slip off Arthur’s sword and that would be all the satisfaction Gwaine needed.
“First, we will have to come into our new powers, as you well know, Your Majesty.”
“Yes, yes,” Cenred said derisively and took a sip of wine. “Your little ritual. I remember.”
“Do not take this lightly,” Morgause hissed and Gwaine saw Cenred straighten up in his chair at her tone. “If you want to keep winning your wars and conquer all of Albion, you need me to complete these rites.”
“Of course, my lady.” Cenred did not sound chastised, but any mockery had vanished from his voice. “It’s only that Emrys has already proven such a great asset in this war. His skills in battle are formidable.”
Gwaine stiffened, then craned his neck. Was Emrys in there now? If so, he could not see him from his vantage point.
“Isn’t that so, boy?” Cenred added in a snide tone, now addressing the skinny servant.
“Whatever you say, sire,” the sorcerer replied. Gwaine still could not make out his face, but his voice sounded small and inflectionless, almost too quiet to carry to the end of the tent.
Gwaine was not sure why Cenred was asking the servant’s opinion. Perhaps another cruel game.
“Emrys might be powerful, but he is nothing to a High Priestess at full strength,” Morgause said haughtily. “If you want to get a hold on all of Albion, it is of utmost importance we be at the Isle of the Blessed at Samhain. I cannot stress this enough, Your Majesty. You must accompany me there with the best of your knights!”
Now there was an interesting titbit. Cenred and Morgause, off on some mission, away from their troops, at Samhain? That was highly valuable information.
“And so I shall, my lady, I promise,” said Cenred, then turned back towards the servant. “I’m finished with you here, boy. Go clean my boots. I want them spotless this time, or you’ll be redoing them with your tongue.”
“Right away, Your Majesty,” came the meek reply. Undoubtedly, the servant was used to Cenred’s threats. He bowed low and disappeared from Gwaine’s view.
Gwaine decided this was his cue to leave as well. He had heard and seen enough. He definitely needed to get this information about Samhain back to Arthur, no matter that he had not managed to see Emrys for himself. This was too important. He could not risk getting caught without relaying it to his King.
That night, the friendly foot soldier known as Gwaine defected from Cenred’s troops, never to be heard of again.