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Merlin looked up from sorting his medicine bag as the door opened. It wasn’t anything unusual in a small but busy tavern, but the immediate change in the air caught his attention. His magic came alive, curling around him like a cat raising its hackles. The bard missed a few words in his song, the audience fell silent.
Three people stepped through the door. All of them, Merlin immediately knew as the king’s men from the castle. Although, men might not be the right term. They were Witchers.
Merlin carefully put his medicine away. Just my luck running into knights out here. He tried to pull back into the shadows around him. At least they aren’t allowed to wear their medallions or I would be in actual trouble.
While other kingdoms allowed their Witcher-knights to represent the schools they learned at with pride, Camelot chose a different path. King Uther, magic-hating tyrant extraordinaire, proclaimed it more proficient to unite the knights under one banner instead of according to their schools. Not even his own son, shipped off to the prestigious Wolf School, was allowed to display his perfect training. Instead, he and the knights hunted everything magic. For the good of Camelot of course.
Merlin pulled his pack closer. Camelot and him never worked out for long even though he travelled as much as he could to avoid detection. Maybe this is my sign to move - oh no, they’re coming my way. Just my luck.
The trio cut through the crowd; eyes sharp as they looked around without turning their heads. Soft strums from the lute followed them. Merlin allowed himself a moment to look each of them up and down. Their leader had hair that almost glowed golden even in the dingy lighting, blue eyes blazing with fire. He stared Merlin down as if he caught a whiff of prey.
His right-hand man had perfect strawberry blond ringlets curling behind his ears, an aura of calm wrapped around him. There was kindness hidden somewhere in the set of his shoulders or maybe his eyes.
The third was slightly smaller than the other two. He walked with a limp, hobbling along to be honest. Not good. What’s strong enough to catch one of Camelot’s Witchers unawares? Merlin put his bag back onto the table, rifling through it to get a few basic potions out before the Witchers even reached him.
“We have need of you,” the blond said without any introduction.
“And a good day to you too,” Merlin replied with pointed politeness. “It is nice to meet a group of honourable knights so far from the citadel. Whatever might I, a humble traveling healer, be of service with?” Okay, maybe tone down the snark a little bit.
The Witchers blinked at him. Clearly, Merlin was one of the few to actually reply to them without shaking apart in fear. Blond shook off the surprise first, levelling him with a glare. Great.
“Have you got any idea whom you’re talking to?”
Several clever retorts rushed through Merlin’s head. From “Oh dear, I didn’t know you forgot who you are” to “A rude, potential customer”. He shoved all of them from his mind. No need to play into their cards and give them a reason to shake me down. So, Merlin settled on a, still challenging, “No. Who?”
“I am Arthur Pendragon,” the knight postured as if that alone should be clue enough. Merlin blinked, looked back at the injured knight still a few steps behind. “Crowned prince of Camelot.”
That got Merlin’s attention very quickly. Along with several warning bells ringing in his head. The son of the tyrant. A fabled wolf. Cold and efficient in his hunt for sorcerers. Thank the crone for the lack of medallions.
“Ah,” was all Merlin could force past his lips. He turned his attention away from the prince as politely as he was capable of to look at the limping knight. “And what injured you?”
The knight seemed surprised to be spoken to directly just after the prince had made his introductions. His eyes darted back and forth between Merlin and the prince. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“We got surprised by a griffin with a taste for human flesh,” the prince cut in. “Can you help or not?”
A griffin? Merlin raised his eyebrows. What brought a magical beast like that to Camelot? Usually, griffins hunt farther south and in mated pairs… Oh dear.
“A griffin,” Merlin managed to echo faintly. He looked at the injured knight, his pale face, blood-soaked trousers. “Well then, allow me to take a look at the injury.”
Carefully they manoeuvred around each other in the limited space. On stage, the bard of the evening began another round of rousing drinking songs and soon the tavern was alive with song and dance and merriment. All very carefully secluded from the glowering Witchers and their unwitting companion.
Merlin sighed as he pushed the injured man around into the dim candle light to get a better look at his leg. He hissed in sympathy. The entire pants leg was shredded apart, revealing the wound. Four long gashes ran along the thigh and calf, obviously caused by a swipe of claws. That must have been some fight for the griffin to get that hit in… Are they even using magic weapons or are they forbidden as well?
Wordlessly, Merlin got to work. Tinctures and balms quickly cluttered the tabletop. Merlin wiped the wound with his cleanest cloth and some vinegar. I could magically heal those gashes up a bit more, Merlin’s eyes flickered up to the bright eyes of the Witcher knights, I’m not that eager to die yet… Hm… Let’s see what I can do without. Merlin left the cloth across the wounded leg, grabbed needle and twine from his bag.
“Could you heat this in the candle fire?” Merlin looked to the strawberry blond knight. “Keep it close to the middle that’s the hottest.”
“Of course.”
Not a question asked, following direct orders and deferring to his prince. Could be a former member of the Griffin School… Merlin snorted. Awkward running into your namesakes like that…
“What’s so funny?” Witcher-prince demanded to know.
Both Knights froze for a second. Long enough for Merlin to notice. “I was just wondering, what schools you learned at.” He glanced up at the men with a crooked eyebrow. “You are fighting a griffin.”
“Camelot rejects any association of its knights with the Witcher schools. Camelot was mirred with Chaos until my father drove magic out of the realm.” Prince Arthur prowled closer. “Do not dare insinuate any connection between the two.” A dark growl vibrated in the air between Merlin and the Witcher-prince.
The blond Witcher’s eyes flickered between the candle and needle he held towards the prince. He seemed to sigh something too quiet for Merlin to catch above the singing bard. A louder growl followed, a seeming snap at thin air before Prince Arthur took a few steps back, breathing heavily.
Don’t bring up magic and don’t insinuate the Witcher schools. Got it, Merlin turned back to his patient, keeping the other knights in his peripheral vision. Why can’t I work faster and be done with it?
Merlin felt the critical stare of the prince on him the whole time. It grated on his nerves. He didn’t say anything else, just stared! As if he was inspecting one of his knights for signs of a late night in the tavern. Keep your head down, Merlin. Mother said to keep avoiding attention while in Camelot. Just keep working and I’ll be rid of them and out of here soon enough.
Merlin tried to work fast and thorough. Once the needle was heated, he stitched the flesh back together, letting the knight bite on a cloth even though he barely made a sound throughout the whole procedure. Stoic knights. As soon as the wound was fixed, Merlin applied a bit of soothing tincture to aid the skin with the healing process. He had long since figured out that Witchers needed a slightly different recipe. Help that advanced healing to its full potential. They’ll need it. A griffin.
Finally, Merlin lightly patted the bandaged leg. “There we go.” He offered his patient a smile and was delighted as the knight returned it. “No fighting for the next few days and it will be alright. Good as new.”
“What was the last tincture?” the blond asked, his head tilted to the side ever so slightly. “It smelled differently than what our healer in the castle uses.”
“I can imagine. It’s my own recipe tailored to assist the healing properties imbued in the Witchers,” Merlin explained. “My travels took me through far-off lands and I was lucky enough to be allowed to study alongside skilled Witchers. It is fascinating the collaboration between-”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure it’s all very interesting,” the prince interrupted him, “We thank you for your service, but we have to go now. Sir Leon.”
The kind knight, Sir Leon, immediately was back on his feet, getting a small pouch full of clinking coin out from his pack. “Thank you for your services, healer. It is greatly appreciated.”
A jingle of coin, subdued sounds from the injured knight and the trio disappeared just as quickly as they had appeared. Merlin sat at his table, medicine strewn about, needle still bloody and his ale diminished. A griffin. A probably mated griffin that can only be killed by magic. They’re fighting a griffin.
Atop the stage, the bard bowed to his adoring audience.
“What am I even doing here?” Merlin grumbled to himself. A twig snatched at his clothing. “Why am I following a bunch of Camelot’s knights? If they knew the truth, I’d be dead.” And yet. I just patched one of them up from a griffin attack. A creature of magic only defeated by magic. Which is banned from Camelot. Merlin sighed, stopped to listen to the forest around him.
Ever since the knights had left the tavern, his magic was agitated. Something that refused to settle, tugging on his senses. Keeping him aware of the direction his patient and compatriots had travelled into across miles like a particularly stubborn hound. And here I am, following along like a toy on a string…
The picture of Prince Arthur Pendragon prowling towards him, growling at the mere mention of magic rose in his mind. Dead on arrival as soon as they get a whiff of magic off of me. If only I knew they can actually take care of the griffin. Maybe I’d have my peace.
Far-off, steel clanged. Merlin might have thought he imagined it, if not for his magic pulsing in his ears, enhancing his senses. There. Again. And again. Rhythmic clanging of steel against something, cries and calls back and forth. The shrill scream of a bird of prey.
Without much thought on the why and how, Merlin hurried through the forest towards them. Magic swirled around his feet, kept him surefooted, sped up his journey. Sooner than anticipated, Merlin crouched behind a tree. Before him lay the battlefield. A majestic griffin, eagle wings spread threateningly, clawed at the ground. Its eyes darted between the handful knights before it.
The Witcher-prince stood in front of his knights. He’s keeping his men safe, Merlin realised after a confused moment of watching the prince jab at the beast ineffectually. With its attention on him, the other knights have a chance to attack the griffin. It wasn’t a bad idea, Merlin had to grudgingly admit. Even if still ineffectual. Not a lick of magic among them. As if they never trained as Witchers. What good are all the enhanced senses without the right techniques? Griffin School with its magic prowess. Or the Cats and their superhuman agility. Not even Cranes, since this is a beast of the air.
Taking a deep breath, Merlin let his magic flow into the air around him, let it travel through the ground towards the fight. There. Carefully, Merlin reached for the innate magic of the griffin. He couldn’t get close enough to actually enchant any of the weapons, but he might be able to do something else.
Across the way, the griffin’s wings slowly faltered, opening up more chances for attack. Its eyes grew heavy next, claw strikes clumsy. Merlin’s eyes scanned across the knights to see, if any of them might be in a good position for the finishing blow. He almost grumbled again. None were close enough. Closer is what it is. Let’s hope I don’t snap any branches or stumble.
Behind the next underbrush, Merlin reached out again. Enchanting weapons was not something he did often. The precision was still hard for his wild and mostly instinctual magic. Carefully, Merlin concentrated on the sword of the nearest knight – only for his magic to jump right past him and onto the blade of none other than Prince Arthur. What? No! Anyone but him! Oh, come on. Focus. But no matter how Merlin tried, it felt as if his magic was welded to the prince’s blade. That, Merlin buried his fingers into the soft ground, has never happened before. Splendid. My magic has a weakness for the tyrant’s son. Fantastic.
Noble. Destiny. A great King, something whispered in the back of Merlin’s mind. A noble knight.
Merlin blinked. His magic still clung to the Witcher-prince’s sword as he defended his knights. With a piercing cry, the griffin reared back, both clawed paws streaking towards Prince Arthur just as the wings flared to block the other knights.
No! Merlin’s hand shot forward, instinct taking over. The prince’s sword caught the sparse light beneath the canopy of trees, glittered for a moment like the sun itself. In a wide arch, the blade buried itself in the griffin’s chest. Twin claws raked over Prince Arthur’s sides, hitting chainmail. A pained grunt was all Merlin could hear.
The griffin teetered, blade in its heart, fell over. Knights jumped out of the way lightning fast. In a moment of stunned silence, the knights looked between the felled beast and their prince, still breathing hard, blade embedded in flesh.
“Hail Prince Arthur!” Sir Leon was the first to call. His hair was matted to his forehead, Merlin could see a gash across his forearm and cheek. “Slayer of the griffin! Hero of Camelot!”
The other Witchers quickly fell into the chorus. None of them were uninjured, but none had fallen to the griffin either. “Hail Prince Arthur! Hero of Camelot!”
Prince Arthur looked around with a stunned expression quickly shuttered behind a mask of duty. He raised his hands to thank his men for their help and probably applaud their bravery. Only what came out instead, was a surprised sound as he collapsed to the ground.
Shouts rose anew. First of shock, then of surprise, as Merlin darted right into the middle of the Witcher-knights.
“Get his armour off,” he called before even reaching the prince’s side. Only as an afterthought did he add: “I’m a healer.”
“We know him,” Sir Leon answered. “Listen to him.”
Several knights complied with Merlin’s order, unbuckling armour and pulling chainmail out of the way. Despite the protection, the griffin’s claws had pierced skin. Merlin immediately saw the gashes, probably not from the last attack but earlier in the fight, unnoticed due to adrenaline.
Several possible treatments rushed through Merlin’s mind. This was a Witcher he was dealing with. Anyone else might be beyond saving. But a Witcher. They were a tough crowd. Tinctures, salves. Disinfect everything. I need to get him off the forest ground. And away from the griffin in case its mate is close. “I need him off the dirt. Look for a camping ground close by. Make a fire, boil some water. I need clean rags, a boiled needle.” Sensing a presence at his shoulder, Merlin looked up to find Sir Leon looking down at him. From this close his pupils were blown unnaturally wide. “Here,” Merlin handed the knight his pouch of supplies, “I trust you know how to prepare what I need, while I help here.”
With a mute nod, Sir Leon took the pouch and wandered off into some direction, other Witchers quickly falling in line behind him. Second in Command, Merlin distractedly noted. “Okay, someone take his armour and weapons. I need help to lift him – on second thought, leave the shirt.”
Surprisingly, the Witchers followed Merlin’s instructions without questioning. Soon Prince Arthur lay on a makeshift stretcher made from branches and cushioned with shirts. Four Witchers carried him slowly over to the already crackling fire. Sir Leon handed Merlin the cooked and wet rags, then the twine and needle. The salves and tinctures, as if he had done nothing else all his life.
Brave and trusted friend, the same thing as before whispered. Merlin shook his head to dislodge the thought. I need my focus to tend to my patients.
Falling into easy routine, Merlin stitched and bandaged the prince, then several of the other knights. By the end, his salves against infection were almost at their end. He frowned down at it. I need to make some new. But where would I even find the ingredients? Some of those herbs only grow in the mild southern winter…
“What are you doing here?”
Merlin looked up from his wondering to find Prince Arthur struggling to sit up. “I wouldn’t do that. I just stitched you up,” he said, knowing the prince would ignore him. True enough, with another bitten-off groan, Prince Arthur sat.
His bright blue eyes dilated to accommodate the firelight. “Where did you come from and why are you here?”
Merlin shrugged. “I helped your men.” He looked around the camp, noting some of the Witchers trying and failing to pretend not to listen to their every word. “My work here is done. I can leave now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Where would you go?” Prince Arthur motioned around the darkening forest. “We left the tavern behind a good few hours ago. You wouldn’t survive the night alone.”
Oh, you have no idea. Merlin grinned. “I shall be on my way soon.”
“I order you to stay the night here in camp,” Prince Arthur said as easy as breathing. “My knights will stop you from leaving.”
Merlin’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. Another glance around. Now the knights weren’t even pretending not to listen. Their cat-like eyes reflected in the firelight as they stared at the healer and their prince. “You will find,” Merlin began lightly, “That they will not be able to keep me here. Not that I think they would put up much of a fight. After all, I am a healer, my friend.”
“Friend? Have we met before today?” Prince Arthur’s voice took a turn towards the dangerously growling. Merlin wasn’t impressed. So far it had been all bark and no bite.
So, he cocked his head, offered a smile and his hand. “I’m Merlin.”
“So, we haven’t.”
“No.”
“And yet you call me ‘friend’.” The firelight glittered in the Witcher’s eyes. His lips curled back to reveal – were that fangs? Sharp canines? Merlin made a mental note to look into the Wolf School as soon as he got out of Camelot.
“That was my mistake then.”
“Yes,” Prince Arthur nodded slowly, “I think so.”
“Yeah,” Merlin let an innocent smile curl his lips, feeling the magic of nature surrounding him like a blanket, “I’d never have a friend who could be such an ass.”
The air grew thick. Prince Arthur blinked a few times in surprise before he got his expression back under control. With a scoff, he watched as Merlin slowly packed his supplies back into his pouch, took stock of what he’d need more of. “Or I one who could be so stupid.”
Around the camp, every Witcher stared at the healer in their midst. A lanky human with wild hair that just barged into their midst with instructions and healing. And was now insulting their prince. Right in front of them. Merlin dutifully pretended not to notice. If I were anywhere else, I would have already left. Or magicked myself away. Only in Camelot I cannot do that and have to content with this. And to think I treated all of them!
“Tell me, Merlin,” Prince Arthur began after a long moment of silence, “Do you know how to walk on your knees?”
“No.”
“Would you like me to help you?”
Merlin glanced up, seeing the prince lounging deceptively relaxed in his bedroll. The wounds can’t be all healed up already. Not even with Witcher healing… Even more so… A soft breeze tousled Merlin’s hair. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he simply said.
A chuckle. Then, “Why? What are you going to do to me?”
Has anything ever sounded more like an invitation? But not in Camelot. Not on the Witcher-prince. Merlin kept quiet. I just need to get out of here. Mercia might have trade routes open for the herbs I need…
“Might we offer you a place to refill your stocks in exchange for your services?” Sir Leon suddenly spoke up. “I’m sure our court physician would be delighted to have someone as skilled as yourself to exchange information.”
Both Merlin and Prince Arthur stared at the knight in surprise.
“You were of great service to us in handling all of our injuries after the griffin was slain. Without you, some of us would not be able to march home as quickly as we will be able to now.” Silver-blue eyes slid towards the prince imploringly. “The least we could do, is offer our resources in return.”
Merlin settled back on his heels. What a generous offer. My service in return for a refill of my stock and academical exchange with a colleague. If only, Sir Leon had lead with that and not the prince with his tirade.
For a long moment it seemed, the offer would fall on deaf ears. The Witchers exchanged long looks and probably made conversation, Merlin didn’t catch. He didn’t have a chance to experiment with Witcher senses much beyond their healing capabilities yet.
“Sir Leon, that is a splendid idea,” Prince Arthur finally conceded. “Your selfless help deserves a reward. I, Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, would be honoured to escort you, Healer Merlin, back to our beautiful city and see to it that your funds and resources are sufficiently compensated.”
Merlin blinked. Well, I certainly didn’t expect to get my own speech… Quick, answer in kind! “Uh, sure. Thank you for the generous offer.” Great.
Faint snickers followed his proclamation. Tension seemed to drain out of the knights around the fire. Most of them settled back into their own bedrolls or went back to their little chatter amongst themselves. Even Sir Leon returned to his guard post after a small smile and nod in Merlin’s direction. Only Prince Arthur remained alone by the fire on his bedroll. And Merlin close by with his pouch half empty and the taste of adventure on his tongue.