lost 3

The bandits were celebrating. They jeered and sweared, banged fists on table and stomped their feet, devoured the evening meal, toasted and drank wine- spirits were high. Tomorrow, they yelled brazenly, to tomorrow! They shared jests and stories, bragged and gestured wildly, not noticing that there was more wine spilled on the tables and floor than there was in the cups held by greasy fingers. They laughed and cheered and were awefully merry for such a horrible band of foul men. The reason was quite simple: tonight they would celebrate their catch of the King, and tomorrow they would enjoy its benefits. Most of them were already well in their cups.

Just two hours after sundown, the din quieted slightly for no particular reason. At this exact moment, the party ended. Abruptly.

'What a pitiful gang of boys you are!', an unknown, cold voice sounded from the doorway to the great hall of the abandoned castle they were feasting in. Cups fell to the ground and stools tumbled over, as all the bandits jumped to their feet. There, in the doorway, stood something- something not quite human.

They saw a man- well, they thought it must be a man- stand on the treshold to the room. The figure was surrounded by a black mist, almost impossible for the eye to see through. In the mist, small lightning bolts crackled and sparked excitedly, but at the same time golden tendrils floated serenely and little lights, like fireflies, drifted and shone. It was as if someone had taken a thunderstorm, a warm summer night and an inkwell dotted with goldpowder; and had woven it into a cloak and hood.

The man's irises were just visible, two deep wells of the same rich gold that broke the dark mist. Two lean, pale hands contrasted the blackness of the mist and the dark, dried, unexplained blood spatters on his fingertips.

'What?', the man asked mockingly, 'No welcome? I'm hurt.' The words shook the leader out of his shock-induced trance. The sheer power and hostility the man exuded were staggering, unsettling even for the sorcerer-bandit. Somehow he knew that nothing he could do, could keep this man from doing as he pleased.

'Though not particularly surprised,' their guest continued, ' you have, after all, no sense of politeness. No honour, no intelligence, only boorishness.' The man's voice gradually hardened.

One bandit cried out in displeasure from being described as such- an irritatingly arrogant and narcistic man who was called Gregory, if the leader recalled well- and flung an arrow of magic to the figure. It was Gregory's best magic, but the mist around it just rippled on impact, dissolved the arrow into gold and then swirled back the way it was. Then, speck of gold- just a speck, not even a sparkle or a tendril- raced out of the mist and hit the vain bandit in the middle of his chest. Gregory was thrown against the wall- a sickening snap of a spine resounded through the hall and Gregory collapsed limply.

The bandits gasped in shock and shifted nervously. This was nothing they had ever encountered before. The man had not spoken, not moved. The leader had not even seen the eyes so much as flicker, or the gorld intensify. A thought and just... death. Just a thought. It made him shudder.

The bandit leader finally scrounged up his courage. 'Who are you?'. He was ignored. A memory struck him, an earlier fleeting thought about demons and bogey men when he'd first felt the danger the man oozed. 'What are you?'. No reaction- or yes: the lightning crackled just a little bit brighter. Amusement? Perhaps.

'How did you find us? Why did you come here?' No answer. He became frustrated. He raised his voice somewhat. 'What is your purpose?'

The stranger spoke, barely visible movement beneath the eyes, but a happy voice that projected easily and filled them all with dread as it spoke:

'Fun'.

The leader was in terror. Had been since his men had crumbled to the ground like puppets cut loose from their strings and started to convulse silently. Had been since he'd immediately turned to his second-in-command, his right-hand man, his old childhood friend- and had fallen to his knees beside him, grabbing him by the shoulders with a cry and shaking, shaking them. To no avail, he- they- didn't stop.

'What have you done?!', he'd asked, fear for the man forgotten in his desperation. It returned quickly, however, when he'd heard the voice say: 'I wanted to make music. Do you want to hear?' in a childlike, yet sinister way.

Eyes and mouths had opened and wails, pleas, moans, grunts, screams- had filled the air around him. His men had writhed and turned, his second-in-command clutching the arms that were still holding him. His heart had ached. Bandit he may be, but these were still his men, his friends, the people whom he lived with, laughed with. 'Stop', he had begged, 'Stop! Please.' It had stopped. The man had not even moved.

'Why would you- ?', He had asked, then swallowed. He had had trouble finishing, so he'd settled for what he could manage to get through the stone in his throat: 'Why?'.

'To show you what I can do', he'd been given as answer, 'So you would cooperate'.

All of that had just happened before his very eyes. The demon-man - for how could a person be so far from humanity in his cruelty, yet be so close to being human for exactly the same reason? One who tortured people and called it fun, who heard their cries and called it music?- finally moved. The eyes in the mist tilted, like a curious bird, or perhaps a cat wondering if he should eat the mice now or play with it first. The last was frighteningly more likely.

The demon-man stepped forward smoothly- one, two, three long, intent strides- into the room. He had been right to think of a cat- though this was no house-cat. This was like the majestic tiger he' d once seen when he'd encountered an eastern group of jesters, minstrels and animal masters: beautiful and elegant, yet wearing power and danger as easily as it wore his skin.

He leaned back from where he was sitting with his friend near in his lap. He had been chosen as leader because he was strong and had magic, because he was cunning, fearless and proud. He used to be.

'Co- Cooperate, my Lord?', he stuttered.

'Yes. Perhaps you have somethig that I want, and you are going to give it to me. I could take it, but I don't feel in the mood. It thought it would be fun to watch you grovel of your own free will. Besides, I would be show you... mercy.'

'What do you desire?', he asked quickly. Maybe he could get the man away fast, give him whatever he wanted and he'd leave him and his men alone. They were no longer convulsing, but still unconscious. He was afraid for them, not to mention himself.

'Guess.' Damn.

What did everyone want? 'Money?'

'Wrong, guess again', the man said calmly and stepped closer. The leader eyes widened: he had to guess right before he reached him. If he reached him...

'Jewels?' They had collected a fair amount of jewelry robbing rich ladies over the years.

The man said nothing, but came closer- he was already near halfway the hall! Why was the hall not longer, he lamented? Wait, the hall... Maybe-

'Our castle?' Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

'Everything?'. Closer, ever closer. Stopping just before the table he'd been dining at how long ago? It seemed days.

What else did he have? What else could anyone possibly have, but their lives, now everything was offered.

'Too slow', the man said and calmly stepped through the table. The leader let go of his friend and crawled backwards in shock and fear, until he felt the hard wall at his back. What kind of magic was this, that one could bend everything- even nature itself- to his will? Too powerful for him, too powerful for anyone. The man would take what he wanted and leave- what? Would there be anything left to leave?

What a way to end a feast, he thought wryly. Feast, feast... feast for what? He feverously tried to remember, even though the man was already looming above him, hand already reaching out. Aha!

'A King's oath to be owned by you!' The hand reaching to his head stilled, retreated. The man pulled away slightly.

'A King?', he was asked. He was still blinking a bit, unbelieving it had worked at the last moment, or that it had taken him so long to remember it. Then he recovered.

'Yes, yes! In our dungeons, a King: Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, handsome, strong- a wonderful thing to own'. He was babbling, he knew, but he didn't mind. As long as it kept him alive. His friends' safety was long out of his thoughts.

'I have his magical oath that he will not escape, as long as we leave his manservant alone. They're lovers, see, or at least he fancies the servant. He didn't want us to take his servant, if you know what I mean. We left the servant tied to a tree in the woods. He'll die eventually, but he's in the dungeons already. We've got him and his oath- however long that thing stands, anyway- and that's what matters, no?'.

The man in the dark mist looked down on the half-cowering being before his feet. Unmoving. 'Release that oath. He does not belong to you.', he ordered eventually. The leader obliged immediately, muttering a spell under his breath.

'Can I- Will you let me and my men go now?Will you show mercy?', he asked as soon as it was done. The hearts of his men had stopped beating awhile ago, but he did not know that. The demon-man crouched before him and looked him in the , the cloak of dark lifted, as if it was fog blown away by the wind.

It revealed a coldly smiling Merlin. Emrys had given his control back. 'No', he said calmly. Magic tightened around the bandit's throat. The body of the man twitched, he spluttered, choked. Merlin didn't move. Then the body slumped.

Merlin stood up and left the hallway, making his way to the dungeons. He did not look back.