Rating: T

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Gwaine

Warnings: Violence, non-explicit depictions of gore, mentions of torture

Summary: Arthur and Gwaine rescue Merlin from the clutches of slave traders only to find themselves trapped in a strange castle whose residents have up and vanished. There's something in the castle that's after them, and to make matters worse, Merlin is already injured and can't use his magic.

A/N: Written for the 2012 Bromance Big Bang. This story is complete, edited, ready to go and will be updated daily (except Sunday)

~oOo~

The Devil's Table

by

Stealth Dragon

Back when the dragon had still been a prisoner beneath Camelot, he and Merlin would often have long chats over all things of a magical nature. It had begun after the dragon had created the sword and made Merlin swear that only Arthur would use it. Merlin had felt bad that he hadn't been able to keep his promise, but not knowing how to make it up to the dragon, he had attempted to keep him company when he could, instead.

Merlin was quite sure it had been more beneficial for him than the dragon. He had learned much, adding to the knowledge already gained through his magic book – like why invisibility and shape-changing spells were so dangerous, which magical creatures truly existed and which were merely myth, and special manacles that could bind a sorcerer's power.

Magic can never truly be stopped when it is a part of you, Kilgarrah had said. A sorcerer controlled magic outside the body, the magic inherit in the very world. When bound by magical chains they were cut off from the source of their power and so left vulnerable. A Warlock called upon the magic from within himself, a magic he could not be cut off from, a magic that was part of his very being as much as his heart and soul. Enchanted chains could only dampen their abilities, not stop them. One would need something far more special and complicated to render a warlock completely helpless.

What he had failed to mention was that even simple enchanted chains still did just fine in turning a warlock helpless. Maybe they didn't stop Merlin's powers completely, but calling the chains a hindrance was a cruel understatement. Merlin could use his magic, but it hurt, and the greater the magic he used the greater the agony.

All Merlin had done was break a bloody lock and explode a few bloody cooking fires, and yet his arms throbbed as though they'd been broken. He was drained, and sick, and it was the last blasted thing he needed when he was trying to run for his blasted life.

"This Way! Over here!"

"I see tracks!"

"This way!"

Merlin's heart shot into his throat and stuck there. He scrambled up a slope slick with mud and slush. Slipping was inevitable, landing him hard on his damaged chest. Riding through the pain and remembering how to breathe cost him seconds he didn't have, and his damn wrists kept giving out on him every time he attempted to climb.

But he made it to the top. Now it was only his numb feet he had to deal with. He'd wrapped them in the rags tossed to him in his cage to keep warm but the slush had soaked them to useless. But losing his toes would be a small price to pay if he could just keep going, get far, get away and not end up the magical plaything for some fat lord with a grudge against Camelot. Lords, he was never going on a hunt along the borders of the kingdom with Arthur ever again; bloody slavers and their bloody inability to lay low during one of the harshest winters in the realm.

Speaking of which, snow began to fall, again – huge, fat flanks heralding a land that would soon be buried under arctic white. It landed on Merlin's ragged shirt, soaking through the thread-bare material and giving him another reason to shiver. He stumbled over logs and clung to trees, losing more seconds trying to catch his breath.

As if being taken by slavers hadn't been bad enough, the real irony was that they had seen him use magic to protect Arthur. All the years of flinging spells about and it was a bunch of slavers who witnessed it. He supposed he should be grateful; the leader of the group – who hadn't been as inclined as his men to go on a raid – had wanted to kill Merlin on the spot for being too scrawny. That Merlin had magic saved him. Caged sorcerers fetched a fine price, and they had just the manacles to control him.

The chains of those manacles clinked like a crack through the winter-shrouded woodland. The shouting voices of Merlin's hunters were closer, surrounding him. Merlin coughed a panicked sob from his burning lungs.

If they caught him, he wouldn't be able to use his magic. Each spell he cast required time to let his body overcome the pain and regain its strength, time he didn't have, his strength waning the more he ran.

He just needed to keep going, get over the border to the main road where there was bound to be a patrol. He had to be close, now - he'd been running for bloody ever. Merlin pushed from the tree he was currently clinging to and staggered forward.

His foot caught a root and he fell, chest first. He was too slow to bite back the cry of pain that tore from his throat.

"I have to hand it to you, lad. You gave us quite a chase, wisp of a thing that you are."

Merlin whipped his head around.

It was the leader, the man who wouldn't go on raids but who would happily hunt down a skinny, injured boy like he was a wild boar. He was flanked by two of his men, smiling to show their black, crooked teeth. Pain forgotten, exhaustion forgotten, Merlin scrambled to his feet, grabbing a fallen branch along the way. He stood, swaying on his aching limbs, branch brandished like a sword.

Jimbol, the leader, barked out a belly laugh. "Oh, my boy, you are damn persistent, I'll give you that. I admire it. In fact I admire it so much I'm going to give you a bit of a fighting chance to make things interesting." He pulled the sword from the sheathe of one of his men and tossed it to Merlin. He then pulled his own sword.

"Pick it up, boy," Jimbol said. He took the familiar stance of a man who knew his way around a blade. "You want you're freedom then you're going to need to earn it."

Merlin tossed the branch aside and grabbed the sword. It was stupid, he was painfully aware of it. He was no swordsman, no seasoned warrior, and most of the time counted it luck that he managed to hit anything all when he did use a weapon. But he wasn't completely helpless with a blade. You don't suffer years of being a king's target for sword practice without picking up a few skills. But he was wounded, tired and barely standing upright – everything your opponent needed for an easy victory. But if Merlin had to go down, he could at least go down fighting.

I'm not the coward you always say I am, Arthur.

"Shall we begin?" Jimbol said. He lifted his sword in salute and surged forward.

Goodbye, Arthur. With a cry of defiance, Merlin met Jimbol head on. Metal rang sharp against metal. For a moment, Merlin was riding high on what he was sure was him holding his own. Except Jimbol was smiling and seemed to put no effort into his attacks. He was drawing this out, having his fun. Skill had nothing to do with this on Merlin's part.

Jimbol proved as much when he feinted left and sliced a thin, straight line across the tip of Merlin's breast bone. Merlin stumbled back, ignoring the pain that was one out of too many to count. Jimbol attacked and it was all Merlin could do to keep him at bay. Another line was added to Merlin's body across his ribs. Another feint and Merlin tumbled forward. The hot touch of the blade cut him across the upper back and he arched, screaming. Jimbol and his men laughed.

Merlin fell to his hands and knees, shaking, panting, dripping blood. Jimbol toed him in his wounded flank.

"What do you think, lads? Think he's had enough?" Jimbol chuckled.

There followed an odd whirring sound that, from one breath to the next, Merlin was sure was Jimbol's blade coming down to add another wound to his body.

Then slaver one toppled forward like a tree, a knife embedded in his neck.

"I think he's damn well had enough!" shouted a voice that might as well have been the singing of angels for all its familiarity.

Merlin looked up and gaped. Relief nearly toppled him when Arthur exploded from between the trees, raging like a lion as he met Jimbol head on without mercy, filling the woods with the hammering of metal.

The second slaver pulled his weapon to help his master. A second body blocked him and attacked like a wolf going for the kill.

Gwaine.

It was a brief fight, no longer than five heartbeats, and a slice to the chest brought the slaver down. Gwaine, soaring high on fight, his hair a tangled mop, dropped to one knee beside Merlin and grinned.

"Merlin, my friend, am I right to guess we're a sight for sore eyes?"

"And then some," Merlin said, smiling so big his face ached, his body fit to fly apart he was shaking so much but not from pain or cold. Then a glanced behind him dropped the smile. "Arthur..."

"I think his kingness won't be much longer," Gwaine said as he draped his cloak over Merlin's back.

True to Gwaine's words, Arthur backed Jimbol into a tree and with one vicious swing of his blade, opened Jimbol's throat. Jimbol crumpled to the ground, wide-eyed and choking on his own blood.

Arthur wiped his blade clean on the old gray cloak he was wearing and turned to Merlin and Gwaine. He sheathed his weapon, put his hands on his hips, and glared.

"Of all the days to attempt an escape, you had to pick today," Arthur said.

"Huh?" Merlin said, dazed. He let Gwaine help him to his feet, then hold him steady.

"That was his less than polite way of saying we've come to rescue you," Gwaine said.

"What would have been a nice, quiet rescue," Arthur went on, tossing his hands up.

Gwaine grinned. "I got to play a lord. Arthur was my servant."

Which would explain why Arthur was looking particularly grubby in peasant clothes and Gwaine a little more – not resplendent, but definitely not grubby.

"We barely make it to the slave auction before the biddings begin and what do we see?" Arthur went on. "Your dark, idiot head making for the woods and a dozen men giving chase. You led us through half the blasted forest trying to get to you."

"Speaking of a dozen men," Gwaine cut in, "Might I suggest we make ourselves scarce? Much as I love a good fight I don't think poor Merlin here is going to stay on his own two feet for much longer..."

But Arthur ignored him, caught up in his need to chastise his manservant as though he had been denied the privilege for too long and couldn't wait anymore.

Which, at any other time, Merlin would have recognized Arthur's rather weak fury for what it was – him hiding concern behind prattishness. But Merlin was so damn tired, and hurting, and hungry and... Lords, he couldn't stop shaking... and the need to get away still raged within his rapidly beating heart.

"I don't care," Merlin spat, seething. "I'm sorry but I don't. I couldn't... couldn't take it, all right? I tried waiting for you but... three weeks, Arthur. I was with them for three weeks. I couldn't take it anymore."

And if Arthur thought him a coward for it, then so be it. Slavers were not kind. Jimbol's group liked to charge extra for having broken their merchandise before sales, and a broken warlock was twice as sought after as a whole one.

Merlin had just wanted the pain to stop.

Gwaine's arm tightened around his shoulders. "It's all right, Merlin. All that really matters is that we found you. Right, Arthur?"

Merlin glanced at Arthur. His expression, much to Merlin's surprise, had softened considerably. He inclined his head.

"Right. You're right, Gwaine. Merlin, can you walk?"

"Um... I can try."

"To hell with that. Merlin, on my back," Gwaine said, crouching to put said back within easy climbing reach.

Merlin balked. "What? No! What if we're attacked, I'll just be in your way."

"Merlin," Arthur said in that way in which he managed to turn Merlin's name into a multitude of warnings and orders. Merlin huffed, tossing up his hands to make the chains rattle, but did as told. He eased the chains over Gwaine's head and wrapped his arms around his neck. Gwaine lifted him with ease.

"Wait," Arthur said. He went to the bodies of the three slavers and searched them. When he came up empty handed, he cursed. "I want those shackles removed but they don't have the keys."

"Those are kept with the auctioneer," Merlin said.

Gwaine snorted. "Lovely. Back to that cesspit, I take it?"

Arthur, taking the lead as they set off, shook his head. "No. Too risky. The links look small enough to cut through with a sword and we can try to pick the locks of the manacles as soon as we are somewhere safe."

"I can suffer them a little longer if it means getting out of here, believe me," Merlin said, even as his arms throbbed all the way to his spine and his wrists burned. The manacles, though not too tight, had chafed them bloody.

With his feet no longer on the ground and his body numbed by exhaustion for the time being, Merlin was lulled into a detached state by the rhythm of Gwaine's movements. He had no idea which direction they were going nor did he really care. Not until they came to the pathway of trampled grass and mud – a path, Merlin knew, that led straight to the slave market.

Panic squeezed Merlin's chest. "Arthur, what-"

Arthur held up his hand, silencing Merlin. He then whistled three times, the final whistle long and shrill. Moments later there was the sound of hoof beats, and Arthur's and Gwaine's horses – who Merlin would know anywhere, having mucked their stalls and groomed them long enough – came trotting through the mud. Arthur aided Gwaine in getting Merlin onto Gwaine's horse, with Gwaine mounting from behind. Then Arthur was up and they were off, fast as they could go without giving Merlin's body too many reasons to protest.

Fortunately, Merlin was still numb, probably not a good thing in the grand scheme of bodily ills but it was a respite he accepted whole-heartedly. He was found, he was safe, and he was going home. He could worry later. Right now, he gladly let his exhaustion take him.

TBC...