Camelot Enterprise

by GR Griffin

  “We are just as strong,” she stated, surprising the curious child. Her words ignited the fire inside her eyes. “In fact we are stronger. Do you want to know why?” the Child nodded his head instantly, excitedly. “Because we have each other. Strength is not measured by brute force; it is measured by real courage and justice. For to have the strength to do what is right,” she paused, stroking his face compassionately. “That is what divides us from Camelot.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, both finding the love and comfort in each other that they desperately needed. The sun was peaking over the hills timidly, it’s amber glow illuminating Iaonem. The resulting effect was that a golden tint resonated from the earth, sprouting the buds of hope among the resting people. Gwen prayed that when they awoke, the buds would burst forth into marvellous colours, marvellous things. The People would be themselves again; the People would be people again.

  “…Merlin.” Calhoun whispered, breaking Gwen from her thoughts. “I miss Merlin.”

  “Merlin will return.” She replied hastily, confidently; there was a spark of promise in her eyes.

  “How do you know?” he asked wearily, hugging her waist.

  “…Do you doubt it?” She watched him shake his head instantly. Drawing him closer to her, Gwen beamed at the small boy in her arms. “That is why he will return” averting her eyes, she studied the sleeping People affectionately. “He’ll never abandon his people, people who believe in him. He will return and when he does…”

  Gwen gazed back down to Calhoun to find he was fast asleep, his body slowly rising and falling to deep breaths. She felt her own fatigue wash over her body, pulling her into slumber. Recently, Gwen had not slept for many nights, grabbing a few hours wherever possible. Perhaps she ought to try and sleep. There was nothing she could do for anybody right now. Lowering her voice, she sighed.

  “When he does return, everything will change.”

  ♦☼♦

  Léohte landed smoothly on the hill at Merlin’s command, having heard his call from miles away. Her delicate wings folded by her side, eyes latched upon her rider in glee. Studying the silver Wyvern in awe, Merlin reached out and stroked her scales affectionately. The Wyvern cooed in response, leaning closer to the touch. He continued to pet her whilst examining her wing. The tear was still there but as Gilli had predicted, she had become accustomed to the injury, taking it in her stride. It gave Merlin great pleasure to be reunited with his old friend, knowing that she was safe. He was glad he had decided to leave her in Saerion – she would never have escaped the destruction of Ealdor. Very few Wyverns and their riders had survived; Merlin frowned. So many had died, druids and creatures alike.

  The stench of death and trauma had plagued Albion. Even from here, in the Northern Valleys, Merlin could feel that unmistakable twinge of pain, excruciating tug on his weakening magic. Everything was gone, everything that mattered was gone. Yet there was an ounce of hope embedded within him. Sure they couldn’t get it back, but they could make sure that nothing else deteriorated. Merlin remembered Arthur’s words from all those months ago; Camelot Enterprise intended to exploit their natural resources, to save the dying planet they had ruined. Gazing around the vast landscape, picturesque and bewildering, Merlin frowned.

  He’d never ventured this far North before into the Valleys and almost uninhabitable territory. The whole landscape was hilly and jagged, large crevasses slashed into the earth were concealed by the disorientating platforms of land. Many who came here had fallen into the trenches, unable to discern their own distance from them. Hardly any clans settled this far North, the design of the sculpted land was steep and dangerous. But it was perfect conditions for large creatures to dwell, such as a Dragon. An old druid song, aimed to encourage children to play away from the caves, once spoke of the legendary creature and how it supposedly rested here when not ruling the skies:

  Ne Gamnian ein eorðscræf

  Gamnain ein h ërŕan

  Bœe , Dræɡən ein eorðscræf

  Ĥaie néadunga fretan!

  A trace of a smile dusted his lips at the memory of his mother singing this song to he and Will, reaching over to grab them at the end for added effect. It had sure terrified them back then – even if Will was too stubborn to admit it. But the song did have some truth, and it matched the Naiimen folklore of Albion. In the days of the Naiimen, the Dragons would seek refuge with their riders in the sacred Caves, devise plans and pass laws…even the Crystal Caves had been used.Caves.The era of the Naiimen contained many ancient stories, stories that had been forgotten and put the rest for centuries – many were not even written in the Æmryš. In this time of darkness, Merlin could not help but fixate his memory onto a particular story Gaius had recited one night, when he was no more than ten years. The story had spoken of not just one Crystal Cave, but several.

  Merlin continued to doubt the existence of other Caves; it was nothing more than a bedtime story, aimed to appease a child’s restless imagination. For thousands of years the druids had searched, but Ealdor had revealed to harbor the only one. What is that wasn’t true, what if that was why his magic was still breathing, still refusing to perish- no. Attempting to brush the words from his mind, they were perilous words, words he wanted to believe because he needed something to keep him going, Merlin leapt onto Léohte’s back. Swiftly he steered the Wyvern down into the darkness. The further they descended, the darker their surroundings became. To Merlin’s astonishment, they had not yet reached the ground. Conjuring an orb of light, he gasped at the sight before him, ordering Léohte to hover.

  The distinctive druid symbols were carved into the stone. They appeared to be old, ancient. Merlin’s heart swelled in excitement, they fitted the description of Naiimen markings. Nobody had ever seen such extensive markings before; they had only been recorded briefly on a lost manuscript. Nobody really knew that much at all about the Naiimen, or their majestic civilisation. Tales had been passed down through generations, but very little physical evidence remained. Reaching out curiously, he nudged Léohte closer to the stone. One particular symbol caught his eyes. It was an interesting combination of three helixes, bizarrely simple compared to the other symbols, but intriguing nonetheless:

  An abrupt shuffling in the darkness cast his attention from the symbol and back to his whereabouts. Léohte wavered uncomfortably, emitting a groan. It was evident something had startled her. Swallowing-hard, Merlin caressed her coiled horns, hoping that doing so would too console himself. It didn’t, not at all. He knew that sound. It was a menacing sound, he’d heard it once before. Another sound from the darkness sent Léohte nervously beating its wings and soaring back up towards the surface. Her movements were unexpected, and Merlin was unable to hold onto her. He fell off her back, watching her dive into the air whilst he plummeted further into the depths of the crevasse. Panic clouded his system. He had no idea where the bottom was, he could use magic to soften his fall but if it were too early or late – his landing would not be so smooth.

  He clamped his eyes shut. If he was going to die now, like this in the middle of nowhere, he may as well at least try to cast his mind back to happy memories. One face haunted his mind, sapphire eyes and blonde hair. Merlin no longer was able to associate happiness with this face. Opening his eyes, he stared up at the small strip of blue sky; it was almost completely taken over by the stone around him. However, in the small strip of blue sky, some kind of motion took him by surprise. His eyes were unable to focus on it, but the sound of the wind bending against the will of a Wyvern crashed through his ears. He landed with a thud on something scaly, something significantly bigger than expected. Without hesitation, Merlin gripped onto the horns. He found himself surprised once more when he established these horns were remarkably unlike Léohte’s.

  The creature slowed its speed, landing at the bottom of the deep crevasse. As Merlin’s magic whispered a spell to aid his eyes, the creature came into focus. It was Bregurófne, Arthur’s Wyvern. Relief smothered him; he had
feared Bregurófne was dead. Merlin glanced around the dismal, stone structure. There were some remnants of druid symbols. That wasn’t what caught his attention; hanging from the stone – a few meters above on each side – were cream statues. The statue was resplendent and foreboding; there was no question as to what it depicted, confirming Merlin’s suspicions. Dragons. This was once a Dragon haven, a vast underground network hailing tribute to the noble creatures.

  Seconds later, Léohte landed gracefully beside them, she nuzzled Merlin’s hand – it was clearly a gesture of apology for allowing her fear to take hold. Léohte was much younger than Bregurófne; she still had much to learn. Dismounting Bregurófne, Merlin smiled softly at the two Wyverns beside him, incapable of hiding his fondness. They were not going to like his next proposal.

  “Heorðgeneats,” he whispered, beginning to walk down the infinite route the crevasse had laid out for them. “There is something I must do, I understand if you do not wish to follow me.”

  He didn’t need to turn back around to know that the two Wyverns were following him loyally; he could feel their warm breath on his neck, their claws scraping the ground. The further they walked, the more frequent the statues became on the stone. Small embers of fire radiated in the mouths of the statues, creating an orange glow; there was no longer a need for his light source. The orb gently fizzled into oblivion, leaving the Merlin and the two creatures in a warm hue. After minutes of walking like this, in pensive silence and avid curiosity, they reached a small tear in the stone. It was thin and jagged, barely large enough to squeeze a human through. The final Dragon statue was situated beside it, revealing where it would lead. Bravely, Merlin turned to the Wyverns and offered them a small smile.

  “Thank you for joining me this far,” He caringly leant over to them, noticing their concern. “But now I must complete this task alone.”

  Léohte inched closer to Merlin, evidently confused by his statement and unwilling to leave his side. She whimpered, wings flapping in distress. Hushing her strangled cry, he soothingly placed a finger gently on her mouth. Instantly, the Wyvern hushed, bowing its head a little. Crouching over to meet her eyes, Merlin frowned. He had only just been reunited with Léohte, now he had to let her go again.

  “It’ll be okay Léohte,” he forced a smile onto his face, to try and ease her conscience. Then he turned to Bregurófne with a fierce expression. “Fleogan uo Ionem, Fullmægen eist tĥaie.” Pausing he averted from the druid tongue. “I will meet you back there soon.”

  With that Bregurófne, and a reluctant Léohte, took off into the air and flew up the stone crevasse towards the hilly landscape on the surface. Satisfied they were safe and out of harm’s reach, Merlin inhaled a deep breath and dived into the small pathway.

  ♦☼♦

  To enter the passage required stealth and agility. The narrow gap was far smaller than it had looked, rocks stuck out menacingly, creating obstacles. The only way of passing through was sideways, even then the rocks dug into his skin, tugged his clothes. Slipping through, he was propelled into the next part of the tunnel. The gap was uncomfortable, causing him to hold his body in an awkward position, back arched backwards and torso pushed forwards. His arms dangled helplessly, one raised out and the other trapped in the same space as his torso. Panic and fear pelted him at once; he was stuck. Magic couldn’t help him here; these stones were ancient and old. One small rupture could cause the entire natural structure to fall. Gritting his teeth, Merlin squeezed in his muscles – a futile attempt to reduce his body size. Nothing. He tried again whilst tilting his body a little to the left- ah yes. He could feel a slight shift in the space around him. He repeated the motion, exhaling deeply. His back slowly had enough room to straighten. Using this to his advantage, Merlin twisted the rest of his body out.

  The rest of the path ahead was significantly wider, to his relief. He gazed back at what he had just passed; flinching at just how impossible it looked from here. There was no way he was going to be able to make a rapid escape that way if he needed to. From this distance, he could hear a low humming sound. The deep tone resonated through his entire body, creating a buzzing in his ears. Hand outstretched, Merlin continued forwards vigilantly. He had to do this, to prove that Emrys wasn’t a lost symbol; to prove to his people that the end was not nearing. Albion’s golden age was going to begin, the once and future. Blinking back the tears that threatened to crush his demeanor, Merlin sighed. The Once and Future, oh how the Crystals had been so wrong in their predictions.

  He stepped out of the small pathway, into a large cave. The dim glow of magical torches on the exit allowed visibility. Merlin kind of wished it didn’t, because he wasn’t prepared for the sight before him. Perched on a large rock, majestic and mighty, sat the Dragon - the Dragon that had ambushed he and Arthur all those months ago. It was a giant creature, larger than five of six Wyverns combined and bigger than he remembered. Its scales were golden-brown, flickering hypnotically in the dim light. The two wings were drawn into its side. Merlin noticed the length of the sharp talons attached to its feet. The Dragon’s eyes were shut, gesturing it was asleep. Merlin took the opportunity to walk closer.

  “Kilgarrah.” He gasped, too overwhelmed to ensure he hadn’t spoken aloud.

  Instantly, the eyes of the Dragon snapped open, revealing large ochre irises. Kilgarrah raised its posture and without warning unleashed a deafening roar which pushed Merlin to the ground. His ears rang, unable to cope with the strident noise. Then there was fire spewing from its mouth, heading straight towards him. Holding out his palm, Merlin narrowed his eyes. The fire bounced off his hand, never reaching his body. The Dragon continued, intensifying its flamethrower. Still, Merlin held his ground, laughing at the absurdity of what was happening. He was fighting a Dragon, he was here with Kilgarrah. The moment the noble creature stopped its ineffective assault; Merlin met the eternal eyes with confidence. Something inside him began to swell, building its way up to his throat and tearing through his organs. It viciously slashed past his magic, blazing his skin with newfound power. It smothered him completely. Merlin embraced the foreign feeling, surprised at the own ferocity of his voice as words spontaneously flew from his mouth.

  “O Dræɡən!” his voice was deep and low, matching that of the Dragon’s. “Gehlystan min hleoðor,” extending a hand he took another step towards Kilgarrah. “Eald broðor.” At these words, Kilgarrah titled its head curiously. Gazing up at the creature, Merlin’s voice softened, becoming an airy whisper that graced the air. “Car grise áþes.”

  The elongation of the ‘s’ was entrancing and oozed authority. Kilgarrah bowed its head towards Merlin submissively. Eyeing the Dragon before him, Merlin felt his lips twitch in amazement. His father was right. The Dragon was listening to him – but he couldn’t lose focus. There was still so much to be said, losing the attention of Kilgarrah now could sabotage everything. Continuing in the alien language, Merlin grimaced.

  “Domdæg gretan.” Kilgarrah lifted its head in response, meeting those sad eyes. “Forðfor ac sceadu awiergan Aęniän.” Memories of the Pendragon’s treachery flashed through his mind. It angered him greatly, the ferocity deployed previously returned in his voice.

  “Ætgædere Dræɡən, wé sculan hælan úre ğelendë!” his voice echoed through the cave forcefully. “Íc behéfþ eower fullæst, héahgesceaft.”

  The sensation of exerting such power left Merlin’s body tingling, even his magic felt revived and insatiable. He was a Dragonlord! Boldly, he gazed up at the mighty Dragon. All he could do was wait for the creature’s response. Eventually, the Dragon spoke – in English to Merlin’s surprise.

  “How small you are Æmryš,” Kilgarrah mused, chuckling of all things (Merlin did not find any of this amusing at all, pretending not to shudder at the way the Dragon spoke his name in the language of the Old Religion; it sounded too formidable). “For such a great destiny.”

  Destiny, restraining himself from rolling his eyes or signifying exasperation, Merlin st
ared back at Kilgarrah. All he had heard for months was destiny this and destiny that. Right now, he couldn’t care less what destiny supposedly had in store for him. What mattered was restoring faith in the people, uniting a fallen nation and standing up for justice. Kilgarrah appeared to have noticed the fierce determination protruding in the man’s eyes and spoke in a hushed, wise tone.

  “Albion has been gravely wronged, you were right to seek my council.”

  Gazing around the cave, Merlin was incapable of hiding the small twinkle in his eye. Dragon’s were ancient creatures with profound knowledge; Merlin knew that. Kilgarrah being the last of his kind was a rare treasure, brimming with timeless words and wisdom. But Merlin didn’t need the Dragon’s council; he needed the Dragon. Cautiously, he leant towards the large, scaly creature of old.

  “Forgiefanmé,” he began in an almost diffident voice, startling Kilgarrah with his words. The timidity faded almost instantly, mutating into a resolute hiss, because this was important. “Hăbban nic ingehygd œf þisne,” pause. Inhaling a ragged breath, he turned to the Dragon imploringly. “Fliógan eac mé.”

  Now this really did surprise Kilgarrah. Of course the Dragon knew the legends of old – he had been there for many of the epic tales. The time long before the Naiimen, when an unsung hero stepped forth and tamed the first Dragon, he and the Dragon had flown across Albion as one; resurging hope within the Druid clans and giving them something to believe in as darkness threatened to consume the land. There was no greater symbol of resolution and justice than the sight of a Dragonlord riding a Dragon. He knew what Merlin was asking of him.