The Hearth and the Light #2
"Morgan and Merlin won't let that happen, but it's true I'd rather it not become an issue at all.
" Their transport came to a stop, and they stepped out onto the platform of City Station 3, also called Fountain Station.
Most stations were underground, but Fountain was one of three that was above ground.
From there, it was only a few blocks to the grimy area known as the Gear-bolt district, where all manner of machinery was manufactured, from mass-production level work to delicate handwork that couldn't be done by machines.
Lancelot pulled up the address they'd been given. "Clockwork street."
"Grade A mechanic, that fits," Dred replied, and led the way out of the station and down the street.
Most watches were made by machines, cheap and easily repaired, used by the working classes to keep track of time in places where they didn't have internet access: mines, high in the mountains, in the depths of thick forests.
Even now Dred wore a watch on their wrist, though it looked to be a fine one, not the cheap one they'd been wearing when Lancelot had first met them in person.
The fine watches were still made by human hands, the work too delicate to be trusted to even the best machines.
Real metal, real gems, real everything, instead of the faux-everything used in cheap watches.
There weren't many places that did such things anymore, not more than two shops in a single city. There was only one in theirs.
Guinevere must be absolutely miserable.
"Here it is," Dred said.
The shop was unremarkable, plain and utilitarian, not like the buildings in shopping and entertainment districts, where they still went to the expense and trouble to make their facades look appealing.
It was a dull gray building on a dull gray street. There was noise everywhere, loud and jarring, from all the machine work, and the hot air was filled with the scent of hot metal, enough to give Lancelot a headache.
Thankfully, inside the shop was cool and quiet, and what it lacked outside it had in abundance inside.
The walls were made of wood paneling, gold and glass sconces filling the space with warm light.
The floor was carpeted except for the tile entrance, and all around were display cases.
Models only, this wasn't the kind of place where you went in and left with your purchase.
You chose your base model, picked out your customizations, and handed over a down payment.
Depending on how busy the shop was, your new watch would be delivered anywhere from within a couple of weeks to several months.
There was also a digital shop, but many people preferred a real-life approach to such purchases. Mostly, Lancelot suspected, the wealthy insisted on it just because they could—and who was going to argue if they were willing to pay?
At the back of the shop was a dark red velvet curtain, and a moment later it was pushed aside as someone stepped through, though by the harried look on her face, she wasn't coming to attend them, but to flee someone else.
Guinevere. She looked polished, sleek and shiny, like a piece of jewelry about to be set into its velvet box.
Unlike Mordred, with his olive skin and dark features, she had sun-kissed white skin and curly red-brown hair, brilliant hazel eyes that captured any who stared into them.
Even now, turned into a cog in the city machine, she retained her long, long hair, though it had been ruthlessly braided and bound into something appropriately confined and bland.
Their brother, Gawain, looked just like her.
She and Gawain were less than two years apart in age, so they'd often been mistaken for twins—and nobody ever believed that Mordred was their brother.
Technically, he was their half-brother, but such things had mattered little back in their day.
They'd grown up together, had their mother's heart of fire, though it manifested differently in all of them.
Mordred was fierce and terrifying to behold, fire in all its rage and glory, indominable in a fight. Gawain was light and hope, guiding people to safety and leading enemies astray. Guinevere was warmth and comfort, the hearth everyone gathered around.
Before Lancelot could greet her, see if she recognized them, another figure followed behind her—and everything went to hell.
White as snow, black as coal, and often covered in fresh blood. Meaner than a pissed off honey badger, but with the stealth of a snake and the patience of a cat.
Maleagant.
They all recognized each other at the very same moment.
Dred snarled and shoved Lancelot out of the way right as Maleagant lunged, fire roaring, filling the room, countering the shadows that Maleagant threw out. Lancelot grabbed a panicking Guinevere and dragged her out of the shop. "Dred! Run! You can't beat him alone!"
They snarled something in reply, but in the roar of fire and the racket outside, Lancelot couldn't make out the words.
So he threw Guinevere over one shoulder and called Merlin as he started running.
"Maleagant was at the shop. Dred is slowing him down.
I don't know where to go. We won't make it to the station before he catches up to us. "
"Fuck," Merlin swore. "On it. Morgan, help Dred!"
Lancelot could just barely hear the instructions Merlin was yelling at him, but thankfully he took control of Lance's chip and projected a map and course for him to follow.
He was panting heavily, and there was a stitch in his side, but if he slowed down, they were as good as dead.
The more distance he could put between them and Maleagant, the better.
Thankfully, in these parts of the city, people knew better than to interfere. A man was hauling a woman and running like his life depended on it? Not their problem. Depressing, but at present, also useful.
Eventually Merlin led him down a narrow alleyway, and up an old, rickety fire escape that shouldn't even still be there. They'd been rendered illegal forever ago and replaced at city cost—where buildings weren't simply torn down altogether.
At the top, Merlin sent him across three roofs, easier said than done with Guinevere shrieking and squirming. By the time Merlin finally told him to stop, shuttered away in a dingy attic that hadn't seen life in at least a couple of decades, Lancelot wanted to fall over and sleep for a week.
"How fucking dare you!" Guinevere howled. "I don't know who the fuck you think—"
"I am Sir Lancelot du Lac, sworn knight of King Arthur, protector of Camelot, son of the Lady of the Lake.
You are Queen Guinevere, and I need you to wake up right the fuck now!
Mordred could very well be dead because they would never give less than their everything to protect you, and if they are still alive, you are the only one right now who can help me save them! "
She stared at him like he was insane, which was fair when she didn't have her memories back. "I don't know who you really are—"
"Wake up!" Lancelot bellowed.
"Let it go for now," Merlin said in his ear. "I've secured transport. In five minutes, go down to the street and get her into the car that'll be pulling up. Put her in it, whatever it takes, and I'll take care of her from there. You need to go after Dred and Gawain."
"Gawain?" Lancelot asked.
"He was in the shop too," Merlin said grimly. "Dred got him out, but they're on the opposite side of the city. Still running. You'll need to get to them. Go downstairs."
"Don't touch me!" Guinevere hissed as he approached, and took a swing at him. Unfortunately for her, Guinevere had never been a fighter. She hadn't been trained for that, and without training, her slight stature did her no favors.
"I'm sorry," he said as he bound her hands and feet. "You're going to kill me later, and I won't try to stop you, but right now I need you safe, so I can go save your brothers."
"I only have one brother! Psychopath!" Guinevere hissed.
Any other day, this situation might have been amusing. Hilarious, even. Right now, he wanted to scream with frustration.
By the time he had her secured, it was time to head downstairs. Moments later, she was in the car and headed to Merlin. His skin crawled to leave her unprotected, but he trusted Merlin, and he was needed elsewhere.
Merlin pulled up the map for him again, and Lancelot was off again, weaving through the city, ever alert for danger, steadily making his way back through downtown and then into one of the 'middling' suburbs, which really just meant 'not quite as wealthy as the really fancy neighborhood' because only the obscenely wealthy could afford to live within the dome, and only they cared enough to start nitpicking net worth from there.
Once he was in that area, the map became superfluous, as all he had to do was follow the smoke.
The trail led him to a community building that overlooked a private park, and he caught glimpses of all kinds of outdoor equipment and furniture as he raced by it and into the fight.
Not Maleagant, which was strange, but one of his sisters. Amphelise, second oldest of his sisters. Following her would be Kinborough, and finally Rohesia, the sister who'd had the sense to abandon her family and all the trouble they caused.
Ethelfleda was the most ruthless of the three who'd stayed with Maleagant, but Amphelise was the meanest, as efficient with her blade as any knight, wielding a nasty sword made for her by Maleagant that grew stronger with blood.
The more blood that covered it, the more powerful it grew.
Thankfully, the effect wasn't permanent, it lapsed with lack of blood—but it was still a dangerous fucking sword.
Lancelot threw himself at her from behind, slamming them both to the ground before rolling away and regaining his feet, kicking away her sword even as she stood. Throwing a hand up, he willed the water in the sprinkler system to obey him, screaming with effort as it worked.