Vortigern's stronghold stood in the north of the British mainland — that very border which in later ages would be called the island of England — adjacent to another non-native isle of Scotland.
Here once ran Hadrian's Wall, built by Romans long ago to keep the barbarians at bay; it was ordered erected by the emperor Hadrian in the heyday when Rome still ruled the province of Britannia, stretching a full hundred kilometers—
but times had changed. With the fall of the Roman Empire and the loss of firm control over the province, the wall that had been built to repel barbarians had, in consequence, become the barbarians' own stronghold.
The Angles from the northern isles of Scotland had erected tribal camps along the wall and used them as staging points to raid south again and again; they also used the same line as a bulwark to resist counterattacks from the south.
Vortigern, the so-called base king of the barbarians, kept his castle upon the highest point of Hadrian's Wall: a white fortress clinging to the peak like a crown. In shape it resembled the holy city of Camelot, though it was neither so vast nor so ancient. Between its craggy white walls one could faintly hear the dragon's roar issuing from the castle's highest tower.
As the source of the north's monstrous power, Vortigern naturally felt the state of those who were nominally his offspring but in truth were only his thralls and familiars. Reports kept coming to him from the scattered Angle tribes across the north: the strangers who had flashed into view and vanished again — Lucan and his party — had slain one great beast after another. One by one, his forces were being bled.
Vortigern grew furious.
And now — at this very moment!
"Damn fools—" the enormous dragon crouched in the lofty hall, silvered streams flowing outward from its center in a continuous spreading gleam.
Unlike when he had intruded upon Camelot and still had to keep a human guise, here in his lair the island-dragon preferred to appear in his truest form—
a hulking creature tens of meters in length, a living echo of the days of myth. Its scales overlay one another like rippling tesserae; each scale bore a natural, iridescent sigil that braided into a blinding brilliance. Golden dragon pupils burned like suns hung in the vault. Its outstretched wings were clouds so thick they seemed to eclipse the sky.
Vortigern's roar alone made the barbarians sent forward to report shudder in place. Those who had once been kings among Angle tribes, and the finest warriors from the northern clans, feared it as if they confronted their tribe's ancient god.
"Go—seize them!" Vortigern ordered.
"?"
—What a joke!
Though trembling and fearful, the barbarian leaders still retained their reason. They knew full well that those who could slay so many monsters in such short order were not foes they could take easily. Vortigern, for his part, was about to fly into rage at their hesitation; he did not truly care whether they could accomplish his order. Though he ruled the tribes, he never saw himself as one of them — the Angles were tools to realize his ambition and appetite.
At that moment, a shaking voice interrupted the white dragon's bellow. A tribal shaman stepped forward and spoke loudly: "Great Chalk King, please spare your anger. Those rebels from the south, having slain so many, will surely come here in the end. You need not move—wait. Let them come to die at your gate."
Vortigern's roar stilled; his dragon eyes narrowed as he fixed his gaze upon the shaman. After a silent beat he split his face into a grin so jagged it might have been a leer of rage.
"Very well!" he said. "Then I shall wait for them here!"
Unlike the situation in Camelot, here he could unleash his full might.
…
[From far off you could already see Hadrian's Wall in the north of Britain, and the sutures of tents set up along it; you could also see, crowning the wall's highest point, the 'white chalk castle'.]
[You were not unfamiliar with the Roman wall: similar frontier ramparts existed not only in Britain but also in the province of Germania — later the German lands — relics of Rome's former strength, walls you had once ridden your Hunnic iron hooves over.]
[You heard Merlin sigh that under Vortigern's rule, these Angle tribes had become something else entirely; before Vortigern, the tribes had been scattered and primitive, rarely forming such tight organization.]
[You, however, knew the Angles were destined to be the people who, in later ages, would occupy this land, the three islands of Britain, and form the nation called England.]
[The Age of Gods would end; the Celts would eventually fade from history—yet that was a millennium hence, far beyond even Merlin's thousand-mile gaze.]
[Regardless—having come here, you had to meet Vortigern again.]
[You had missed your chance at Camelot; now you would seize it.]
[You would fight with magecraft, and with 'martial skill' — at this point your amassed 'arsenal' of combat lore was enough to overwhelm Merlin's sword techniques.]
[But you had no desire to rush blindly. The Angle camp harbored many experts; you needed a careful and complete plan.]
[So tonight you made camp here and rested for a short while.]
A bonfire crackled and flared, scattering sparks up into the bright host of stars above; the campfires dotted along Hadrian's Wall and the scattered Angle encampments looked from a distance like the scales of a giant serpent lit in a trail. Lucan felt his martial repository coalesce in his mind exactly as he had predicted; as the collected techniques of an era approached that threshold of being a true war-art, they would transform.
If he could cross that step, his arsenal would not merely reach a divine threshold — it would become a broadly applicable, counter-specialized combat art able to face men, beasts, and even the planet's fantastical lifeforms such as fairy-beasts. With such universality he already exceeded Merlin's swordwork that flirted with the divine threshold. Going further was only natural.
When Lucan opened his eyes again, he saw a pair of blue eyes looking back at him. Morgan le Fay — the young woman by the fire — stood clear in the glow. She still wore the thin white traveling cloak from earlier; beneath it a dark, form-hugging dress cinched at the waist, fabric clinging to the curves of her slender yet ample form. Under the firelight the gentle rise at her chest showed, breath lifting the cloth in soft motion; her waist pinched in, then flared outward at her hips, the skirt outlining a full, tight curve even as she sat.
Her face retained the fresh innocence of youth, but the hint of the chill beauty she would later manifest showed in her brows and eyes. Her pale gold hair lay on her shoulders, a few strands stirred by the night breeze and brushed the hollow of her collarbone. Her lips were pale and pressed, as if in thought or in waiting; she watched Lucan quietly, not cold, not warm — only simply and plainly gazing at him.
Merlin's figure had vanished — Lucan recalled sending him away to 'gather intelligence'. So here there were only Lucan and Morgan beside the fire. Morgan stared at him and then said softly, "You could crush ants with magic, yet you fuss with lumps of iron like a madman. Why?"
You are a mage. You hold mysteries more potent than mine. Morgan le Fay could not help but feel puzzled; she could not see the point.
"Because every mage has a heart that longs for close combat!" Lucan replied. "Even Merlin has honed swordplay up to the realm of great heroes."
"You're all muscle!" Morgan retorted, embarrassed.
Lucan laughed and teased her without reservation — to be able to joke like that with Camelot's proud and sensitive princess, perhaps only he could. Seeing him laugh, Morgan could not help the corner of her mouth curling. This fellow… it was hard to describe him.
[But when Morgan asked, you told the truth.]
[You spoke of your past, of your teacher Attila — the strongest warrior in the world — and of the end of that life.]
[You told her the tale of Don Quixote from the last days of the knightly age.]
[You described him charging at windmills.]
To pursue one promise with an entire life. Knowing the impossibility, yet still issuing the challenge. That is the spirit of the knight.
[This was the life you wanted to try this once: a different kind of life.]
He had challenged all impossibilities, whether real or illusion.
—Excerpt from The Arthurian Legends: Suo-btai's Song
[When you finished, Morgan was silent for a long time.]
[Only then did you notice that her hand had been gripped tightly without you realizing it.]
[Morgan's eyes closed and she seemed to fall into a deep sleep.]
[You saw through her feigned slumber but did not break it.]
[And so it remained until the next day.]
[And until Merlin's return.]
[He returned not only with news but with the castle in a rage—]
The white dragon reared and smashed ramparts and trees into fragments: "Damn you, Merlin!"
"Lucan! Save me!" Merlin cried out in a panic.