Merlin's Shadow (22 page)

“Loth,” the king said, tapping his curled fingernail on his rod to get the youth's attention, “the ninth year es upon us … and I begin to feel etts weight.” His accent was definitely Lochlan, Mórganthu thought.

“But where will we get the child?” the young man asked.

The king looked at him, perplexed. “Have none been orphaned in de village?”

“None, father … none of the young ones, I should say.”

“Plenty children are available en de vorld, and so one vill come to us … dey always have. But I vill study de matter afresh, and if none are found, ve can always give a child de … proper qualities. Fetch my charts and books.”

“Yes, father.” The young man bowed and then exited the feasting hall.

And as the image faded, Mórganthu received one more view of the old king, and could see the resemblance … father and son, yes, it was true.

And so the months passed for Mórganthu, lost in thought, deep in spying. Waiting for Vortigern. Waiting.

R
un!” Merlin called, but it was too late. Fifteen warriors surrounded them, all with spears leveled, and Scafta among them.

“I told you they'd set a guard,” Colvarth said.

“So many.” Merlin instinctively dropped his spear. Their was no other choice. Arthur must live, and they must live to free him.

Bedwir hesitated, but then followed Merlin's example.

Scafta snatched up the two spears and stepped up to them, mouth open in awful triumph. His breath smelled like rotten fish, and he pointed both spears at Merlin's chest.

“Thusa back-ive ris am village!” the man screamed. “Now!”

They were marched single file all the way back to the center of the village, where the heaped and dying embers of the great bonfire still burned. When the dead guards were discovered, a great cry rose up among the warriors, and soon all the village was roused.

Necton, at the discovery of Arthur having been taken from his
hut, was furious, but controlled his anger and gave Arthur back to his wife, who sobbed into the child's bare chest.

Ealtain swung his massive fists, struck Caygek down and then Bedwir. Finally, stopping before Merlin, his chest heaved in and out and his lower lip knotted in fury. The veins on his arms throbbed, and he held up a hand to smash Merlin.

Scafta clicked his tongue, and Ealtain jerked his head around. Scafta stepped over, his massive ball of hair looking more scraggly than normal, and whispered in the chieftain's ear.

Ealtain smiled and shouted for everyone to back up.

Merlin backed up too, but Ealtain grabbed his tunic and pulled him to the center.

“Given-sa ris Scafta Merlin is, air escape, that airson killed-ar might be. Thusa say-idh yiu air him yiur curses!”

Merlin didn't understand this exactly, but could tell it was serious by the whiteness and shock that came over Colvarth's face.

Scafta stepped into the ring holding a spear. But not just any spear: a jagged, wicked-looking thing with a collar of what looked like human hair tied on just beyond the black tip. The shaft was stained with blood and gore, as if it had already been used that night to gut someone. That was when Merlin noticed a sharp iron hook on the other end.

Merlin was weaponless.

Ealtain sneered and then stepped to the edge of the ring of yelling, angry Picts.

Garth peeked out behind Ealtain's elbow with his eyes squinted and his jaw set. Natalenya stood behind him, her white fingers gripping the boy's shoulder.

Scafta advanced, the spear end jabbing toward Merlin's throat.

Merlin backed up, but there wasn't far to go before he'd —

Something hit his ankles hard, and his legs flew out from underneath him. He fell to the hard-packed dirt, and his head spun. A three-foot log lay under his feet that someone had rolled out to trip him.

The crowd erupted in laughter, as Scafta jabbed the ground repeatedly just inches from Merlin's arms, chest, and head.

Merlin sat up, dazed, then quickly got to his feet. Where had Scafta gone?

The back of Merlin's tunic ripped, and Scafta laughed as he waved the cloth he had cut like a flag of triumph.

Merlin jumped away and spun, only to find the iron hook around his right ankle.

Scafta pulled.

The world turned sideways as Merlin fell again, this time hard on his shoulder.

Scafta flipped to the spear end and stabbed it downward.

Merlin rolled, feeling the dirt crumble on his cheeks and hearing the crunch of the spear only inches from his side. Kicking Scafta's leg, he yelled, rolled again, and stood to a crouch.

The Picts cheered Scafta on, now even louder.

Merlin snarled.

Scafta backed away, a wicked grin on his face. Letting go of the spear with his right hand, he reached to his scraggly set of necklaces and yanked off a small, leather bag.

With the spear off kilter, Merlin leapt and threw a punch right at Scafta's fleshy nose.

But the witch doctor backed up and threw the contents of the bag in Merlin's face.

It was dust — blinding, choking dust. Merlin's swing missed, and he almost fell. His eyes stung, and he tried wiping the dust off his face with his sleeve, but it was no use. He tried to open his eyes to see where that brutal man stood, but he only saw smears of light, shadow, and his own bitter, blinding tears.

Merlin heard a footfall, and he turned toward it, but then he heard another from behind, and he spun in that direction. Where was Scafta? Laughter swirled around him as he groped and swung toward every sound.

Merlin tensed his body to be skewered, for Scafta would gut him
at any moment. He wanted to raise his hands, give up, and end it. End it all. They would all die. He had failed them. There was nothing he could do to defend himself.

Or could he? A calm fell over him, faint at first, but then stronger — a sureness, a confidence, a normalcy — even in his temporary blindness. Seven years he had been blind. He had fought Rondroc blind. He had fought Connek blind. He had fought the giant warrior blind. He had fought Mórganthu blind. He had driven the sword into the Stone — again, blind.

He closed his stinging eyes, ignored their pain as best he could, and focused. He crouched. He yelled at Scafta with all his breath, venting his anger, and trying to scare him. A hush fell over the Picts. Time slowed. He listened with every skill he had ever learned, turning his head back and forth to locate any sound of Scafta.

A scuffing. Beside him. To his right. One pace away. A brief chuckle of derision. Scafta was righthanded, wasn't he? The spear, with its hook on the end, couldn't be turned as quickly. Scafta wouldn't suspect —

Merlin lunged, reaching for the spear … and touched the wood with his right hand.

Scafta jerked it up … directly into Merlin's left hand. He grabbed it.

Scafta tried to gore him with the hook, and the sharp tip jabbed into Merlin's belt and cut into his hip — but it was caught there, allowing Merlin to seize the shaft with his right hand as well. He yanked the hook free from his belt, stopping it from cutting any deeper.

The two fought for mastery over the spear and rammed heads twice. The awful smell of Scafta's ratted hair almost made Merlin retch.

Making a small trench in the soft ground with his bare feet, he shoved as hard as he could. Scafta stepped back, and fell, pulling Merlin with him. As he dropped forward, Merlin's shin hit the log that had been rolled out earlier — Scafta had tripped over it, and was momentarily stunned.

Merlin pushed the spear down with all his weight, and he shoved it onto Scafta's bare neck. The witch doctor gurgled in anger, and even tried to spit on Merlin, but he wouldn't let go.

Merlin heard something near Scafta's head, and then the witch doctor began screaming as if Merlin was killing him.

“Hold him still,” came a voice. A boy's voice. It was Garth!

Scafta kept screaming and began to buck wildly. Merlin had a hard time holding him.

“Almost done!”

Scafta's strength increased, and the man lifted the spear off of his neck. Merlin kneed him, and the spear dropped back down, yet Scafta screamed all the more.

What was the boy doing? Merlin's vision was clearing, but not enough to see. He heard a strange noise, like ripping wool.

“Done!” Garth yelled, and Merlin heard him jump up. “Let him go!”

Scafta went limp, yet Merlin could tell he hadn't passed out.

Merlin dropped back to his haunches and stood, taking the spear with him in case Scafta attacked. His full sight had began to return, and he wiped his eyes again. Scafta still lay on the ground, but something about him looked odd. Merlin turned to Garth, who stood above the witch doctor — holding the man's huge knot of hair!

“ ‘Always sharp yer knives'
is me new motto!” Garth said as he brandished a long cooking knife in the other hand, which, Merlin surmised, he must have hidden in his waistband. Colvarth, standing behind Garth, was pursing his lips in a silent whistle and he tried to look innoncent of the matter.

A shorn Scafta rose up, looked at the crowd of astonished Picts, and ran away yelling. It was awful, like a rabid lynx shrieking to escape a vat of boiling water. He pulled at his short, scraggly hair, shaking his head, and jerking his arms up and down as he ran off into the woods.

Ealtain pounced into the ring, brandishing his own spear, which was longer than Merlin's. His lip twitched as he yelled a battle cry.

Merlin had just enough time to deflect the thrust and step to the side.

Ealtain swung, and Merlin ducked.

Merlin countered by jabbing the hook end at Ealtain's leg, but the big man grabbed Merlin's spear and yanked it out of his hands.

So quick, and Merlin was defenseless again. He prepared himself for the inevitable.

But Ealtain screamed and stuck his chest out as a spear point came ripping through his gut. Blood rushed down his legs, and he fell to his knees. He looked down at the spear and tried to turn to face his killer, but the shaft of the spear prevented it, and he fell.

Necton stood behind him, his teeth clenched and his head shaking while he pulled the spear from the dying man.

Merlin backed up and Colvarth pulled him close, whispering, “The Picts have a saying:
‘Fallen the bard — fallen shall the chieftain be.'
Necton has now slain his father's killer. And you and Garth have made it possible.”

“Necton! Necton mac Erip!”
the people shouted as one, hailing their new chieftain, who had just taken Merlin's old torc from Ealtain's neck and put it on his own, so that now he wore two torcs.

Suddenly, a skirling was heard from the right, and there, upon a small hill beside the lake, all alone, stood Garth playing a happy tune on his bagpipe. And he wore, balanced upon his head, the bulbous hair of Scafta.

Merlin almost laughed.

The people gathered around Garth — slave and Pict alike — and the boy played until they were all present and staring at him — this strange being in their midst.

After a big mouthful of air, he addressed the people — and not in the language of Kernow and Kembry — but in a halting sort of Pictish, which when translated, went something like this:

“Good people of
Tauchen-Twilloch
, hear me! With the help of my God, this day I have sent away your witch doctor in shame — expelled your priest in disgrace.”

The people looked on him in awe. Even Necton had his mouth open.

“No more do you need to sacrifice your animals and dance to the Sun. It shines upon you strong and bright even now, and my God promises that its cycles of warmth and cold will not fail you, or your crops, or your children's children for as long as your village may last.”

It looked like he wanted to say more, but couldn't think of anything else. So he put his blowpipe to his mouth and started playing again.

The people looked at him, smiles on their faces, and the Pictish women started chanting
“Mungo! Mungo! Mungo!”
And the others joined in, picked him up, carried him to Scafta's hut, and bade him enter and live there.

It was a wonder to behold, for everyone was overjoyed to see Scafta go, and though they didn't know what exactly to do with Garth, they honored him for his feat.
“Mungo! Mungo!”
they shouted, and the Pictish grandmothers pinched his cheeks, thinner though they had become, until he blushed.

Merlin stepped up to Colvarth and asked him what the word meant.

“It means
‘dear sweet one.'
I think that's his name now, at least among the Picts.”

With a bit of ceremony, Garth threw Scafta's hair into the burning Samhain embers, and its odor filled the village. “I thought it smelled bad before,” he said, holding his nose. Soon, though, the wind blew the stink away, and everyone felt relief — Pict and slave alike.

W
ith Scafta gone, the elderly began asking Garth for help healing their sicknesses. The mothers had him bless their children. The shepherds sought his advice for how to care for their cattle. But mostly he liked to help the fishermen, showing them what he knew from growing up on the Kembry Sea.

In all this, Merlin shook his head in amazement, seeing Garth not just as an orphan who'd lived at an abbey and now was a slave — but as a sort of missionary among these people. He prayed over them and taught them what he knew from scriptures he'd memorized. He even instructed a group of the younger Picts to sing a few psalms.

Of course, there were benefits to all this; the most important to Garth was that his cheeks were rarely absent a morsel or two offered from the Picts' hearths. But he also helped the slaves, imploring their masters to let those who were injured to rest. And in all this he had freedom to move as he willed without his slave collar.

And Merlin began to see a different side to the Picts. They could be generous, even loving. They laughed and played games. The people sang and danced, celebrated and mourned together. None of their own people starved. The wives cared for their young, provided for their families, and kept their homes warm and clean. The fathers watched over their children, taught them how to survive, provided food to eat, and built their homes strong and tight.

Every Pict worked hard, from the oldest to the youngest. Despite having slaves to work the fields, there was plenty for the Picts to do: hunting, fishing, smoking meat, pelt-making for boots and cloaks, spinning wool with rock and reel, weaving, repairing shelters to house their animals, stowing their boats for the winter, blacksmithing, making baskets, furniture building, creating useful things out of antlers and horns. And that was besides the crafts and artistic things they created: bead-making, pottery, embroidered hats, along with silver and gold-smithing.

Sure, they were pagan, but hadn't the people of Bosventor been pagan just a generation or two ago? Could these people change as well, Merlin wondered, and turn away from superstition?

But it was hard to accept these things, and he didn't swallow them easily, for he and the others had been made slaves again. Garth was revered, sure, and Scafta was gone, along with Ealtain's tyranny. But that didn't change their future prospects.

In this way another cycle of the moon passed, the nights grew cold, and then the hammer fell, confirming all of Merlin's suspicions.

Despite what Garth had done, they were all to be sold to Pictish tribes farther up in the highlands. Those tribes couldn't raid as easily as Necton's, who lived on the border, and they would pay gold, silver, gems, and other precious things, including cattle, for the chance to own slaves who would work their land.

Apparently, this was the pattern: The border tribes would raid and find new slaves, work them, and then trade them north before winter. In this way, the slaves found themselves farther and farther
from home, working until they died — and the pattern would repeat itself.

Garth did everything he could to stop it, but the Picts were unbending. The slaves were thought of as cattle, and they wouldn't even consider losing their profit from selling them. When pressed too hard, Necton even slashed Garth on the forehead and threatened to put his slave collar back on, tighter, if he wouldn't stop in his demands.

Merlin's spirits fell. Not only was freedom impossible with an ever watchful and strengthened guard, but they would be separated from Arthur. As the weather turned drab, and the day of their departure approached, Merlin descended into a deep sadness.

Colvarth tried to talk to him, but Merlin ignored him, preferring instead to stare into the burnt remains of yesterday's fire and the ashes that had become his life.

Finally, the bard kicked him. “Awake, thou son of a mushroom!”

Merlin jumped up and grabbed Colvarth by the shoulders. He wanted to shake him, but stopped himself when he saw the man was smiling.

“What?” Merlin said. “Out with it.”

“There is hope.”

“Hah.”

“There is always hope. Garth has, with my help, negotiated where we will be sold.”

“I don't want to hear it.”

“But —”

Merlin yelled. “I said
I don't want to hear it
.”

“You don't, hmmm? Then hear a word from Isaiah mab Amoz:

Colvarth hesitated, and when Merlin chose not to look up, he walked away.

The next day the journey began for Necton's slaves. He took an escort of ten spear-wielding Picts, and, curiously, his wife Gormla came along on horseback, carrying Arthur in her arms.

Natalenya was provided for, thanks to Garth, who had borrowed a donkey from a Pictish grandmother, with the condition that an old blanket lay between Natalenya and the beast, something she was more than willing to do. Riding was still a trial, however, for the boils on her legs hurt terribly, and by the end of each day's march, she could barely hang on to the donkey's neck.

Necton brought two other donkeys for carrying food, a tent, and the plunder from his raiding that he wished to sell. To make the journey faster, each slave was chained to the same partner they'd been with during their labors: Caygek with Peredur — and Merlin with Bedwir.

When they left, all the people gathered to see Garth off, and the people shouted,
“Mungo! Mungo! Mungo!”
as he passed, and he received more kisses and pinches that morning than Merlin thought the boy could bear. Garth had been given the choice of staying or going, and though he chose to go with Merlin and the others, he was overheard saying he'd like to come back one day and help these people. He also was allowed the privilege of not having a slave collar, leaving Colvarth unchained, but still with his collar on. Necton wasn't worried about the old man with the harp.

But what was the use? For Merlin, it was awful — worse than even their original slave-taking, for it sealed their fate and meant
escape would be nearly impossible. He marched with the others, head down, keeping the tears at bay. Plodding and plodding. Foot over foot. Mile after painful mile. Bedwir tried to talk with him, but Merlin ignored him. It wasn't until they came to the Antonine Wall that Merlin realized they had been going south rather than north.

“What?” he exclaimed as the moss and vine covered ruins appeared over the hill.

Peredur slapped him on the back. “Where'd you think we were going?”

“To the highlands.”

“Well, you're wrong.” He gave a nod and walked on.

Merlin jogged to keep up. Bedwir matched his pace to keep the chain from swinging.

“Where
are
we going?” Merlin asked.

Peredur grinned. “Ask Colvarth.”

The bard was at the front of the group, and Merlin and Bedwir had to catch up with him. Colvarth turned when he heard Merlin coming, amusement in his eyes. Merlin was huffing, but he managed to say between breaths, “You didn't tell me.”

“You didn't listen. Necton has finally agreed to sell us as slaves to King Atleuthun.”

“Finally?”

“Ah, but Necton didn't want to go. It seems Atle has been a harsh bargainer in the past.”

“But King Atle? Why did you —”

“What did you expect? We told Necton you were the king's grandson, and that he would pay handsomely for you. And so we owe a great thanks to Gormla. With the expected reward, she wants to visit their market, and so she was the one who convinced Necton.”

Merlin had to think about this. “But —”

“Yes, it is true, Atle knows nothing about you, but hopefully I can convince him of your parentage. Leave it to me.”

“If Atle
doesn't
consider me his grandson, then Necton will be furious —”

“Shush … do not say that so loud.”

“— and if Atle
does
consider me his grandson, then Atle himself will be furious. He tried to kill my mother!”

“Perhaps he has softened.”

“Perhaps!? You're betting our lives on a
perhaps
? This might be worse than if we'd been sold north.”

Colvarth strummed his harp, held tight in his other hand. “Tsk.”

Merlin and the others marched nearly twenty-five leagues over the hills and across the lands of the Guotodin, and no one harassed them. Arthur took in all the sights quietly, sometimes riding on Garth's shoulders or hanging from Bedwir's arms. One night they stopped near the outskirts of Dineidean, a major hill fort in the region, but did not enter. The land to the east grew flatter under their feet and the forests thicker beside them until one morning at sunrise they at last spied Dinpelder in the distance — a strange hump of rock rising from the woods like the back of a gigantic boar.

But Merlin had been fooled by what he thought was just another hill. It took far longer to reach its base than he expected, and when they arrived, he opened his mouth in awe and craned his neck. Everything else lay relatively flat for as far as the eye could see, but here stood this massive rock jutting out from the earth and towering over him … one hundred and fifty feet, if not more. It was similar in width and breadth to the Meneth Gellik mountain at home but was shaped more like a flat bulge with sheer sides. The stone was different too; not the hard granite of home, but rather a gray stone flecked with white, which turned brown when weathered. Scraggly grass and mosses covered the hill, with pines and oaks clinging to its dangerous drop-offs. A wide path wound its way up the western side, leading to a fortress at the top that had been built of earthworks, timber, and stone — thick and strong as the mountain itself.

As Merlin followed Necton and the others, he cast wide eyes at the serrated cliffs. His mother had been thrown off one of these
when King Atle had discovered she'd become a Christian. God had saved her miraculously, sure, and without injury — but King Atle's anger wasn't sated, for he then tried to drown her by tying her in the bottom of a leaky boat as the tide let out. And there it was — the ocean — only half of a league to the northeast where a river emptied past a village and its crowd of boats.

And on that second attempt upon her life, Merlin's father, Owain, had saved her by braving the arrows of Atle's warriors and swimming out, plugging the leak, and sailing away.

Merlin had been told this tale of his parent's courtship only six months ago, before his father died, and here the story was, coming to life before his very eyes. He could picture it all … including Uther's wrath at Owain for abandoning him on the eve of battle.

And now Merlin was here, and quite possibly about to meet his grandfather for the first time. A chill ocean breeze burst across the path, smelling of salt and filled with blowing flakes of snow. Merlin and the others hunched against the cliff face until the gusts died away.

Soon they came to the open gate, and it towered above Merlin — planed wood and banded iron at least ten feet tall and a foot thick. The guards were neither dressed like Britons nor like Picts. Each wore a roundish, hill-shaped helm engraved with coiling sea serpents. The guards' armor was made from overlapped bronze scales, each molded like a salmon diving into the water. And the leather work — gloves, greaves, and boots — had all been dyed to a green reminiscent of the sea. At each of their black belts was tucked a long, curved axe, and Merlin didn't doubt that each man knew how to use it.

But there was trouble gaining entrance. Necton explained his errand to the chief of the guards while he pointed at Merlin.

The guard shook his head.

Banging the butt of his spear repeatedly on the ground, Necton said it again.

The guard backed up, and ten more appeared at the doorway brandishing their axes.

Colvarth stepped between the two groups and held up his hands. “Let me explain,” he said. “I declare before you the son of Gwevian myr Atleuthun. She was lost to your sovereign many years ago, but now her son has returned.”

“Gwevian?” the front guard said, his thick, red moustache puffing out with the word.

The man's accent was one that Merlin had not heard before … or had he? There was something similar in the way that one word was vocalized to the way his mother spoke.

The front guard consulted another of his kind, and soon both of their eyes lit up.
“Theneva!”
they said, turning back to Colvarth and Necton. “Sure, an we hae heard o' the lass.”

“Then I suggest you do not keep your lord waiting, since his grandson stands before you.”

“I'm named Digon,” the red-moustached guard said, “and I'll bring yer message tae the king.” He turned and ran up the stone walkway. The other men stood at the ready with their axes, eyeing Necton and his warriors.

While Merlin and the others waited, huddling in the cold wind, Garth passed around some oatcakes and a little water. Merlin felt better for it, and he could tell by the way Natalenya ate hers that she welcomed it as well.

When the food was gone, and the guard still had not returned, Necton began sharpening his spear with a smooth rock he found on the path. The other Pictish warriors did the same, all the time eyeing Atle's men and their axes.

The gusts blew with a vengeance, and a deep chill set in Merlin's bones.

Finally, Digon returned. He had brought twenty more men, all dressed the same.

Necton leapt up and raised his spear, a snarl on his lips.

But Digon held up his hand. “The king hae requested an audience with ye, but first ye must set aside yer spears an other sich weapons.”