Merlin's Shadow (35 page)

“But why?” Ganieda asked, wishing she could view the sword again and glimpse the end of the battle. His hand was tight across her face and chilled her eyes.

“Drink now, and be filled!”

She heard the dark liquid glop toward her lips, and some of it splashed her cheek. It burned, and she flinched away.

The Voice let go of her eyes, seized her hair tightly in one hand, the horn in the other, and forced it to her lips. She wanted to scream as he decanted the black stuff into her mouth, for it burned her tongue like embers, smoking the roof of her mouth and setting her gums, teeth, and throat on fire.

All of it went down. Burning. Filling her insides with a fire that could not be doused. Then the Voice threw her to the ground, and she wept as flames poured from her mouth.

“Bow and worship, my servant, for this blaze shall keep your body alive in the coldness of the world, and it will burn in your soul too, until all you desire is my will.”

She yelled as her clothing began to smoke. The last thing she remembered was his laughter echoing through the room.

Merlin fell to his knees, wiping the tears from his stinging eyes. He had stayed so long looking for his friend that he knew the boy couldn't have survived. Garth was dead. And if Merlin didn't go and join the others soon, he'd be dead too, for the arctic wind had picked up and his arms and legs had begun to go numb despite the uncontrollable shaking that wracked his body. But he didn't want to go. He felt like a traitor.

If only Garth's body would wash up on shore, he could at least say good-bye — but the waves had cheated him of that. If only he could see Garth's smile once more. If only he could hear the boy's bagpipe once more. If only —

A sound, distant yet distinct, floated upon the wind.

A bagpipe.

Merlin jumped up and listened. It seemed to come from the cliff top. He picked his way upward using the path the others had found. About halfway, he had to scale a four-foot cliff, and he scraped his shins raw trying to get up.

At the top stood Bedwir, Peredur, Caygek, and Kensa. And situated in the middle was a wet and bedraggled bagpipe player with a wet and bedraggled bagpipe, pumping his arms and making the most beautiful, warbling music.

Merlin ran, picked Garth up in a hug, squeaking the bagpipe. “How'd you survive?”

Garth slipped from the embrace, righted the single drone upon his shoulder, and stood up perfectly straight. “A bagpiper can always survive a dunkin'. You just twist yer pipes tight, fill up yer bag with air — and float.”

“But where were you?”

“I never went under, and the waves washed me farther over where walkin' up was easy. I saw you all made it, and went scoutin' for help. There's a farmstead over the next hill.” His teeth were chattering.

Without any more words, he led them toward it, and Merlin's feet nearly became blocks of ice by the time they arrived. The farmhouse had been built using a different construction than Merlin had ever seen. Its shape formed a two-story triangle, with the thatch roof starting from the ground on each side and rising up to a sharp point.

Nearby lay a tightly built barn of similar construction, surrounded by rock walls that meandered around the land apparently to keep animals in — but none were present.

Kensa knocked on the broad door.

No one answered, and no light could be seen inside.

Bedwir stepped up and banged it. “Open up! We need help …”

After a long time, and more banging, a man's voice called from above in a language Merlin didn't understand. There was a little triangular window at the very top, and whoever it was looked down upon them from there. Kensa answered back, and the two argued
for awhile. Finally, the man climbed from his perch, and they could hear him approaching the door.

“De name o' Sveinrod Kjaringoy, and he haf a family who try to sleep,” she said. “I's tellin' him about de vreck, I's did, so he knows it.”

The man opened the door, eyed them all suspiciously, and grudgingly let them in. He wore a rough woolen tunic with the stitched images of pines, hunters with spears, and an odd type of deer. He stoked the hearthfire and handed around cups of a strange drink that stung Merlin's nose, but otherwise warmed him. It was good to be out of the cold, and even better to sit next to Garth. He took off his boots and stretched his feet toward the fire. It felt so good that it hurt.

Kensa asked the man for something to eat and gave him a few coins, which the man studied curiously. He found some old bread and passed it around. The crust hurt Merlin's teeth, but he devoured it voraciously. Anything was better than herring day after day.

The man sat up with them for an hour while they continued to eat, dried their clothes as best they could, and drank more of his warming liquid. And he asked Kensa lots of questions, often giving dark glances at the group, especially Merlin. But time wore on, and the man finally stood and motioned them toward the door.

“Ve's to sleep in de barn,” Kensa told them while she put on her hat once again.

So what if the barn wasn't clean? At least it was warmer than Merlin had expected, what with all the shaggy cows and sheep to warm the place up. Either way, he felt the blessing of just being out of the cold air, having a full stomach, and having the stinging eased in his feet. He covered himself in hay and slept.

Before he knew it, Sveinrod and his wife came to them with warm, roasted eggs and a thin milk that tasted like cheese. Like before, it was always dark outside, but for some reason they seemed to think it was day. What an awful thing to live in such a land without the sun.

Thankfully, Kensa still had a good supply of coins left from which to pay them, for Merlin had given all of his to Aulaf for the boat. During their meal, Merlin asked questions of their hosts, using Kensa as an interpreter.

“We are looking for a temple. The temple of Atleuthun. Do you know it?”

Sveinrod pursed his lips before answering. Kensa translated the man's strange language. “No, ve don't know it.”

“It should be near here. Surely there is a temple you know about?”

Sveinrod looked to his wife, who glared at him. “No, ve don't know of a temple.”

His wife slapped him lightly and then spoke herself. “I am Berghild Egilsdatter. Ve an' our children live in peace here in Kjaringoy, andd vish de spirits nott to trouble us, nor our stock, nor our liddle parcel o' grain. I vant to ask — why do ye seek dis temple?”

“A child has been taken from us. Taken there by this Atleuthun, a king. We've come to take the child back with us to safety.”

When they heard this news, the woman and her husband spoke at length, the husband getting more and more agitated. Finally, he turned to Merlin and said, “Ve don't know o' a temple. Leave us andd do nott trouble us more.”

But the wife spoke up again, her nostrils flared. Kensa gladly translated. “Do nott listen to dis liar. He does nott vant to say it, but der is a temple. On der island, vay up de
hoven
— a sacred mountain to some — which we call de
mara-hoven
. Long ago der was a great city at etts base, but de vaves rose and vashed it up. De winds shattered de temple too, an' der are only ruins now. Ett es a dark place, with savage people living about who gather victims efery ninth year. None come back, ett es said. Do nott go der or ye will die.”

“But we must. Do you know the way?”

“Ett es nott close. Ten leagues ett es, ofer land andd sea, andd our family's boat es a liddle thing, nott big enough for de lot o' you. De nearest farm with a bigg boat vould be a day's march by yer feet,
andd den anither part o' a day at sea after dat. But ya must hurry, for de men der will go back to der farms very soon.”

Almost two days to get there? That far? And they would need at least a day to gather their strength before setting out. If only they hadn't fallen asleep on the boat and sunk. He looked around, and all of them had been weakened by their voyage and capsize, especially Peredur, who'd had no cloak, and Caygek, who'd been the longest in the water.

Merlin went to the barn door and opened it a crack, hoping the clouds had cleared enough to see the moon. And it was there, laying on its white side with a thin, mocking sneer. Not much of it could still be seen, so at most they had two, maybe three days before Atle sacrificed Arthur.

Time was running out.

M
erlin and the others rested that day, attempting to recover for the journey ahead. If his own strength had allowed it, Merlin would have set out right away, but it was not to be. Sveinrod allowed them back into the house during that time, and the fire did wonders to revive them.

All, that is, except for Caygek, for he sat glumly at the corner of the hearth and did little more than nod when food or drink was passed to him. For his own part, Merlin left him alone, letting the man sit and think — for something was clearly bothering him.

Merlin himself spent the time sharpening a short blade Garth had tucked in his belt before their boat capsized. A smooth rock was all he had to do it with, but the scraping motion — back and forth, smoothing and sharpening — comforted him as he prepared his mind for action. He would kill Atle if he could, and he imagined skewering the old man with every stroke of the rock.

Sveinrod and his wife fed them well, for Kensa's coins helped
loosen the door of their larder. Creamy cheeses, white and rich. Flatbreads rolled out and baked before their eyes. Ground meats, intestine-cased and broiled. Pickled apples, tart and joyous on the tongue. It was a heartening feast for all of them, especially Garth, who received extra portions from Kensa — along with a few tugs to his ruddy hair.

That night in the barn, Merlin could hardly sleep despite his tiredness — for while they had all fattened up, the moon had gotten thinner.

When he could stand waiting no longer, he woke the others up.

“But it's still night,” Garth protested.

“It's always night. Get up!”

“Lemme sleep.”

Merlin didn't, and soon they were all shaking the hay from their cloaks and putting on their boots. And kindly Kensa had purchased a cloak for Peredur … Oh, what would they have done without her help? Merlin, all of them, would have been complete beggars in this strange, dark land, and probably would have ended up as slaves under masters worse than the Picts.

Caygek had bought a spear from Sveinrod, for he still had his money from before. Bedwir also had his blade, so that made three of them with weapons. Against how many? Merlin would have to wait to find out.

For their journey, they had bought some smoked venison from Berghild, enough to last two days. They had only three waterskins, but she assured them they could eat the snow.

Merlin rolled up the leather map Sveinrod had drawn with a burning stick and stuffed it in his bag. They were to follow a ridge of pines until they came to a road where they would turn left. The road would take them to the great farm of Ulfsvag, where men had gathered for a short fishing season and were smoking the fish before returning to their own scattered farms. Hopefully, they could hire someone to boat them across the bay to the island where the temple stood.

Their hoods up and their cloaks pulled tightly about them, they set off across the snowy landscape. What Merlin would have done for a little sunshine to warm his back! But then the words of Abbot Prontwon — whom Merlin had known in Kernow, and who had battled against the Stone as well — came back to him. The man had been teaching Merlin to trust in God despite his blindness, and Merlin recalled the scripture he quoted from one of the prophets:

But he found no comfort in the distant memory, and the darkness oppressed him, his thoughts turning gloomy as the endless night trudged onward. Even finding the road heading north didn't raise his spirits. What was happening to Arthur? How could Merlin have let him be taken? What kind of a fool was he? The lowest of fools. For Arthur was so little. Defenseless. What would Uther and Igerna have thought of his stewardship? Of his oath to protect their son?

And what was King Atle up to? Something far stronger than just his religious beliefs must have goaded the man to sail this far with Arthur.

They kept plodding, and it was hard going, for the land was filled with mountains, and the snow was deep. Twice they lost the road altogether and had to double back to find where they had gone astray. When the lighted windows of the farm finally appeared in the distance, Merlin wanted to run to it, but his feet were so numb he could hardly pick them up to walk.

At last they arrived at the farm, which was the equivalent of a very small village, with six buildings and three barns. Kensa knocked on the door of the nearest and spoke with a fair-haired woman wrapped in a broad, black fur. At first she was suspicious of them, but when she heard that Sveinrod and Berghilde had sent them, she welcomed them hesitantly.

Merlin slapped as much snow and ice as he could from his cloak, breeches, and boots before entering. Sitting before the woman's hearth was welcome indeed, and she passed them all cups of hot, soothing milk mixed with a local pungent spice that Merlin didn't recognize.

“Torsten, me husband, ess out chopping vood fer de fish smoking,” Kensa translated for her, “andd he'll be back in a stitch. Now Which o' Odin's raven's has flown ye here from such a far land? Andd vat do ye vant?”

He paused, not wanting to scare her. “We want to hire men to take us across the bay.”

She backed up against the brick wall and grabbed a poker. “Are ye one of dem Marachlans? If so, I'll —”

“Who?”

“De
Mara-Hoven
people —”

“No —”

“Den what ferr?” she said, letting her poker down.

“We need to go there, but we're not one of them.”

She looked at him darkly, and her eyes traced the scars that crossed his face. “Och, andd what ferr? I von't ask again, so tell me straight if ye vant our help. Ve're nott a people fer trifling.”

Merlin swallowed. “We need to get to the temple. They've taken a child from us, a very special one, and we need to rescue him.”

Kensa looked a little peculiar before she translated this.

“I was afraid o' such,” the woman said, shaking her poker at him to warn him away. “Ye'll haf to exchange vits w' Jarl Lhudvig about ett. He's de owner o' de whole farm.”

Torsten came back soon. A broad man with thick arms, he was as wary of strangers as his hanging, braided moustache was long. His wife explained the situation to him, and then told Kensa that Torsten would take them to the Jarl.

Torsten found his spear and then escorted them through the farm.

Merlin became concerned, however, when Torsten knocked on
every door — and gathered a man or two to join them, each of which brought along a sword or spear. Finally, with eight men surrounding their party, Torsten led them to the biggest house of the farm, set on a hillock of snow and stones. Torsten knocked.

When the Jarl answered, Merlin had to take a second look. He hadn't seen anyone as big and strong as the Jarl since he'd fought a giant in the smithy. A full head taller than Merlin, he had a brown beard that hung down in great hairy curls to his chest.

He eyed them all suspiciously, and Merlin most of all. He took a step forward, slammed his fist on the doorframe, and interrogated Torsten before allowing them in.

The dwelling was much like Torsten's but larger. The hearthfire needed a new log, and the dim light barely illuminated the room. Merlin squinted his eyes to orient himself as everyone shuffled in. A table appeared before him, full of fishbones, and Torsten shoved Merlin down onto a bench. Kensa slid next to him, her drooping, purple hat looking sad in the faint light.

On the left wall hung the skulls of bears, various horned deer, and huge, fanged cats. One of the creatures had the broadest antlers he'd ever seen … five feet of sharp points with the ends shaped like clawed paddles.

But the right wall took Merlin's breath away. Upon it hung the jawless skulls of fifteen men, some with cracks and holes bashed into their craniums. That was when Merlin noticed that the Jarl had a large war hammer leaning against the wall behind him.

The big man took a seat across from them, the bench complaining under his weight. Torsten sat next to him. The exit behind was blocked by the men. The Jarl spoke first, and Kensa translated for everyone. “So. I am telled o' yer rudeness. Ye vish us to row ye to
Mara-Hoven
Isle across de bay. Es dis de truth?”

Merlin nodded.

The Jarl laughed. “En dis weather?”

Merlin nodded again.

The Jarl stopped laughing, and a furious discussion broke out
amongst the men. Some of them yelled. A few put their hands to the hilts of their blades. Finally, the Jarl smoothed out his beard and raised his hands, and when he spoke, the room thankfully quieted so Merlin could catch Kensa's translation. “Ve vill nott do dis for ye. Ett es nott worth de risk. Ve already risk much to live so close, and vill nott risk anything more. Be on yer way, den.”

The Jarl stood.

Kensa jumped up and, to see the Jarl properly, cocked her head back on the end of her hunched-over spine. Swifter than Merlin expected, she brought forth a knife.

The Jarl and Torsten stepped back, knocking over their bench.

She raised the knife up … and stuck it into her hat, lifting it from her head. She slipped the sharp tip into a seam and began ripping. A gold coin fell out. Then another. This continued until her gaudy purple hat lay in shreds, and fifteen gold coins lay on the table.

The funny thing was that although the gold coins had been molded with flat, featureless sides, the shape of a large cockroach had been scratched into the surface of each one.

Kensa smiled in triumph despite the strange expression on the Jarl's face. His lip twitched as he leaned forward and grabbed not the coins but Merlin's head on both sides. His massive fingers, smelling of sweat and fish, pressed against Merlin's skull. Merlin braced himself. The man could break his neck in one quick twist.

The Jarl kissed Merlin on the forehead. Then he kissed Kensa the same way, and taking up the coins, passed one to each of the men, leaving seven for himself.

“Ye see?” Kensa said. “I does more dan just ettin' bugs. I catch dem andd hides dem in me hat!”

“Can you ask them for swords? Can that be included? We need three.”

Kensa negotiated with the Jarl, and he agreed. But when the blades were brought, they appeared to be cast-offs. Peredur's blade was bent. Garth's, though serviceable, wasn't quite long enough to be called a sword. And Merlin's handle was loose and the blade badly
notched. He hoped it could hold up in a fight and that he wouldn't have to rely on his knife.

Then, just as silently as the village's men had come, they slipped away and disappeared back to their houses. Within a short while each one showed up with thicker cloaks tightened about their necks and warm fur hats. The Jarl led them down to the harbor, where boats of various sizes lay upside down for the winter on wooden blocks. In no time they had the biggest boat flipped and brought down to the water, and promptly outfitted the craft with oars and a small sail.

Kensa led Merlin and the others to the boat. She was practically skipping. What would he have done without her? Arthur would shortly be dead without her help, for the newly risen moon had only the slightest sliver of white left in it. They were nearly out of time.

The voyage across the inlet took many hours, despite a good wind and the aid of the oars. Thankfully, the hired men did the hard work, letting Merlin and the others rest.

Upon entering the immense bay between some islands, the men furled the sail, took it down, and stowed it.

“Won't we go faster with the sail?” Merlin asked through Kensa.

“Ya, but de sail might be seen. Stealth ess better.”

But Merlin didn't care about stealth. It was so dark. Who would see them? And the moon was nearly black — they needed to hurry. He tried to explain this to the Jarl, but the man just kept rowing along with his men down the long bay.

They passed three tall ridges on their right, each one like a colossal finger reaching out into the ocean to grab their tiny ship and crush it. Ahead of them lay a lone island with a snow-capped mountain upon it, and the Jarl pointed to it. This was their destination.

They approached slowly, the white mountain rearing up above them and blotting out the low stars. The Jarl directed them to the left and followed a channel a little way in. There, they brought the
boat up on the strand, and the Jarl told Merlin and the others to get out.

“So this is the mountain?” Merlin asked.

The Jarl shook his head. “No … yerr
hoven
is de far one.” And he pointed farther down the island — past the immediate mountain, across a flat plain of snow-covered rocks and trees — to a smaller mountain. Specks of lights glinted from its far summit as if men roamed there with torches.

“Der is yerr place,” the Jarl said.

“This is too far away. Row us closer. We've paid you good coinage.”

He shook his head and twisted his long beard. “Ve go no farther.”

“But why?” Merlin asked.

No one answered Kensa's translated question. The faces of the men were tense, and their glances anxious. Every one of them had their hand on their blades as if a giant slept on that very beach, ready to rise up and smash their heads together. Sweat dripped down their cheeks and onto their beards. The nearest rower's hands flexed nervously.

Fear. Merlin could sense it. Something about the island made these men quake. And there must be a reason behind it, for they lived nearby. Merlin had hoped to persuade them all to join in rescuing Arthur. Nine stout warriors would have greatly helped. Hadn't Kensa paid them enough for such service? Back in Kernow a poor man might sell himself into slavery for a year for such a sum.

But it was not to be, for the Jarl pointed at the shore and gnashed his teeth.