Merlin's Blade (2 page)

M
erlin found a step for his foot, climbed up, and fell into the back box of the wagon as it clipped down the hill. “What are you doing?”

Behind him, the chicken squawked.

“Borrowin' the wagon.”

Merlin pulled himself into the front seat, bumping the bagpipe that rested between him and Garth. “You've got to stop … It's not ours!”

“Don't call me a thief,” Garth said, snapping the reins. “It was that girl … She told me I could take it.”

Merlin sat up. “Really? You mean Natalenya?”

“Natalenya, that's her … The girl who sang.”

“She gave permission?”

Garth turned and spoke right into Merlin's ear. “She said to take it. Said we can have it all afternoon. An' how's yer head? That was a chunk o' granite you hit.”

“Hurts.” Merlin shut his eyes and gingerly felt the back of his head. Bloody dirt and some small pebbles were stuck in his hair.

“She said it was to help us get away from her brothers.”

“Huh.” Merlin smiled.

“I threw almost everything in. Even the chicken. An' that rope's a beauty — woven just right! I tied it around the goat before I popped ‘im over the side.”

“Almost everything?”

“Not the barrow. I know it's yer father's, but it was too heavy. We'll swap for it when we're done.”

The wagon hit a bump and jolted them both.

“Didn't Dyslan try and stop you or attempt to talk Natalenya out of it?”

“Oh, him.” Garth yawned. “Nothin' but a slinky fish. Knocked the wind out o' him with me head an' pushed ‘im into the hay trough.”

“You didn't!”

“Did so. Workin' boys are stouter'n those, those —”

“Fly catchers?”

“That's it.”

Merlin sat back, thinking about what had just happened. He reached out his hand and felt the softness of the stuffed leather seat and the smoothness of the wooden rails. Something seemed odd about Garth's account, but he couldn't think of a reason to doubt Garth, and he wasn't going back to check. Though why would Natalenya help them? He had just hit her brother on the head.

Another thought entered his mind. Would Rondroc report him to Tregeagle now? The magister was also the judge for the eastern side of the moor.

Maybe Natalenya would straighten things out. Or maybe not.

“Garth, promise me you're telling the truth.”

“I
promise
.”

Merlin let himself relax. “It certainly makes our job easier. We can get the charcoal in one trip.”

“An' yer father'll make the braces faster for the abbey. This morning Kifferow told me to hurry up ‘cause he's runnin' out o' nails too.”

“Does he have the roof up?”

“He's workin' on it, but it looked kind o' wobbly to me.”

“Too bad about our horse … If his hoof pad wasn't swollen, my father wouldn't have run out of coal.”

“Merlin?” Garth asked.

“Yes.”

“I'm glad we are.”

“What?”

“Gettin' coal. Together,” Garth said. “Gettin' to know you this past month's been fun.”

Merlin tousled Garth's hair.

They descended a hill and soon arrived in the valley, where the rushing of the Fowaven grew louder, swollen as it was by the spring rains. The wooden bridge echoed the clopping of the horses' hooves, and it groaned under their weight. The wagon slowed as the horses trod up the opposite hillside, so Garth kept the reins cracking while they wound back and forth up the incline.

At the crest, the trees thickened, the shade grew dense, and the coolness felt refreshing on Merlin's face. A bird chirped as it flew across the path, darting from tree to tree. The scent of moss and mushrooms filled his senses, along with dewy flowers and ever-fragrant pines.

“Didn't know it was so nice up here,” Garth said.

“I wish we had a forest over the whole mountain. Can you smell it?”

Garth sniffed the air. “Mmm … Sure, but I smell somethin'
different
!” He took a deeper whiff. “Someone's roastin' meat!”

Merlin raised his nose and inhaled again. “Now I smell it.”

“The juice must be jus' drippin' off the spit.”

“That's funny,” Merlin said. “No one lives around here. Where's it coming from?”

“A bit o' smoke's floatin' from the trees to the left … somewhere in the woods. Must be lots o' meat roastin'.”

“The only thing off that direction, I think, is the old circle of stones. But no one goes there anymore.”

“I'd take a big hunk right now if I could —”

“No. We
need
to get the charcoal.”

The woods thickened even more, and ancient oaks cast shadows across the path. Garth's stomach gurgled so loudly that Merlin could tell the boy was still thinking about the roasting meat.

“Be on the lookout,” Merlin said. “It's a trail off to the right. My father and I come here often, so I know the route, but I'd probably never find it on my own.”

Soon they arrived at the track, and Garth steered the horses down the ruts. After a little while they rolled into the large clearing where the char-man kept hills of buried, smoldering wood. The transaction was short: three screpallow coins bought them a full load of cooled charcoal for the wagon box, which they had to load themselves using wooden shovels. Their stack of items to deliver, along with the goat and chicken, had to be moved up front.

When they'd finished the task, Garth turned the wagon around, and it bumped back up the hill.

“Hey … the goat's eating my tunic!” Merlin yelled. He tried to push its head away, but it kept shaking free and nipping more of the linen into its mouth. The chicken fussed at Merlin's feet and pecked at his boots. “Tell me again why we didn't drop them off on the way?”

“Here.” Garth pulled the goat's head away with the rope. “I wish
I
could eat somethin'! I'm hungry as a sea bass.”

“Eat your eggs.”

“They're still too hot from sittin' in that char-man's fire while we loaded up. Besides, I've got to get the mud off ‘em before I can eat ‘em.”

“Mud?”

“To keep ‘em from explodin' while they cooked.”

Garth turned back onto the main road and followed the ridge southward toward Bosventor. They went down one hill and climbed
the next, Garth snapping the reins for speed. And he kept sniffing the air. “Once on top, I bet we'll smell that roastin' meat again!”

“So?”

“Hey, a puff o' smoke's crossin' the road ahead.”

Merlin sighed.

“Ahh! Incredible!” Garth took four big whiffs. “That's the best smellin' meat in the world. Great gobs o' juicy chunks poppin' with fat.” He took another deep whiff, pulled the horses to a stop, and handed the reins to Merlin. “Hang on to these.”

Merlin let the reins out as the horses bent down to graze on the grass by the side of the road. “Something wrong?”

The boy jumped down. “Goin' to see what's cookin'.”

“Garth, get back here!” Merlin yelled.

The boy shushed him from the edge of the road. “They'll hear you.” The lower branches of the pines parted and closed to mark his passing.

“Come back!” Merlin called as the chicken flapped up and landed on his shoulder. The goat shifted and started eating his sleeve.
What's the boy doing?
Running off into the woods alone, where some strangers were cooking meat? For all Merlin knew, they were thieves — or worse.

He tied the goat's rope to the railing, then felt for his staff and found it in the foot box. Trusting that Tregeagle's well-trained horses would stay put, he noted the position of the sun and began tapping along the ground in the direction Garth had gone.

But the brush was thick, and Merlin had to force his way through. He wanted to call out the boy's name but feared giving away their presence, so he paused as often as he could to listen for the sound of Garth's eager footsteps. There was barely enough light falling through the trees for Merlin to navigate around their shadowy trunks, each of which he touched with his free hand as he passed. Branches barred his way, and he often had to duck to prevent his eyes from getting jabbed. The last thing he wanted was another injury to his already-scarred vision.

Above him, the calling, fluttering, and chittering of the birds ceased, the rustle of the squirrels halted, and all the woods became quiet as if to hide some secret from Merlin. Now he heard Garth ahead — not far off — but nature's silence unnerved him. His own heart thumped in his ears as he struggled through the increasingly thick thornbushes that grasped at him like small, sharp knives.

More than once Merlin thought he heard something behind him. A ravenous wolf hunting for prey, drawn to the smell of the meat? Ready to lunge at his throat? The boy knew Merlin's history with wolves. Why would he run off like that? Merlin checked his dirk and tried to ignore the trembling in his shoulders.

And Garth, that hungry sneak, was getting harder to track. He seemed to be crouching behind trees and waiting until he knew the coast was clear before skulking toward the source of the smoke. So whenever Merlin lost him, he had only the aroma to follow in the hope of hearing Garth again.

In this way Merlin found himself on a sort of beaten path — thin, secret, and snakelike — that meandered toward the delicious aroma.
Could it be a trail for deer … Or wolves?
Either way, Merlin finally closed in on his friend.

Garth, plainly exasperated at being followed, turned on him to whisper, “Shah, Merlin. Yer lumbering is givin' me away! Go back an' watch the horses!”

Merlin ignored this rebuke, stepped toward the boy — a shadow against a pine tree — and grabbed the front of his woolen monk's robe. “We're going
together
.”

Unmatched in height and strength, Merlin began dragging Garth backward down the path as his friend dug in his heels and struggled to get free.

“Leave me be,” Garth pleaded, “an' I promise I'll be quick!”

Merlin was preparing to retort that he wasn't about to trust Garth's stomach when he heard branches breaking … and footfalls on the trail. He pulled Garth behind a bush, and they both dropped to their knees.

“Get that stick o' yers down, or we'll be seen,” Garth hissed.

Merlin crouched lower, laid his staff on the ground, and peered through the leaves. Irritated at his blindness, he tried instead to focus on the noise creeping closer, a muffled mixture of heavy breathing and scraping steps. It sounded to Merlin like a great beast crawling toward them with scaled claws, sniffing and huffing for their scent.

“What am I seeing?” Merlin asked.

“Can't tell.”

Legs passed into Merlin's view, mere blurs among the shadows. Then the legs paused.

“May we rest for a bit, O Father?” The voice reminded Merlin of a slow, scornful weasel. “Surely we have dragged this boon of yours for more than a league, and all uphill since we left the lakeside.”

“Not now. Not now,” a second voice answered, breathless. “We are almost to the gorseth, I say, and I will not stop until I have fulfilled the dictates of my vision.” There was a slight Eirish lilt to both voices that reminded Merlin of his stepmother's, but this one had a darker timbre. Its richness made Merlin's ears long to hear more.

“Yes … your vision,” came the first voice, with the slightest hint of a scoff. “But what is this burden? Will you not tell me your secrets?”

Merlin squinted with his better eye. There, between the two men, lay a large object suspended inside a brown cloth, possibly made of leather. He nudged Garth and whispered as quietly as he could, “Who are they? What are they carrying?” His words were hardly more than an exhale, but the two men on the other side of the bush fell silent, listening.

Garth gulped and his stomach growled.

Neither of the strangers moved, yet a blue light began to glow from the object between them.

The scornful man on the left jumped back. “What is happening to it?” he cried, yanking off the covering.

Blue flames leaped from the object's surface, lighting up the woods and blinding Merlin completely for a moment. His face and hands turned hot, as if a fire raged just beyond the bush. Then he felt
cold, as if winter had filled the land with snow and ice. After that the heat rushed back, followed by the cold. Merlin regarded the strange object with awe. What could it be?

“Beware, it tells us! … Beware!” the second voice said, now changing to a whisper. “Enemies are present.”

Both men drew knives, the metal reflecting the strange light.

Garth yelped and darted away.

Merlin chased after him, ignoring the shouts from behind. Ducking his head and covering his face with his free arm to avoid unseen branches, he ran headlong through the forest. Branches scraped and scratched him all the way. Twice he tripped. Once he ran into a tree. And all the time he listened desperately for Garth.

But the boy ran too fast, and each turn Merlin made to avoid a tree found him more turned around. He stopped to orient himself by the sun, but his half blindness and the thick-leafed canopy prevented him.

In the distance, the horses whinnied in fright. He ran toward the sound, which grew louder by the step. Finally, his lip bleeding, his tunic torn, and his arms covered in cuts, he burst out onto the main track not four paces from the wagon.

The horses reared up in terror.

“Get in!” Garth shouted.

Merlin gave the frightened horses a wide berth, grabbed on to the wagon, which rolled back and forth, and pulled himself up to the box.

As Garth yanked on the reins in an attempt to control the horses, Merlin tried to see what was frightening them, though his scarred eyes prevented him. When the wagon jerked backward, Merlin grabbed on to the front rail and accidentally snagged one of the reins. Distant voices called from the woods.