Merlin's Blade (28 page)

The monk let go of Merlin and peered through the bushes. “There are hundreds of villagers milling about. I don't know them well enough to pick them out.”

“Let me know if you do. Hah, there's Tregeagle. In front of the villagers on that ridge.”

“We've got to do something about the cages,” Dybris said.

“We will,” Merlin said. “but not this very moment. We need to think.”

“They could burn the monks to death while you sit there pondering!”

“We have time — they won't do it until it's perfectly dark. And Vortigern hasn't attacked yet.” Merlin turned to face west. The sun hid behind a thinning line of gray clouds, but from its position, barely half an hour remained before it would drop below the hills. “We have to get close to the Stone so we're in position to take it when the attack comes. Then we free the monks.”

“Won't Vortigern do that?” Owain said.

“We can't count on it.”

In the center of the circle, druidow began to move.

“What's going on,” Merlin asked.

Dybris quietly parted the bushes and looked toward the circle. “The green-robed druidow are holding up brass sickle knives and chanting. Now Mórganthu is raising a bronze cauldron, and one of the druidow is stepping forward. Mórganthu handed him the vessel, and he's holding it aloft like Mórganthu and walking toward the west. He's skirting the drummers … and pacing straight toward us!”

Boom! Boom!

“He's coming. Don't move.”

Chanting loudly, the druid found the path leading to the spring and floated past them down the hillside, his verdant robe billowing in the fading light, and the small bronze cauldron held out before him.

“Can you see his face?” Merlin asked.

“What? No … His hood is pulled low,” Dybris said in a hushed voice.

“Now's our chance,” Merlin whispered. “He's getting water. Tas, take care of him and come back with his robe.”

“That's crazy,” his father said.

“The sun's nearly down, and we don't have much time. You can get near the Stone.”

“Are you certain?”

“What else can we do?”

“Don't rightly know. So I'll give it a try,” Owain said as he unsheathed his dirk.

Dybris grabbed Owain's tunic. “Don't kill him!”

“Shah, get your hand off me. No time to talk.”

“Enough bloodshed. Are we no better than they?”

“What?” Owain asked.

Dybris untied his leather belt and pulled off his sheathed dirk. “Bind him instead. We are Christians.”

“Fine. I'll do it if I can, but I won't make any promises.” Taking the belt and a clublike branch that had lain next to Merlin, Owain snuck down the path after the druid.

Dybris slid his own dirk inside the waist of his pants.

Moments later, they heard a sharp crack down the hill.

Merlin winced. “Did the druidow notice?”

“They didn't seem to.”

Boom! Boom!

Soon Owain returned, dressed in the green druid robe, and he held the bronze cauldron, now sloshing with water. “I stuffed a stick and moss in his mouth. Hope your belt holds.”

“We'll slip around near the monks,” Merlin said, “and free them when Vortigern attacks. Once that's done, we'll come help get the Stone.”

“Be quick about it, and pray for me. I'm not strong near the Stone.”

Dybris nodded.

Owain stepped forward into the glade and walked toward the circle of stones.

Merlin placed a hand on Dybris's shoulder. “How can we get to the monks?”

“It won't be easy. Even in the woods on the other side of the circle, we won't be close enough. If the druidow light the fire at the base of the cages, there'll be no time to free the brothers before the flames are too strong.”

Boom! Boom!

Crouching uncomfortably, Merlin shifted his weight, and a dry twig broke under his foot. A branch! They could gather branches and bring them to the wicker cages. He told Dybris of his plan, and soon they had each scraped together enough fallen wood to make a bundle.

They were about to leave when Dybris grabbed Merlin's tunic. “Wait! Your father just passed the cauldron to Mórganthu. He's bowing, and now he's joining the other green-robed druidow as they march around the Stone.”

“Mórganthu … what's he doing?”

“He's frowning. He might suspect.”

Merlin's head began to throb. They had to act quickly.

An entire hour had been lost waiting at the Tor, and Bedwir drew his sword for the twentieth time, tested its edge, and shined its broad length in the gray light. When would that gluttonous Vortigern get off his backside, put out his fire, and set his welcome cup down? Bedwir wanted to kick him in the teeth.

So for the first time since they had arrived at the Tor, he plucked up his courage and approached Vortigern to complain. The lanky battle chief leaned upon a large pile of hay, sipping mead and wolfing down roasted goat. He tapped a small wooden chest resting at his side and then whacked his son, Vortipor, on the shoulder.

“You didn't!” Vortigern laughed. “Never knew
that's
what you did when I sent you to battle in Brythanvy. Be careful who you tell that to!”

“Vortigern,” Bedwir said, but the battle chief paid him no mind.

“Vortigern!”

The mead cup stopped midsip and the battle chief's eyes turned to Bedwir.

“Vortigern, the sun will be down soon. We must attack.”

“And who says?”

“I do … and … and others.”

“Sit on your sword or something. My son is telling a grand tale.”

“But what of Uther's command? What will he think of our delay?”

Vortigern stood and, dusting the hay off his cloak, drew his sword.

“Worry what
I
will do if you interrupt again.”

Heat rising to his face, Bedwir spun on his heel and stalked away.

Malicious laughter continued to swirl around Natalenya.

She spun and drew her small blade with a shaky hand. “Who's there?”

The sneering voice of a man spoke from the darkness, “Welcome, rich rat spawn of Tregeagle! Despite the scratched one missing, I'm glad you've come.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

The man stepped forward, and the fading light fell across his malevolent face. His hair was wet with sweat, and he had pockmarked cheeks and a thin, pointed nose.

Natalenya backed away. “I don't know you.”

“But you've heard my name. Connek — robber among thieves, future master of thugs, and present slitter of throats.” He pulled out a long, rusty knife and rubbed his calloused, dirty thumb on its edge.

S
omeone lifted Uther's head and called to him. The voice echoed as if from a mountain peak.

“Uth … ther … a … wa … ake …”

He tried to sit up but couldn't, his arms flailing in the darkness. His lungs felt as if they were full of water, and he gasped for breath. Forcing himself up to find some air, he opened his eyes as dim light crawled through the doorway like a glowing leech.

“… warriors outside … stand … fight!”

Warriors? Here?

“… danger!”

Colvarth. My family!

A shadow passed through the doorway. The person supporting him screamed, and he finally recognized the voice.
Igerna!

He burst upward with newfound strength and tried to draw his sword, but he pulled it only halfway before someone grabbed his right arm from behind and clamped onto his neck.

Uther jammed his left elbow into the assailant's ribs, freeing his sword arm. Arcing the blade behind, he was rewarded with a piercing shout. Turning fully, he thrust the blade through the man, who fell to the earth.

Uther turned to face the high doorway of the tower, but his vision twisted as dark forms climbed through.

What was wrong with his sight? Why did his head feel so heavy?

“Uther … look out!” shouted a voice from behind.

Thrashing his sword at the oncoming shadows, he struck and felt his blade connect. But without warning, he was clouted between the shoulder blades, and the ground rose up, jamming into his face.

“Uther!” Igerna screamed.

He lay there with his ribs groaning, sputtering soil from his mouth. Someone pulled his blade away.

“He's a lively one,” said a voice.

“More'n we were told, yes,” boomed another. “Are ya hurt?”

“Some. Cut me arm. ‘Ere, tie ‘im up.”

Uther felt himself lifted and trussed until he could barely move. He opened his eyes, but everything was upside down and skewed.

“McEwan, get ‘im to the boat. We'll get the boy.”

Those behind him screamed as Uther was hoisted up and lifted through the doorway. His head hit the rock-hewn sill, and everything flashed to nothingness.

Offering a prayer for his father's safety, Merlin pulled his hood down and picked up his bundle of sticks. He followed Dybris with a hand on the monk's arm as they skirted through the trees to the other side of the circle of stones. But they stopped short once they stepped from the woods, and Merlin didn't know why.

“There's a bunch of druid wives ahead,” Dybris whispered. “They're watching the proceedings.”

Boom! Boom!
the drummers pounded.

One of the wives turned toward them. “You're a wee bit late with those,” she called.

Dybris shrugged his shoulders, and he and Merlin both walked as naturally as they could into the open, carrying their bundles of sticks to the first wicker cage.

“Give me your bundle and then stay here a moment as I shove a path to the door,” Dybris whispered.

The monk wedged himself next to the cage door and placed the bundles down.

One of the imprisoned monks spoke angrily. “Can't you see there's enough?”

“Peace, Migal,” Dybris said. “I'm here to free you. Be quiet and pray.”

A soft whisper spread through the wicker cage, and Merlin could tell that hope had been rekindled among the monks. Dybris hummed as he pretended to rearrange the stick bundles and then returned to stand by Merlin's side.

Dybris leaned over and spoke in a low voice. “The door's small, two feet by three, and made from saplings. It's secured with strong tendons.”

“Be ready to cut it open at any time,” Merlin said. “I'll block if they try to stop you, but I won't be able to hold them for long.”

“You there!” a druid called from behind. “Pay attention. Can't you see Mórganthu's about to wash the Knives of Sacrifice?”

Merlin nodded in the man's direction and then whispered to Dybris, “Tell me what's happening.” He was concerned for his father. How long could he keep up the ruse?

“The green-robed druidow have raised their sickle knives and are circling Mórganthu, who is holding the bronze water cauldron.”

Merlin heard Mórganthu begin to chant in his dark tongue, and then without warning, the arch druid let out a piercing cry, and all the druidow joined in. Merlin almost plugged his ears but stopped himself just in time. Instead, mimicking Dybris, he raised his fist and shook it.

“One of the green-robed druidow is marching to Mórganthu. Now he's bowing … Uh-oh!”

“What?”

“Mórganthu is pulling the druid's hood back. The man looks surprised. Mórganthu's nodding to him, and now the druid is standing. He just sliced his sickle through the water.”

Merlin heard the man shouting:

Merlin shuddered as Dybris continued his description. “The druid is joining his comrades, and the next druid's approaching to repeat the ritual. He's bowing down, and Mórganthu's lifting the man's hood and studying his face.”

Acid gurgled up into Merlin's throat. “Which one is Tas? Can you tell?”

“No … They all look the same.”

Merlin held his breath and prayed once more.

Owain stood and walked forward, trying to act as much like the other druidow as he could. But he knew Mórganthu suspected. Thankfully he had the brass sickle knife ready, and he'd use it to end that murderer's life before he'd let himself be caught.

He approached the arch druid, hood down, and knelt with every muscle tensed.

Mórganthu's hand reached down, and just as it touched the hood, Owain sprang, slashing the sickle knife at the evil druid's throat.

Mórganthu was faster than a rat, and his right hand caught hold of Owain's wrist, diverting the blow so that it barely scratched his forehead. At the same time, Mórganthu's other hand gouged at Owain's eyes in taloned madness.

But Owain was stronger. He slung his head away from the fingernails and rammed his shoulder into Mórganthu's stomach.

Both men sprawled to the earth.

Owain raised his knife to strike.

Stunned, Mórganthu flailed his left hand out and, to Owain's horror, it landed upon the Stone. White lightning burst from the craggy surface, shot through Mórganthu and into Owain.

Owain felt instant torture spread through his body. His limbs stiffened in excruciating pain. Such burning! The brass knife fell from his hand in a white-hot lump. His vision faded as his beard began to smolder.

As Dybris described the fight, Merlin's heart felt as if it would pound its way free from his body.

“There are
imposters
among us!” Mórganthu shouted. “Everyone must be tested!”

“Go!” Merlin urged Dybris. “Cut the door open!”

Dybris ran back to the first wicker cage and began hacking at the tendons securing the doors.

Merlin stood guard, preparing to block anyone who challenged them.

“Dear God, help me!” Dybris prayed as he hewed at the stubborn strings. “Why didn't I have Owain sharpen this old thing?”

Shouts rang out, and Merlin turned to face the onrush. But the sun was almost gone now, and in the grayness, he didn't see the first
druid coming. A shoulder knocked into him with just enough force that he fell backward over a pile of twigs. By the time he scrambled to his feet, it was too late. The crowd of druidow had surrounded Dybris and flung open the door of the first cage. Laughing, they threw Dybris in with the other monks.

Merlin reached for his dirk, preparing for a fight, but the druidow didn't seem to notice him. They shut the door, and new tendons were brought to knot it closed. With the door secured, they lingered around the cages, leering at the unfortunate prisoners and hurling insults at them.

Trying his best to blend in with the crowd, Merlin decided it was better to bide his time a little longer and find some way to save his father and his friends.

Brother Neot's voice rose from within the cage as he addressed Dybris in his typically sarcastic tone. “Spectacular rescue, that.”

Mórganthu came over and stood close to the woven branches of the cage. “Oh fool, oh impudent fool,” he mocked. “One dupe of a blacksmith to sacrifice to the Stone, and now I have one more monk to burn in the Beltayne fire!”

Garth retreated to the boat and climbed to the very center of the middle seat. He'd withdrawn here, he told himself, not because the mist scared him — oh no! — but because it was warmer sitting on wood and more familiar being in a boat.

Sometimes the water splashed among the reeds near the shore, and Garth tried not to imagine blood-sucking creatures slipping into the marsh and encircling the boat.

After what seemed a very long time, stone-scraping and sliding noises echoed from the island. A dark creature lumbered toward him out of the fog.

Garth yelped, whirled around, and rowed furiously away. A few anxious moments passed, and he was just about to take a deep breath
when he heard a voice rumble behind him, so close he jumped and almost dropped the oars into the water.

“If ya're goin' to row away, ya best untie the lash first!”

Garth turned, and McEwan laughed at him with his foot on the rope, still tied to the bent cypress. On his shoulder hung a bound man — the High King. McEwan chucked Uther like a rag doll into the other boat, and the body fell roughly among the seats and extra ropes in the front.

Garth tried his best to picture Anviv's death at Uther's hand, but the image of Trothek's severed head appeared instead.

Three more Eirish warriors walked out of the mist, with O'Sloan leading. His left arm bled profusely, and the blood had soaked his tunic, as well as a cloth-wrapped bundle he carried. Garth gripped the side of his boat as O'Sloan stepped in and set the heavy bundle on Garth's lap.

“‘Ere. Take care o' this till we return. McEwan! Grab those ropes so we can tie up the others ‘afore we leave.”

McEwan pulled out extra rope from both boats.

“So McGoss was killed?” one of them asked.

“Weren't ya there?” McEwan boomed. “We risked our bellies, and where were ya?”

“Leave ‘im alone,” O'Sloan said. “I told ‘im to stay outside and keep watch.”

McEwan coiled the ropes. “Och, then, ‘twasn't McGoss who died, that worthless lout. We left
‘im
back to guard the ladies an' the ol' bard. ‘Twas Gilroy that the High King killed.”

O'Sloan groaned, holding up a bloody blade. The same one the High King had killed Anviv with. “Slit ‘im through the heart. A perilous blade, this one.”

Taking the ropes, the warriors climbed the shingle and disappeared into the fog.

“Sit and keep watch,” O'Sloan's voice called back.

Alone, Garth looked down at the wrapped bundle in his lap.
Pulling the thick, bloody cloth aside, he was startled to see little eyes staring at him, wide with fear.

“A littl' one!” Garth shouted.

He pulled the blood-soaked cloth back farther, and the child's dark hair emerged. The boy wriggled his right arm free and, reaching up, squeezed Garth's nose. In his other hand, he held a small crust of barley bread, which he alternately chewed and sucked on.

“Hello to you too,” Garth said. He inspected the child and found no wound on him. The blood must have been from O'Sloan's injured arm.

“If I know rightly, then yer Arthur, and over there's the king.” Garth pointed, and that was the first time he noticed the man's head wound, a dirty gash that bled down across his eye and forehead. He didn't appear to be breathing.

Garth picked up an oar with his free hand and prodded Uther across the divide between the boats, but the man didn't stir.

“Yer father's dead, Arthur. That's a bad thing. An' I know, ‘cause I lost me tas too.”

Memories of Garth's own childhood flooded back. Fishing with his father on the wind-rolled sea. Hauling the full nets up the beach and sorting through their daily catch. Throwing clams at his father and being chased into the waves. Selling the fish together at the village market.

At night they'd sit by the hearth, his father playing the bagpipe in the soft flicker of the fire. They'd eat oat porridge together and talk long after dark, with the starlight shining through the shutters of their small seaside crennig.

And his father would tell him stories about his mother, who had died when he was born. Garth cherished those memories the most.

Then he recalled the fatal day his father drowned. Garth had been sick and unable to go along. That morning a black gale had blown in from the west, piling the foaming waves high and white across the Kembry Sea.

His father never came home. Days later another fisherman discovered his father's boat capsized and half sunk.

Garth teared up, and Arthur's little hand reached up to touch his wet cheek.

“Yer all alone now, Arth. Me father's buried in the sea, an' yours'll be buried on land, and you'll ne'er see ‘im again.”

Anger rose in Garth. Why did they have to orphan young Arthur? Why did those warriors kill the High King? Sure, he'd slain the ard dre's son — but hadn't the ard dre killed Trothek without reason? Death. All around him. And the blood from Arthur's wrappings smeared on Garth's hands. What would the ard dre do to this boy?