Merlin's Blade (30 page)

Uther rolled his head to the side and looked at Owain. Blood dripped from the gash above his eye. “We were like brothers, you and
I, but … I've learned to love now too … Fierce Igerna … faithful Igerna … Never see … my flower again…. Nor my children.” And then quietly, Uther said, “Owain, I forgive you … Sorry it's ending like this.”

“It's not over. Don't say that!”

Uther groaned against his bonds. “I don't want to die. The Stone … it hurts. A voice is telling me I'll die … will worship it, yet it burns!”

“Fight it. Don't give in —”

“Burning my soul …”

“Call on the name of God —”

The pace of the chanting druidow quickened, and the drums boomed louder. The seven torch holders snaked in and out of Owain's vision.

With a flourish, Mórganthu reappeared, Uther's sword belted at his side, and his golden knife protruding like a fang from his hand. Speaking in the druidow' tongue, he circled the Stone like a cat.

Uther's groaning increased as the Stone's sickening glow poured like smoke from underneath him. “It burns … it
burns
!”

“Battle, Uther! To battle!” Owain turned away from the Stone. Even then, like massive tongs it tried to turn his head, and he mounted every ounce of strength to resist.

Mórganthu, his head uplifted and darkness in his eyes, raised his voice. “All! All who have come to serve Belornos and the gods of the druidow! Do you hear me?”

The people shouted back to him.

“This is the night when the moon descends to join us. The night when it slays the Seven Torches. Behold! The time of the otherworld is upon us!” And Mórganthu pointed to the west, where the moon was disappearing below the horizon with a constellation of seven stars beside it.

Merlin was listening to Mórganthu's ravings when a man sat down to his right on the same rock. Merlin stiffened and turned his head slightly away to keep the man from seeing his scars.

“I've been watching you,” the man said.

Merlin swallowed. “Whatever for? Nothing better to do than bother a fellow druid?”

“You're no druid, and you were with the monk before he was caught.”

Merlin's left hand went quietly to his dirk.

“Don't worry, though, I won't give your secret away.”

Merlin took a breath. “Why?”

“My name's Caygek, and I'm one of the leaders of the filidow. We don't support Mórganthu or what he's doing here. It goes against the laws of the wider order as they've been taught for the last hundred years.”

Hope surged in Merlin's heart. “So you'll help me?”

“I have men in position around the Stone, and they're ready to intervene when I give the signal.”

“You'll free my father … and the High King?”

“If we can.”

“And then the monks.”

“The monks … no. They've been judged and are considered criminals, not a sacrifice. The two at the Stone, however …”

This didn't make sense to Merlin, and he gritted his teeth when he spoke. “You have to help me save them.”

“Why? I'm already risking my neck to try and stop the sacrifice. If my companions and I are alive by this time tomorrow, we'll all have Grannos to thank.”

“The monks are innocent. They've done nothing deserving death.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”
Merlin could barely contain his outrage.

“Like all other monks, they're responsible for turning the people away from the old gods. For that slander, we druidow have an unforgiving hatred, and these monks are to be an example.”

Merlin scoffed at these words. “Can't the old gods defend themselves?”

“We are their instruments of justice.”

“Don't you see that killings like these have caused you to lose support? Fear cannot long hold a people in bondage, and if these monks die, then the news will spread, and you will all be driven out completely.”

“Perhaps.”

Tensing his fists, Merlin turned his head away. “I can't save them on my own. I'm blind.”

“Ah, so
you're
the famous Merlin, the one who keeps Mórganthu gnashing his teeth late into the night. Yes, I've heard about you. Well, then, let's just say that it's the ones who have sight who make the decisions.”

“Fine, then. Leave me alone to my prayers.”

“Not so fast. That doesn't mean I've decided not to help you. I happen to know that if word got to Mórganthu that
Merlin
had ransomed the monks, then that just might agitate him to an early grave. It might even direct his wrath in your direction. And that, my phony druid, is something that interests me. Ransoming is something we allow by law.”

“You want me to pay you … to do what is right?”

“I have a few extra men I could call into service, but if you don't have the money …”

Merlin squeezed the bottom of his bag and tried to remember the number of coins there. “How much do you want?”

“For that many men our law would suggest the ransom be, say, half a gold coin.”

“What
?” That was an impossible price.

“Fine, a quarter of a coin, which in silver would be —”

“Go get your gold from the Stone.”

“From Mórganthu? Ah, now you see the problem of the filidow, the least-favored of our order.”

“I only have five screpallow.”

Caygek laughed. “You too? What about your torc?”

“You want me to cut a chunk from it? I can do that, though I'd need to do so later. I don't have it with me.”

“No, no. I'm jesting. Don't even think about marring such a priceless thing. Five screpallow it is.”

“You're serious?”

“The rumor doesn't need to say how
much
you paid us, does it? I'd dearly like to see Mórganthu's face when he hears about it.”

“So you'll help?”

“For the right to rub salt into Mórganthu's wound, yes.”

A great weight lifted from Merlin's shoulders as he handed over the five coins. “Thank you.”

“No promises, hear? We filidow are heavily outnumbered. More than likely we'll all be dead before the moon sets.”

Bedwir was nearly giddy when Vortigern finally marched them on foot out of the Tor's gate. Down the Meneth Gellik, through the village, and northeastward on the road, they eventually drew nigh to the road leading to the burned abbey. A shame, that.

From there, with the sun behind the mountain, Bedwir could see torches moving in an eerie circle a half league across the valley and through the woods.

The armed company advanced down the road to the stream and up again until they took a snaking path into the forest. Soon the noise of drumming reached their ears, and Bedwir began to sweat. Was it because of their long march or the closeness of the air? Or was it due to the coming battle? Enemy warriors in daylight, fine. But magical druidow in the dark amid an ancient pagan circle of giant stones — that was different.

When the druid's chanting could finally be heard, Bedwir halted his contingent of men.

“Vortigern says we're to wait in silence,” the man in front of him whispered. “The battle chief goes alone to scout out the situation. He says to listen for the sounding of his horn.”

Bedwir stood on his toes and craned his neck. About ten paces in front, the cloaked shadow that was Vortigern faded into the trees.

“This is
Beltayne
night,” Mórganthu shouted to the crowd, “when we light the wicker bonfires filled with the enemies of our gods. When we purify ourselves, our cattle, our children, and our spirits through fire and smoke from all that pollutes, in order to protect ourselves from witchcraft.”

What a hard time Merlin had listening to this. At any moment Mórganthu might give the signal to burn the monks to death or sacrifice Uther and his father, and what could
he
do? Nothing. Sure, prayers escaped his lips in continuous pleading to God, but Merlin's soul, spirit, and body all urged him to action. He couldn't just wait —

Boom! Boom!

Merlin's throat closed up when he saw the blur of large torches being carried toward the wicker cages, ready to light the mounds of tinder on fire.

“You, my people, you have been bewitched by these practitioners of a foreign god! I ask you, what is done with witches?”

Mórganthu chanted now in the common language of Kernow, and all the people joined with him.

Boom! Boom!
smote the drums.

Behind him, Merlin detected a sound he had not heard in the druid glade before … the slight jingle of ring-mail. He turned and, out of the corner of his good eye, saw a shadowy figure marching into the circle of stones. Whoever it was pushed aside any druidow who stood in his way. Merlin's heart flip-flopped as the man walked straight to Mórganthu and the Stone, a shining sword on his back reflecting the light of the moon. Was it Vortigern or one of the other warriors?

“A word, master druid!” the man's deep voice boomed.

“You intrude here,” Mórganthu said in a sneering tone. “Your work is done. Begone!”

“I need assurance.”

“He is here, on the Stone.”

“Alive?” the man said, his voice rising in pitch.

“Yes. Yes, of course. We have our own ways.”

The hooded man paused, then asked, “The heir? Where is he?”

“Drowned in the marsh, his body lost. A trifle, I assure you … I cannot prove his death.”

“Trifle, you say? And Igerna? Where is she?”

Mórganthu turned his back to the man and lowered his voice so that Merlin barely heard his answer. “I am told she and the daughters are dead, as well as that chief offender of a bard.”

Uther let out a desolate cry, and Merlin's heart broke for him.

Mórganthu turned back to face the warrior. “It seems one of these imprudent Eirish warriors could not control himself. But if it is of any comfort, the offender was slain by my own hand.”

In great rage, the man lunged forward, and everything became confusion. It appeared to Merlin that the warrior picked Mórganthu up and threw him to the ground. “You tell me
he
is alive while my sister is
dead
?”

The warrior, whom Merlin now knew was Vortigern, reached down and snatched something from Mórganthu, and when he stood again, there shined in his hand the reflection of red, inlayed glass.

Merlin recognized what he held: the sword Merlin's father had made and given to Uther.

“He will die now,” the warrior cried out, “but not by
my
blade.”

Merlin had up until this point sat in mute shock, listening to the two men argue. And all the time he was waiting for Caygek's men to intervene and save Uther's life, and the life of his father. But these filidow, cowards all of them, were waiting for who-knew-what signal, and Merlin could wait no longer. Vortigern's threat drove Merlin to his feet.

He drew his dirk and rushed headlong at Vortigern, who leaned over Uther and the pulsing blue Stone — with the blade poised to kill the High King.

“No-o!” Merlin yelled, and he swung his blade wildly, hoping in the darkness to beat Vortigern back.

Uther musn't die … he musn't!

Vortigern swore. “Get back, druid!”

Their blades met, and the superior power of the hand-and-a-half longsword his father had made almost knocked Merlin's shorter blade from his hand. But the weight of the longsword had caused it to swing too far, and though Merlin had every reason to fear death, a frenzy to save Uther drove him in closer. He grabbed Vortigern's sleeve with his left hand and slammed the point of his blade into the man's ring-mail.

But the tip didn't go through, and Vortigern took the pommel of Uther's blade and cracked Merlin over the head.

“Out of my way.”

Merlin's feet failed first, collapsing out from under him as a great clanging and thudding reverberated through his head. He felt weightless, and the only knowledge he had of hitting the ground was the taste of dirt as he coughed and yelled in pain.

Blades clashed next to Owain, and one of the men stepped on his hair, making him flinch. When the fight was over, and one of the men writhed on the ground in pain, the warrior stepped over to the Stone where Uther lay. There, looking up at the man, Owain saw into his hood, and the shimmer of the torches revealed Vortigern's bearded face. His neck bulged red, and spit frothed through his moustache.

“No!” Owain cried. “No!”

Without a glance in Owain's direction, Vortigern plunged the blade through Uther's heart.

Uther's mouth opened in a mute scream, his eyes wide, his face
wracked with pain. As he exhaled his last breath, he whispered, “Jesu, have mercy …”

Owain squeezed his eyes shut as furious smoke rose from the Stone and lightning streaked across the sky. When he opened them again, he saw Vortigern fling the bloodied blade away. Turning from the murder, the battle chief covered his eyes with his hand while great tears streamed down his face.

Owain tore his gaze from the traitor, and it fell on the face of his friend, lightless eyes staring in death.
Great Uther. Dead. And the heir as well!
Despair again threatened to take him, and he drew in great gasping breaths, struggling to keep it at bay.

Mórganthu, now on his feet again, rose to his full height and called out, “Druidow! Sons of the wood! Slay this man who dares interfere with the divine rights of the sacrifice of Belornos!”

From all around Vortigern, the druidow advanced, holding blades, axes, and spears with shaking hands.

Vortigern drew his broadsword, brought his great horn to his lips, and blew long and loud. The dark woods echoed with thrumming feet, and in less than ten heartbeats, his warriors burst onto the field.