Merlin's Blade (31 page)

“Havoc!
Havoc
!” Vortigern shouted. “The king is dead. Druidow have slain the High King! Come to my aid, my warriors!”

C
olvarth tore his tunic and wept until his vision blurred and he could no longer see the pale face of his dead queen. Eilyne and Myrgwen wept with him, hugging their mother and wailing.

The nightmarish images of the attack whirled through his head as he stood. He'd been so shocked with how swiftly Uther had been taken that Igerna's cries barely reached his ears.

“Colvarth!” she'd shrieked. “They've taken Arthur!”

It all happened so fast. The men had stripped Arthur from Myrgwen's arms and left the tower. All, that is, except for the one Uther had slain and the dark one guarding their escape.

But instead of joining his fellows when the rear was secure, this foul warrior had advanced upon Igerna and lunged at her with his sword, only to find two girls and their slim blades between him and his prey. The two daughters had defended their mother with all the fierce determination and inexpert skill they could muster, but to little avail.

“Get awa'!” the man had shouted, waving his sword as if to shoo away flies buzzing over his supper. “I'll ha' me reward o' gold, nay matter the cost!”

God, pardon me for not acting more quickly
. Treachery of this kind against women and children was against the ancient laws of the land — even the laws of the Eirish — and Colvarth, his bones shaking, simply had not fathomed the danger.

He should have acted sooner.
My Father … forgive!

Eilyne snarled in righteous defense of her mother and had tried to stab the man. But McGoss, or so they named his fetid face, had clouted her with his fist and thrust her aside.

Myrgwen likewise had advanced to face him and was tossed into the rock wall.

“You whelps'll die proper in a moment, once yer mither's dead!” McGoss bellowed, circling her with blade thrusting and swinging.

Her own dirk in hand now, the queen defended herself fiercely, even slicing his elbow once, but the warrior simply outmatched her.

Only then had Colvarth woken from his fright. Grabbing the pickaxe, he wounded the murderer in the leg before being kicked into Uther's freshly dug hole.

By the time Colvarth had crawled out, the queen, God save her soul, was dead.

And by grace alone had Colvarth and the unconscious girls escaped the man's blade. For at that moment the other four Eirish warriors had returned, more quickly than McGoss had apparently expected. Caught in his despicable act, McGoss pled with them, but they hacked him dead in lawful judgment — and left again as Colvarth sobbed into his beard.

“Ah, God!” Colvarth cried as he kissed the wet cheek of little Myrgwen, now bereft of her mother … the queen who should have lived to see her godly lineage.

Eilyne still held her blade, and she ran at the mutilated body of McGoss, screaming. Colvarth grabbed her and held her back. “He is dead. Leave his … judgment to God, my lady.” He took her blade
and held her sobbing shoulders tightly. Ah, she would have been a good sister-guide to young Arthur.

“Arthur,” Colvarth cried aloud, half scaring himself. “They've … taken him!” The heir was alive, and so might Uther be! A fool upon fool to abide with the dead queen while the living might be helped!

“Stay here with … your mother.” And he made them promise. “I will see what may be … done for your brother.”

He clambered through the door and clopped off into the night. Following the muddy tracks of the warriors, he passed the ruins, dodged through the forlorn apple orchard, traced his way through a forest of poplars and pines, and finally found his way to the northern tip of the isle.

There he found the warriors standing on the shore with Uther bound in a boat. They were pushing the lifeless body of a peculiar, wild-haired man into the bushes.

Colvarth hid behind a large tree and overheard them talking in anger about how someone named Garth had stolen young Arthur out from their clutches and slipped off with one of their boats.

Oh, when Colvarth heard this news, a song of praise almost burst from his lips! Stifling himself, he prayed that whomever this Garth was, he would take good care of Arthur until the old bard could find the young prince.

Hunching down on his aching knees, Colvarth pulled his black cloak close about him and waited until the warriors ferried themselves off the island in two trips. Standing again with difficulty, he went back to the tower with hopeful steps. Maybe God's goodness remained despite the terrible evil of this night.

As it was dark, the girls would be afraid. He went to their camp and, finding the small metal fire chest, opened it and blew upon the coals until they glowed. Taking an oil-soaked torch they had brought, he lit it and climbed back into the tower.

“It is I,” he called but received no reply. The dim torchlight landed on the girls' sparkling tears, bringing forth his own grief yet again.

The elder of them gazed at the appalling scene. “What will we do?”

“We should build … a cairn over her,” he said, his words echoing inside the tower. But with what? Stepping to the door, he peered out, and while there were stones aplenty, they were nearly all too heavy for an old man and two young girls to lift through the high doorway.

Their best option was to bury her in Uther's pit. Although less dignified than a cairn, it was far better than leaving her to whatever wild animals might live on the island.

Let
that
be the fate of McGoss's bloody remains!

He glanced back at the girls and realized this was a task he would need to take on alone.

With tears clouding his vision, he climbed down into the hole to retrieve Uther's pickaxe. There amid the soft soil, his foot hit something hard. Thinking it a stone, he paid it no mind until he stepped on it again and heard a hollow sound.

What's this?

Kneeling, he felt the shape of the object and brushed soil from its surface to reveal silverish metal, which he suspected was pewter, for it had no tarnish or rust.

Shoving the torch's handle into the dirt at the side of the hole, he dug and found a box no wider than two handbreadths. But the soil was hard, so he took out his small eating knife and chopped the dirt all around until he could pull the object free. Intricate patterns were inscribed on its sides, one of which held the sign of the cross surrounded by the likeness of two trees he did not recognize.

Realizing that he was studying the hinged side, he turned it around and saw on its front not a cross but words in an unknown script. The box was shut fast with some sort of mechanism loosed only by a missing key of clever design.

The box did not weigh much, but he heard faint jostling within. Had Uther been right that this was something holy? Surely the sign of the cross meant it had been owned by a Christian.

Climbing stiffly out of the ditch, he set the box down. His eyes
traveled to the reason he had entered the pit's depths. “Eilyne, Myrgwen, I need you to … stay near the wall.”
How I wish they were not present for this task
. With a heavy sigh, Colvarth lifted the queen and moved her into the makeshift grave. With great care, he folded her arms in a pose worthy of her grace and nobility.

As he climbed out and gathered dirt to place over her body, Eilyne screamed.

“Nooo!” She pushed Colvarth away, embracing her mother and weeping. Myrgwen stood at the edge of the grave, her face having lost all expression and her eyes glassy.

Colvarth tried to comfort Eilyne, but it was a long time before the girl's furious grief was stilled.

Together, the three gently covered the queen's lifeless form, watering the earth with their tears. Colvarth was already composing a worthy tale of her life and a lament over her death.

“O God,” he spoke aloud. “Let Thy Day of … Judgment and Resurrection come! Yes, come, O Lord Jesu.”

As he scratched the last of the soil over the grave and picked up the silver box, he realized Uther may have truly received a godly vision.

But why had the king acted so strangely? And how had these Eirish warriors known the royal family was staying on the island?

Slow as Colvarth considered himself in his old age, his suspicions finally roused.

Picking up his torch, he searched the inside of the tower and found Uther's discarded mead skin. Colvarth threw away the stopper, sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. Pouring a droplet of the liquid on his finger, he tasted it and was surprised how its sweetness preceded the slightest touch of bitterness.

Was there something wrong with it? A poison, perhaps?

Colvarth dropped to his aching knees in prayer, for Uther and his son, and when he rose, the light of the torch seemed brighter.

Who had given the drink to Uther? Ah, yes, now he remembered.

Vortigern.

Before he left with the girls beside him, Colvarth laid upon the
grave a thick branch of old, weathered applewood, scrawled with a message written in both Latin and Ogham:

“Why did you write that?” Eilyne asked as they climbed out from the doorway. “It's not true.”

“Because,” Colvarth said, “though I am … old and slow, the nose of this fox can still smell a wolf. It is my plan that you two be kept safe, and may the … goodly God help our Arthur too.”

Owain wanted to weep at the death of his friend, to mourn, yell, and thrash about, but events occurred too quickly. As Owain lay tied next to Uther's body, still upon the Stone, the last howls of Vortigern's battle horn died, and his warriors stormed onto the field.

Then three things happened at once.

First, panic set in among the villagers and druidow. The guardians next to the wicker cages ran to join the battle, but not before dropping their torches into the tinder. The flames ignited the wood and began to spread.

Second, Vortigern attacked Mórganthu, who picked up the sword of the High King and fought back. So deft was Vortigern, however, that Mórganthu would have died if not for the arrival of a brightly dressed Eirish warrior. With gray-streaked hair and a long beard covering a silver torc, the warrior swung at Vortigern from the side. Realizing his danger just in time, the battle chief parried the blow and backed away.

Last, a druid in a green cloak and blue tunic appeared at Owain's side with a long iron blade of good quality. Owain's body tensed as the sword hovered over him.

“Get it over with,” Owain said. “Your dark arts can't touch my soul.”

“Shah,” the man whispered. “I'm just trying to see the ropes. You want me to free you or not?” He sliced off the cords binding Owain's arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Cutting your bonds. Name's Caygek.”

A thrill went through Owain.
Freedom!

“Hold still. By Crom, these are tight.”

“You don't even know who I am …”

“You're Owain, the village blacksmith, and Merlin's father. I know that much. And I, like some of the other druidow, know these sacrifices are wrong.”

Owain looked to the wicker cages. The flames had climbed high on one side, while the other smoked and hissed. Dark forms moved nearby. “My son! And the monks — are you freeing them?” he shouted.

“Your son is sitting up over there, and yes, we have water. Now quiet,” Caygek hissed. “You'll bring death upon us all.”

Owain spotted Merlin near a large rock. To Owain's joy, his son stood up shakily and began to make his way toward the Stone — just as another man ran toward them from the crowd, clutching something to his chest.

Owain jerked his head, expecting Mórganthu or one of the robed druidow, but it was Tregeagle. The magister bowed next to Owain and shoved Uther's body off the Stone. With shaking hands, he spilled hundreds of coins onto its glimmering surface. “Chance to … get … gold. Gold!”

Free at last, Owain thanked Caygek. He got up on one knee and tried to stand, but his limbs felt wooden.

Dybris ran to him through the crowd, dodging warriors who mistook him for a druid. Merlin followed close behind.

“Owain, the Stone!” The monk tore his tunic off and threw it over the top.

Tregeagle yelled.

Owain kicked the magister in the side, sending coins spinning through the air like overweight moths. Tregeagle himself flipped onto the grass beyond the edge of the leather tarp, which was still under the Stone

Owain had wanted to do that for some time. He pulled a Romanstyle blade from the stunned magister, fancy looking but of poor steel, and tucked it into his own belt. Together, he, Dybris, and Merlin unfolded the tarp, hefted the Stone, and took off toward the woods. For its size, Owain had expected the Stone to be heavier, but it swung between them easily, and they made good progress.

As they passed through the first line of trees, a cry arose behind them. Tregeagle stood amid the torches waving his arms and yelling.

“They've taken the Stone. Stop them!”

The three dodged under pines as they loped toward the road. Behind them people shouted, and Vortigern's battle horn sounded.

“Faster! They're following us,” Dybris called.

“Where will Natalenya be?” Merlin asked.

“The road? I don't know!”

Natalenya finished hitching Plewin to the An Gof family wagon and then pulled herself up into the seat.

Taking the reins, she called, “Hy-mos!” and the mule began plodding forward at what felt like a snail's pace.
Can't she go any faster than this?

She snapped the reins harder, and Plewin jolted forward, but the wagon gained little speed.
I guess she's just slow
.