Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (28 page)

Taliesin spun to find the boy sneering down at him.

“Thanks for having rocks in your head, harp-boy.”

“Leave me alone.” Heat rose up Taliesin’s neck, and hovered just below his ears as he finished filling his basket.

“If there was another horse pie up here, I’d drop you in it again.”

As the boy turned away, Taliesin took a large, jagged rock, dropped it down the backside of the boy’s pants, and ran off with his basket. “Thanks for having rocks in your pants, lion-face!”

“Hey!” Withel tried to fish the rock out, but it slipped down one of his pant legs and got caught at the place where it narrowed just behind his knee.

Taliesin laughed as he ran to the wall.

Withel hopped noisily after him, shouting and pumping his fist.

When Taliesin got to the top of the stairs, though, all thoughts of being chased died. The people stood still, watching something over the wall with solemn concentration. He ran to his favorite spot where a stone section was a little lower and from there he surveyed the valley below. A mass of Picti were marching up the path toward the fortress, and though it was getting dark, there was still enough light to see that most of them carried spears.

Withel joined him, holding the rock he had fished from his pants. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t know.”

As the men climbed the zigzagging, steep path toward the gate, they would sometimes drop from view behind a boulder and then reappear somewhere else.

Mother and Great-Aunt Eira came to stand about ten feet from Taliesin. Tinga nestled in their mother’s arms, her little face twisted in a frown.

When the Picti were finally within hailing distance, Taliesin caught his breath to see a monk among them. He was wearing a simple brown woolen robe, just like Brother Loyt who served the inhabitants of their valley. Only this monk had a coarse bag slung over his shoulder, which he held protectively. But this wasn’t one of the valley’s monks, for he had sandy-red hair and was slightly stout, with a plump if resolute jawline. And he was old. He had to be nearly thirty winters.

There was a bound man with them as well, stooped low, with a bag tied over his face. Guards stood behind him with short spears, and beyond them were fifty or more Picti on the path ready to fight.

The party came to stand before the gate, above which stood Bedwir, Caygek, and Brother Loyt, ready to parley, it seemed. They forced the bound man to kneel, and there they tied his feet tightly with rope.

Strangely, the fair monk had faded red ochre designs painted on his face and forearms. Red was the paint that the western-coast Picti
used, Taliesin had heard, and this didn’t match the blue paint of the other warriors. All of this confused Taliesin . . . A Pictish monk? After all, he had red hair . . .

One of the Picti was a full head taller than the rest, and his clothes were much showier. Over his bare, painted upper body lay a royal blue robe with a fur collar, and below were red-checkered breeches. At his throat lay a beautiful golden torc with the ends fashioned like two hawks. The man’s bright red hair was long, immaculately braided and banded with rings of gold. He had a long nose, and though Taliesin couldn’t see the man’s eyes closely, he thought they must have been green based on the way the sun glinted off of his predatory gaze.

This one barked an order in a dialect Taliesin had never heard — sort of a twisted, throaty form of their own language. Two of the warriors snapped to attention and poked their spears into the monk’s back, forcing him to step forward and look up at those on the wall. His left eye had been bruised badly, and the puffy bag of skin hanging under had turned purplish-green.

“To those inhabitin’ Dinas Crag, I have been brought before you unwillin’ly to translate the demands o’ Necton Morbrec mac Erip, High King of the Picti.”

At these words, Mother screeched, startling Taliesin. What did she expect the monk to say?

She pushed her way across the rampart until she stood over the gate with the men.

“Garth!” she called, and the monk squinted his good eye back up at her, the sun partially blinding him.

“Who . . . who is it?” the monk asked. “Who knows me?”

Taliesin’s mother looked at Brother Loyt, Bedwir, and Caygek, and then back at the monk.

“Garth! It’s me . . . Natalenya!”

The monk blinked and swallowed, a look of desperation on his face. “I’m sorry, Natalenya. I didn’t know you and Merlin were here. Necton’s come to destroy this fortress and take you all captive.”

“How did you — ?”

“Come to be his prisoner? I’ve been a missionary to the Picti on the coast for three years. There’s a settlement on the Molendinar River, and we’ve even built a church. Necton knew I could translate for him, so he took me.”

Necton grimaced at Garth, grabbed his hair roughly, and wrenched him forward until he fell to his knees beside the man with the bag over his head. “Mungo! Thusa tellha ris openidha dunstuck gatesi!”

Garth was forced to look up at the fortress, and only spoke after he was slapped in the face. “Necton commands you to open up the gates . . . or else he’ll kill this prisoner.”

One of the guards untied the bag over the man’s head and pulled it off.

Taliesin jumped and slapped his hand to his mouth. Despite the blood dried dried onto the man’s face, Taliesin knew him: his great-uncle Ector.

W
hen the truce meeting actually began that night, it was with the lighting of ten bonfires and the preparation of a glorious feast. Arthur’s stomach turned at the thought of eating in that odious building, — surrounded by the dead, but he gritted his teeth and attended Vortigern as commanded.

Vortigern’s retinue had brought wagonloads of woolen mats, upon which reclined the men privileged enough to be chosen by Vortigern and Hengist to attend the feast — almost a thousand in total. Besides the two kings — who were each allowed their personal sword — all of those inside were weaponless, in the spirit of the truce.

Outside and eating less sumptuous fare sat the two armies — on opposite sides of the building, with Vortigern’s men to the west, and Hengist’s to the east.

But the truce inside was a friendly affair: the Saxen leaders had brought great vats of wine and, intermingled with the British nobles, passed the cups back and forth, drinking deeply.

At the same time they gorged on meat, soups, and flatbreads, all roasted and baked in the bonfires. No less than thirty deer turned on spits, and the aromatic smoke rose to the top of the old roof structure and escaped through the smoke hole and the numerous roof sections that were now drooping or missing.

Vortigern and Hengist found their seats upon two wooden thrones, and then the proceedings began. Nine druidow entered, amusing Arthur until they brought forth wooden trumpets and sounded them while marching in a circle with a shuffling, jerky dance. He had to cover his ears discreetly, for the trumpets sounded like nine rats dying. Next the druidow lit a ceremonial flame and flicked their curved brass daggers in and out of the flames, chanting:

Hear now a rede from olden day . . . When druid fires blazed bright.

The people came to Hen Crogmen . . . To dance the ancient rite.

And so today we bless this peace . . . ’Tween Saxenow and Brit.

Within this place, this sacred space . . . Today it shall be writ,

Turn not from us, nor from our kin . . . The men who do live free.

Come nigh to blessed oak array . . . Our gorseth ye shall see;

There worship we our primal gods . . . Tread not the paths of men.

Through smoke and fire thy oaths fulfill . . . At rarest Hen Crogmen.

When the druidow finished this ritual, they retreated to cluster behind Vortigern’s throne, with Podrith standing directly to the High King’s right. Then, with grunts of disapproval from the druidow, the priests of the Saxenow strode forward to perform their rites. Four of them came first, each in a red robe with a white sash. A fifth man approached leading a beautiful white horse. All of them began to make neighing and whinnying sounds as they danced around the horse, until they startled Arthur by grabbing the horse’s neck and pulling it down to a short stone pillar and slicing it open.

Arthur began to feel sick as the horse thrashed and fought while its blood drained upon the makeshift altar. Apparently the other Britons felt the same, for a great murmur of disapproval arose from the crowd.

“Cease!” one of the Saxen priests shouted in the Britons’ tongue. “We who serve the Men of the People require silence!”

At this the Britons murmured all the louder until Vortigern raised his hand. They quieted, but nothing could change the seething anger written on their faces.

When the shameful sacrifice was done, the horse was brought to the fire to be cleaned and roasted for the reprehensible gluttony of the Saxenow — and Arthur cursed them and their ways.
Why would Vortigern make peace with such a people?
Arthur wondered.

Vortigern and Hengist then began talking with one another, but their interaction was subdued. The bags under Vortigern’s eyes were puffy and red, as if he’d been crying and drinking all day.

And then there was Hengist —
proud
Hengist — whose face was a mask of guarded mirth, for he would only smile when Vortigern was looking. His pale hair was slicked back and his golden armbands reflected the light of the fires so that his skin appeared ablaze.

There was a young woman who feasted next to Hengist, and Arthur found her vehemently staring at him on more than one occasion. Her hair was like long, golden flax, braided with cords of red and brown leather. Upon her head lay a slim golden diadem, and her finely laced dress was a multicolored plaid of brown, tan, and white. If she had not been a Saxen and a pagan, Arthur would have considered her to be a great prize.

But then a strange voice entered his head . . . a voice that was not his own:

Stare not at me
,
slayer of my uncle!

What you behold is not for a beast like you.

If it were not for this feast
,
I would slit your throat and toss the globes of your eyes into the fire.

The girl arched one of her brows and bared her teeth.

Do not be surprised I can speak to you thusly.

I am a prophetess among my people
,
and the god I serve
,
Wotan
,
has given me many powers.

Fear me
,
murderer!

Arthur turned away from her, shook his head, and tended to his duty of waiting on Vortigern. But he could feel her glare burning into him, and the urge to flee beat into his chest like dark waves upon a storm-tossed shore. He pushed against these feelings, and finally vanquished them as he focused on what Vortigern was saying to him.

“Artorius,” the high king said with a vacant stare, “fill my goblet once more.”

As hero of the battle, Arthur had been required to be the personal and esteemed servant of the High King.
Why have I been elevated to such a role?
Arthur asked himself more than once, and the only answer he could surmise was that his presence would aggravate Hengist. What good purpose this could serve, he didn’t know.

He went quickly and returned with a decanter of one of the finer meads, one scented with plum and the flowers of clover.

Soon after, Vortigern made another request. “Artorius, my son, take this bloody venison and have the cooks roast it until the edges are charred . . . and bring some oil for my beard.”

But it wasn’t the oil of gladness Arthur gave him, rather the oil of mourning. The tales of Vortipor’s entombing the night before swirled amongst the British warriors, and Arthur picked up that Vortigern had wept and screamed. The man’s lineage was at an end, and Arthur couldn’t help but think of how Vortigern had tried to end Uther’s years ago.

Arthur was out of earshot for a time, waiting on a cook to make a special vinegar sauce the High King delighted in, and when he came back, bearing the golden vessel, Vortigern and Hengist were holding hands ceremonially — in a pact of truce, Arthur guessed.