Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (36 page)

The shield became caught in the blades and its edge was rammed into the dirt. The spokes of the wheel shattered, and Hengist’s chariot crunched to a stop. The king of the Saxenow untied the reins from his waist and leapt out, enraged. The darkening, smokey sun reflected off his golden armbands as he lifted a massive hammer, and his arms were so thick that Arthur had no doubt he could wield it with deadly effect.

Arthur’s horse, startled by the chariot, had lifted up on one leg, freeing Arthur, who climbed to his feet shakily and drew his sword. Only then did he notice that his helm was missing and blood dripped down the left side of his cheek.

Hengist strode toward him and raised his hammer and swung it at Arthur’s head.

Arthur sprang to the side, and in the moment when the weight of the hammer pulled the Saxen king’s balance forward, he tried to swing at his arm.

But Hengist saw it coming and twisted his body so that the blade made only a thin red line across his shoulder.

Arthur tried to strike again, this time thrusting the tip of his sword toward Hengist’s bare chest, but the man was too quick and swung his hammer up, hitting Arthur’s blade in the middle and nearly flinging it from his grip. And before Arthur could strike again, Hengist had dropped the hammer and tackled him.

Arthur released his sword, finding it useless as Hengist grappled him, tying up his arms in an unbelievable grip. Arthur had been trained in wrestling, sure, but no one near Dinas Crag had been as big or as strong as Hengist, and Arthur just wasn’t prepared for the ferocity of his attack. With only inches between their faces, Arthur could see the twitch of the man’s cheeks and his bulging eyes as Arthur fought to free himself.

A mob of Saxenow warriors had gathered, for their foreign-looking, long-laced boots had lined up in a circle around the two.
Soon, Arthur feared, they would watch the spectacle of the High King of the Britons being beaten by Hengist. Arthur looked for British boots, but couldn’t find them in the sea of trespassing Saxenow legs.

Unable to free his arms, Arthur shifted his weight and kneed Hengist in the side five times.

The man’s grip slackened for the briefest moment.

Arthur twisted his right wrist free and reached for the knife sheathed at his hip.

Hengist sensed the danger and slammed his forehead into Arthur’s. The world exploded in flashes of light, and the only other thing Arthur could sense was the reek of the man’s smoky, sweaty hair draped across his cheek.

“British mongrel,” Hengist said with spittle flying, “dis is yer last, miserable day!”

When Arthur’s vision cleared he found Hengist’s right hand at his throat and saw his own knife in Hengist’s left — ready to plunge into Arthur’s chest.

T
aliesin screamed and swung his sword, biting into the spear’s tip and knocking it to the side.

The Pict stabbed again, but Taliesin ducked and dove through the man’s legs, accidentally slicing the man’s breeches with the edge of his sword. If only he had thought to do it on purpose!

The Pict spun around, but the rope was between his legs now and Taliesin was already running around him the other way, always keeping his blade pointed at his foe — as Bedwir had taught him.

But the Pict found the rope with his hand and with a wicked snigger jerked Taliesin toward him.

Taliesin fell hard on his side.

The Pict advanced, keeping the rope taut and his spear ready.

“By God’s grace, leave him alone!” called a voice from above.

A small rock came hurtling down and bounced off of the Pict’s shoulder.

Taliesin looked up, and there on the wall above him stood Brother Loyt. Taliesin got to his feet.

The Pict shook his fist at the monk and then jumped at Taliesin with his spear. Another rock came sailing down and cracked the Pict on the head.

Taliesin ran forward and jabbed his sword in deeply just below the man’s ribs. The Pict screeched, dropped his spear, and fell over.

Taliesin pulled the sword out from the man and it was slicked with blood. From inside his shirt, Gaff whimpered. Taliesin sheathed his sword, there not being time to clean it, and pulled the rope free from the man’s legs. Just as he reached the wall, a mob of Picti appeared over the lip of the hill.

There was no way he could climb fast enough!

But then the rope went taut and Taliesin looked up to see Withel and Brother Loyt hauling in the line. Rocks came hurtling down on the Picti too, for Bedwir and Caygek had come, along with three other defenders.

Taliesin was lifted from the ground, and, finding a grip in the stones of the wall, he started scaling upward. Withel and Brother Loyt pulled and pulled, and soon Taliesin was over the top of the wall and on his back, panting. Underneath him the stones of the parapet felt cool on his hot neck, and above him little Gaff began to wag her tail under his tunic. She poked her head out and licked him on the chin.

He held his hand out to Withel. “Thanks . . .” was all he had breath to say.

Withel helped him up and then punched him hard in the shoulder. “Good kill,” he said. “We’ll make you into a warrior yet.”

But Taliesin thought of his father and his harp, remembering the calling upon his life. “A bard, I’m going to be a true bard.”

“Ah, sure, but at least you’ll be able to fight, huh?”

“Sure.” Taliesin pulled Gaff fully out of his tunic and set her down carefully in a little niche in the stones, where she began to lick her wounds. Then he untied the rope from his waist, glad to be free of it.

When a hook caught the top of the wall right in front of them, Taliesin realized that he and Withel had ignored the exchange of arrows, rocks, and spears that had been going on all around them. The boys looked over the wall to see a Pict climbing the rope.

“Throw rocks!” Withel yelled, and they grabbed some and threw them down on the man, but a spear came hurtling up at them, nearly parting Taliesin’s hair.

To their left, one of the defenders screamed. It was Logan, a young horse tender who’d worked with Old Brice. At first Taliesin thought he’d been injured by a Pict, but it was something else, for he fell to his knees and began scratching at his arms. At first there was nothing unusual about his skin, but almost instantly splotches appeared, and they quickly filled with black pus. It was the same thing that had happened to Old Brice!

With nothing Taliesin could do to help Logan, and Bedwir and Caygek busy knocking down their own Picti horde, he turned his attention back to the Pict climbing the rope, who was now halfway up the wall.

Withel was trying to lift the hook and throw it off the wall, but it was stuck. “Use your sword,” he said. “Cut the rope!”

Taliesin drew his blade and leaned over the wall. The rope was attached to the bottom of the hook but just close enough to reach, so he slashed out, only nicking it.

An arrow cracked the stone right next to Taliesin’s face, and chips of rock flew into his eyes. He swung the sword toward the rope again, and accidentally slipped forward precariously.

Withel grabbed Taliesin’s tunic from behind and steadied him. “Whack it!” he called.

Taliesin sawed at the rope and cut through one of the braids.

But the Pict was almost up to him now and, pausing his climb, he pulled a hatchet from his belt and angled it back to throw it at Taliesin.

Using his free hand, Withel tossed another rock and it struck the Pict in the chest.

Taliesin swung once more and severed the rope, sending the Pict down to the stones below.

Rebuffed in their first wave of attack, the Picti retreated, and there would have been silence for a space of minutes if not for Logan still moaning and crying on the parapet. Great-Aunt Eira and Taliesin’s mother were called up to help the man, and when they came, with Tinga in tow, they had their own news to tell.

Taliesin’s stomach clenched at the look on his mother’s face. She spoke, but she didn’t make eye contact with any of them, and her mouth seemed to move stiffly. “Six just died inside with the same plague. I don’t think there’s much hope for poor Logan.”

After a moment’s pause, Brother Loyt stepped forward. “Where there is life, there is hope. Come.” He gathered everyone around Logan and began to pray.

O Father, holder of the two lands,

This world and the next,

Come stand at the bridge of death

To restore Logan to us.

O Spirit, giver of the three blessings —

Grace, deeds, and pureness —

Come close and lift our brother,

Touch and mend sickly Logan.

O Christ, bearer of the four wounds —

Whip, thorn, nails, and spear —

Bring comfort to the hurting;

Heal Logan son of Ellic.

Logan gave a weak smile and nodded to Brother Loyt, but there was still fear in his eyes.

Taliesin picked up Gaff and gave her to Tinga, whose eyes filled with tears of gratitiude as she hugged her tail-wagging puppy.

Then someone shouted to them from below. Everyone but Logan rushed to look over the wall. It was a group of Picti come to parley. Their despicable High King was with them, as well as that monk fellow — Garth by name — and four warriors with spears.

Taliesin had heard lots of tales of Garth and his antics while growing up, and had always wished to meet him. The funny thing was that Taliesin never pictured him as a grown-up with stubble, but rather as a pudgy, funny boy with a bagpipe. Even Brother Loyt had stories to tell of Garth, having been a monk in the abbey of Bosventor, the town where Tas had grown up.

Taliesin had also heard tales of Necton, High King of the Picti — about how he had cruelly injured Taliesin’s father and the others many times during their slavery, and how he had stolen Tas’s torc. So now Taliesin had his own reason for hating him — for killing his great-uncle. What a wicked man this Necton was, what with his eyes darting back and forth like a weasel, and his huge, muscled hands clenching repeatedly as if he were choking someone.

Necton yanked Garth to the front and bade him speak — even though the monk had a swollen lip and bloody bruises covering the right half of his face.

Taliesin felt his mother’s hands come to rest on his shoulders just as Garth looked up.

“Natalenya!” Garth called, “Caygek! Bedwir . . . and all the rest who defend this fortress whom God knows — I am bid under threat o’ death to convince you to give up.”

He swallowed, licked his lips, and then continued.

“Necton says if you stay inside the fortress, he’s made a batterin’ ram and he’ll kill everyone. If you give up, he’ll spare you and only make you slaves. He says to give up, for you’re just a fly-dung o’ a fortress, and he’s tired o’ your obstinacy.”

Natalenya gripped Taliesin’s shoulders so tightly that it hurt.

Necton seemed satisfied with these words so far, but then Garth’s voice came again, louder, and filled with joy.

“But I say, no! Keep trustin’ in God, who can deliver you. Never give up!”

At these words Necton’s face twisted in rage and he drew a long knife. His men grabbed Garth’s light-red hair and yanked it backward in order to thrust the monk’s stomach out, and there Necton’s
blade came to rest. The High King of the Picti had a wicked grin as he looked up to the wall, and he whispered in Garth’s ear.

“He tells me he will kill me if you don’t surrender, just like the other prisoner. Don’t do it! I knew this might happen when I went north to plant a church, and I’m prepared.”

Great-Aunt Eira and Mother both looked ashen faced as they whispered to each other. Then Eira ran down the stairs on some urgent errand.

Taliesin’s mother called down to Necton. “Let him go! I will pay you gold if you let him join us in the fortress!”