Merlin's Shadow (11 page)

Vortigern lifted his foot and kicked Bedwir in the side, shoving him precariously over.

Bedwir tried to catch himself, but the leather reins had rotted and they tore. He toppled to the ground — not too far down. But then his horse stepped on his right shin, and he yelled in pain.

Vortigern laughed. “Gather wood, you spineless, horse-faced louse.”

Bedwir stood, using his spear as a crutch, but his leg throbbed sharply. Between the horse stepping on him and the thorn jabs from earlier, his leg was in bad shape. While most of the warriors chopped branches from the dry gorse, Bedwir headed in the other direction and gathered deadwood from among the roots of the trees. He carried six armfuls back, and they quickly formed up their fires across the valley. One of the men lit the center fire, and from there it was transferred to the others.

Only then did Bedwir get a chance to breathe. He nursed his leg while leaning against his horse and studied the one lone fire in the middle of the valley. What he saw concerned him. There were figures moving around it, a torch was taken away, and then the main fire was snuffed out. Only the flicker of the torch remained, and then it too was swallowed by the death shroud that filled the valley.

Where had they gone? And did that single fire represent those who had taken Arthur hostage? Who were the men that had lit the other fires way down the valley? And what if Arthur was about to be slain? Who would help him?

Bedwir looked to Vortigern.

The man leaned against his horse and adjusted a large golden ring adorning his finger. He then took out a bag of smoked meat and sliced off a long lump and began chewing it. Never once did he even look down the valley. Did the man not care what happened to Arthur? Until now, Vortigern had seemed to pursue Arthur with a
zeal unmatched by anyone else in their warband. Why was he waiting now?

Vortipor's thin frame slid over from beyond the nearest bonfire and approached his father. His meager beard was wet with dew, and he looked worried. “How long do we wait?” he asked.

“Till daylight, when we can see what devilry is afoot.” Vortigern sliced off more meat and began chewing.

“A scout could answer our questions.”

“Nah. I'll not chance it in the dark. If Colvarth has raised some warriors, then we're probably outnumbered. If he hasn't, then Arthur's not going anywhere, now is he? I have waited too long for this moment to lose it in the dark.”

Sticking his chin out, Vortipor said, “And what of Natalenya?”

“There is the torc of a king to think about here — and you still want the girl, eh?”

“The kingship isn't my concern. The girl. All I want is the girl.”

Bedwir wanted to limp over and grab Vortipor by the tunic and shake him. He wanted to shout, “Arthur
will
wear his father's torc!” But he held back in the shadow behind his horse and watched the two — as bile burned in his throat.

Vortigern shook his head, dewdrops flinging from his long moustache. He glanced around as if to make sure they were alone, and then lowered his voice.

Bedwir strained his ears to snatch the words from the mist.

“Are you the great-grandson of Vitalinus, High King of the Britons?”

Vortipor said nothing, but the firelight glinted off his eyes like daggers.

“Then forget Natalenya. Rebuild with me the feasting hall at Glevum, thrown down by that cursed Aurelianus. In a few hours, we will secure the High Kingship for ourselves.”

Vortigern put his arm around his son and walked him away into the darkness, whispering.

Bedwir heard no more. He was about to shout and denounce Vortigern before his fellow warriors, but something gave him pause. How many were secretly loyal to Vortigern? After all, those who crossed the channel had been hand-selected by the battle chief. Perhaps all of them.

Fire in his veins and a spear in his hand, he leapt onto his sorry horse and kicked it into a gallop toward the dark center of the valley. He had to warn those who held Arthur — wherever they were.

A yell went up from the warband as he left them behind. Soon, other horses galloped in chase. He turned to see Vortigern in the lead, along with Vortipor and two others.

Bedwir kicked his horse harder, and she increased her galumphing to a speed that surprised even him. But it wasn't enough. Vortigern was gaining on him — fast.

Bedwir hefted his spear, shook it, and felt the vibration of the heavy tip. He might only get one chance. The mist bent away from his horse's legs as they cut through the valley. The cool, water-laden air flew past his cheeks and soaked into his skin. Droplets formed on his brows and threatened to drip into his eyes. He wiped his forehead and saw the dark mound rise out of the fog, much larger than he had thought it to be. From here, the standing stones looked like the teeth of some giant serpent whose open jaw was swallowing the mound from below.

He galloped past the nearest, and saw nothing but the smoking remains of a fire. Colvarth, Merlin, and Arthur were gone — but where? There was no time to investigate, for Vortigern was riding fast upon him, his sword aloft and a deadly pallor to his face.

Bedwir scamped his horse forward, across the stream and into the open — and stopped in alarm. Down the valley rushed hundreds of men holding torches. Their fierce and feral screams echoed through the gorge, and their short spears jabbed past their shields as they ran. In front of them rode a huge man in a wicker chariot. The blue paint on his body shone in the torchlight, and he bore a spear with feathers flying from the haft behind the bronze point.

They were Picti — Prithager from the north. Bedwir's fingers froze on the reins, and he had to fight his own hands to get his horse wheeled around — only to see Vortigern and his warband riding down on him.

G
anieda took a deep breath as she stole one last glance at the man, whom she now knew was the Voice. He faded until only the spectral light of his robe remained, and then that too vanished.

Although left in complete darkness, somehow her eyes could see. It was almost as if her own skin, hair, and clothing cast a glow upon the floor before her.

The instructions were simple, and after she obeyed, then she could see her mother again. All Ganieda had to do was walk straight through the tunnel until it opened upon a valley. There she must speak with the two leaders of the Picts and tell them to kill Merlin and all who were with him.

Kill Merlin?

Grandfather wanted that.

But Ganieda had decided
not to
and had defied her grandfather. Why had she changed her mind again so quickly? The words of the Voice echoed through her remembrance.

“Why me?” she had asked.

“Because you are destined for greatness,” he had said, kneeling down and holding her hands. “I have chosen you until my two other servants are free.”

She had looked at him, cocking an eyebrow. There was a scar on his forehead, almost hidden by his hood. Its meandering, furrowed line ran into his hair — as if his skull had been savagely broken once, but now it was healed.

“You must bring the Pax Druida back to my land. The time of the Romans is over, and they served me well … for a time. But now I am doing a new work, and many enemies stand in my way. You must help me drive out the Christians — who stain my soil with their diseased feet and invade my people's minds with their jaundiced teachings.”

“Who are you?” Ganieda had asked, afraid that the man's long fingernails would dig into her flesh if he didn't like the question.

“I?” And then he had laughed as if she'd probed some place of hidden delight. The sound echoed through him like he was a hollow tree struck by lightning, old and rotten.

“That is a secret,” he had said, “a mystery that you will one day unravel. But know this — that I have been the very Lord of the Britons for time beyond your ability to count,
and I will allow no other to take my place
.”

Once again the Voice had shown her the image of her mother sleeping peacefully. Only now she lay under a tree bearing strange, elongated red fruits. Ganieda longed to eat of the fruits and sleep in her mother's embrace. She was so beautiful that Ganieda could almost smell her dark tresses. Safety. Love. Abundance. All these Ganieda wanted, but they were just out of reach.

She shook her head, and the remembrance fled. The dark tunnel lay before her, and she took a step, determined to have her mother back even if it meant Merlin's death.

Merlin took a few steps and then stopped, hearing the echo of his own boots on the rock-scrabbled floor. Ahead of him, the bowels of the tomb sucked away all light, and though he wished for their only torch, he would not leave Colvarth and the others in darkness. Besides, the blindness was not unfamiliar. He turned his head to the side and listened, trying to discern what — or who — lay ahead. At first there was only silence, but then he heard something move. A footstep perhaps.

He sniffed the air, and the faint stink of some sort of animal — perhaps a wolf — made the back of his throat crawl. Walking forward again, he waved his blade back and forth to ward off any hidden menace. Something echoed ahead of him, and he stopped to listen. Almost like someone had caught their breath.

And then he saw her. The form of a woman with glowing skin floated from the shadows. Her black clothing drooped from her figure in great swathes, and it too burned with a pale light. Her face reminded him of Môndargana, his stepmother, yet it was not her. Attractive, like Mônda, sure — yet dread filled him when he beheld her. Merlin's strength drained from his body. He fought to raise his blade to strike the witch, but his arm lay fast at his side.

She saw him, and her eyes lit with a smoldering fire. The corners of her lips turned upward in a snarl, and she let out a scream that pierced the air.

Merlin's heart stopped beating for a moment, and his chest tightened as if a pair of massive blacksmith tongs squeezed him. He tried to speak, but couldn't. His legs felt weak, and he fell to his knees, all the while staring at her face as she said his name. His name. She knew it.

“Merlin …”

But when she said it, her figure shrunk for an instant, and then grew again to her former size. And that brief glimpse was all Merlin needed, for he knew her now. Her distinctive scream. The face. His name. She was Ganieda, his young sister, grown to maturity by some evil art.

She couldn't be …

Merlin had asked Troslam and Safrowana, a couple in his village, to care for his sister back in Bosventor. Troslam, with his golden beard and ready smile, had promised him he would seek Ganieda out and bring her into his home. Had he failed? How could Gana be here in Kembry? And why did she scare him like … a witch?

He shook his head, mumbling, “No-o-o-o.” But he saw that it was true.

She raised her hand to strike him, and her fingers held a long, radiant spike — curved and sharp.

He tried to shield the blow with his sword, but his hand would not obey him. His blade clattered to the ground.

Her blow fell, scratching him across his right cheek and nose. Green lightning, like flames in a copper furnace, jumped from her hand and jabbed deep into him. He yelled, but there was no sound.

She twirled around him, brandishing her white dagger and flinging scornful laughs from her lips.

Blood began to drip down his face and nose, and he finally took a breath. Gathering all his strength, he covered his eyes to protect them from her next blow.

It fell quickly, slicing across his left cheek and hand.

Hatred and anger boiled up in Merlin. This time it was neither wild wolves scratching him — or even
her
wolves. It was Ganieda herself.

His hands accidentally smeared the blood up into his eyes. Redness, shadow, and the dizzying, ghostlike form of Ganieda filled his gaze. He fell to the stone floor and everything went dark.

Merlin felt himself falling, falling, spinning, and tumbling through the air as the lights of countless stars rushed past. It was cold, and he knew nothing more until he found himself standing upon a wide, bouldered plain surrounded by hills, and beyond them, mountains. A wind arose and then died after touching tufts of grass that had
dared to lift their brown, stunted heads from the sand. No bird could be seen, or any other animal, and a profound silence filled the land.

He stood, sensing something wrong, some doom approaching.

The ground shook, and he heard cracking behind him.

Merlin turned to see a roof and thick timbers breaking up through the soil. Sand slid down the roof as they thrust up to a neck-bending height of sixty feet. The ground fractured, and black walls shoved up and clacked onto the timbers. Massive stones skittered across the ground and formed an arch just as the planks of a huge door rattled from the soil and latched into place.

The clouds overhead rumbled, and Merlin shivered. From the distance came the sound of marching feet, and then a voice, strong and deep:

A man rode a steed over a low hill, and he led warriors in the thousands. His arms were like oaks, and he held in his hands a large bronze pot and stone hammer. His skin was golden, and his plated armor gray. The horned helm upon his head that hid his face had been fashioned of a darker metal.

The horse below him had a coat the color of ashes, with a black mane. Smoke rolled from its nostrils, and its furred hooves sent sparks into the patchy grass, lighting it on fire.

The man hammered upon the pot, and lightning burst from its surface — skyward in a great arc. Thunder, in turn, beat upon the earth like a drum. The army marched closer, and the man called out again:

Merlin hid behind a boulder as Taranis rode closer. The hammer smashed again upon the pot and lightning struck out once more, riving the ground and sending the clouds into a roiling tumult. Now only twenty paces away, Merlin shrank in terror, for Taranis was five times taller than any man he had ever seen. The horse he rode was truly a monster, with swelling muscles, pulsing veins, and teeth that could pluck Merlin's head as if he were some weed.

When he dismounted, his metal-shod boots sent cracks through the rocks. He set down the pot and hammer and pulled a large axe from his belt. The house that had risen from the sand shook as he walked toward it, and he unlatched the wooden door. With the groan of timber cracking, the portal swung inward and Taranis entered.

With the man's back turned, Merlin prepared to flee, but realized that the army, of shorter stature than Taranis, had begun to surround him. Each of them had spears with long golden blades, and they beat them in time on their gray shields as they marched. Golden nose rings had been driven into their nostrils, and from each ring hung an iron chain down to their belts.

The only escape now lay beyond the house, and Merlin ran, his legs shaky and his breath forced.

But Taranis reached out from the door and snatched Merlin by his tunic and swung him up into the air. “Our business with you isn't finished, little trespasser.” He carried Merlin into the house and slammed the door with a booming crash. Merlin was flung onto a high table, and the man leaned over to peer at him through the eye slits of his helm.

Merlin's head spun as he tried to pick himself off of the rough wood. He had just sat up when Taranis reached up to his helm, snapped it into two pieces, and pulled it off.

Merlin backed up, his pulse racing — for Taranis had the face of a bull. The red-tipped horns entered his skull just above the bovine ears, and his luminous eyes burned fiercely.

Taranis laughed through his stunted snout, saliva dripping from his lips. “You must pay me for trespassing on my land!”

Only then did Merlin notice a huge balancing scale standing a few feet behind him. In one wide pan sat a large pile of gold coins, and the other lay filled with the heads of men.

Taranis dumped both pans out and brushed the contents off the table. The heads fell thudding to the floor even as the coins scattered and rolled away.

Merlin felt for his sword and found it missing. He had dropped it when he was with Ganieda, and now he couldn't defend himself. He ran to the edge of the table and looked down, considering his options. But many of Taranis's warriors had now entered the house and surrounded the table.

“You can only get away, little man, after you pay my tax.” Taranis banged his meaty fists on the table, and the shock sent Merlin to his knees. “Whom shall it be?” he asked, and he lifted up to the table a cage, and within it stood Merlin's companions. Colvarth, his black cloak torn and his arms covered in welts, held Arthur, who screamed. Garth's face was white, and his lip had been split and bloodied. Caygek's beard had been ripped out.

Natalenya was also there, half hidden behind Caygek. Upon her cheeks lay a black rash, and she glanced at him, looked down in sorrow, and then covered her face.

Taranis clinked into the left pan the largest gold coin Merlin had ever seen. “Which shall you sacrifice to pay me? One
should
be enough to equal the weight of this coin.”

Merlin hesitated.

“Or shall it be
your
head?” He hefted his axe, and swung it downward. Merlin jumped to the side just in time, and the notched blade nearly split the tabletop, sending huge splinters flying in his face.

“Which head shall it be, little man?” Taranis said, bringing his noisome snout down to Merlin's face.

“None!” Merlin yelled, and he grabbed one of the splinters and drove it into Taranis's oily nose.

The beast yelped as blood poured onto the table. He swiped at Merlin, who ducked and ran to the cage, trying to free his friends. But he could find no lock or mechanism to open it.

The shadow of a giant hand fell upon Merlin and slapped him away from the cage. Merlin flew back, slamming into the pans of the scale and slumped to the table. His head buzzed, and the world faded and reappeared. He felt the rough wood to assure himself he was still alive, and then slowly climbed to a sitting position.

“I will overlook your insolence, and give you
one
last chance to choose my payment.” Taranis picked up from the floor another cage and banged it onto the table.

Merlin blinked at the person standing alone in the new cage.

It was Ganieda.

She stood there, her small hands trembling upon the bars. Her hair was knotted, and tears streamed down her bruised face. “Help me, Merlin,” she called. “Don't let him kill me!” She fell sobbing to the floor of the cage.

“Whose head shall be my payment?” Taranis said, holding his axe between Merlin and himself.
“Choose.”

Merlin looked to the faces of his friends, desperate, and pained. He could never choose any of them for death at the hands of Taranis — not even Caygek.

Then Merlin looked at Ganieda. She had tried to kill — nay,
was
trying to kill him. If she were dead, then he might live. Live to carry Arthur to safety. Live to see Natalenya home with her family.

The sad remembrances of his childhood with Ganieda flooded back to him. Memories of her screaming at him for nothing. Of her spitting in his face when he wouldn't obey her. Of her cruelly tripping him in his blindness. In all these things Ganieda imitated Mônda, her mother and Merlin's stepmother.