Merlin's Shadow (12 page)

Mônda, the daughter of Mórganthu, hated God whom Merlin clung to — and she had made it her goal to make her stepson's life miserable whenever his father's back was turned.

Merlin felt his face flush with anger. He wanted to say the words, “Kill her … kill my sister” — but he couldn't. Despite her cruelty, she had also been like a shadow to him all his life, following him, needing his help, running to him when she was scared. Even needing his protection. Did she not deserve it now? Had she not been deceived by Mônda?

How could Merlin abandon her? How could he even think such a thing? He prayed for forgiveness, even as he prepared for action.

“Enough. What is your answer, little man?”

Another splinter lay nearby, and Merlin jumped and snatched it up, shouting, “None! I won't give you anyone!”

But Taranis only snorted.

Merlin lunged at him, hoping to drive the wooden spike into a chink in the armor at his waist — but Taranis swatted him away.

Merlin rolled across the table, his skin stinging and ripping. He slid to the edge and began to fall, grabbing the lip just in time and hanging on.

The warriors below screamed for his blood.

Using all his strength, he slowly pulled himself up and onto the table.

But it was too late. Taranis had ripped open Ganieda's cage, and she lay on the table underneath his hand, screaming. He raised his axe and looked at Merlin. “Since you will not choose, little man, I have chosen, and she is mine!”

The axe fell.

Merlin collapsed at the sight, every fiber of his being in shock. He beat his fists and wept — wept until his vision failed and the cruelty faded.

Ganieda laughed at Merlin, who lay in the dark like a lifeless eel. She scratched him again, feeling the power of the fang and the weird new strength in her arms. Where had her might and new determination come from? She did not know, but she silently thanked the Voice — who had chosen her.

Merlin seemed to stir. Maybe it was the blood dripping from his scalp, or maybe the kick she had given him in the ribs. Ahh, he was reaching for his blade, the lout. She stepped upon it, hoping it would snap, but it did not. He slipped it from under her foot as she cursed him with all the wicked words that her mother had ever taught her.

He raised the blade and looked at her, a fierceness in his eyes that she had never seen before. She tried to rip him again, but he feebly blocked the blow with his blade.

She spit at him.
She
was the strong one, and he would not stop her. For she was Ganieda no longer, but rather Gana the great. Yes! She would call herself, in the Eirish of her grandfather and mother,
Mór
-gana — High servant of the Voice, True Master of the Stone, the Fang, and the Orb — and Merlin could not prevent her from returning the rule of Britain to the Voice.

But her brother did something altogether odd. He flung his blade away, and with a look she had never seen in her life, he leapt at her, grabbed her wrists, and held them at her side. The two were now face to face, and she strained against him with all her will. Although Merlin's grip was strong from years of work in the blacksmith shop, she was stronger.

Gritting her teeth, she broke one wrist free — and then noticed his eyes. They were weeping. He blinked to clear his vision and said the last thing she expected.

“I love you!”

His voice broke, and he sobbed. Letting go of her other wrist, he hugged her.

An uncanny wind arose in the tunnel, fresh and clean, and it blew upon her, sapping her strength, her power. She slowly shrank and became as she once had been.

Ganieda the little.

She pushed Merlin away, slipped from his grasp, and ran down the dark tunnel. Flying past a startled man who hid at the entrance, she burst into the cold night. From her own eye, a single tear fell.

B
edwir would have been slaughtered on the spot if it hadn't been for his horse.

Having been in many battles during his years in Uther's war band, his bravery had won him the slim torc of a chieftain. Yet there he had sat — his legs unwilling to even kick his horse. Normally, flanked by fellow warriors, they'd face the enemy together. Here he was utterly alone, with death on both sides.

Sure, he'd raised his spear and aimed it at the blue-painted war leader bearing down on him, but the slicing screams of the Pict had filled Bedwir with such fright that his wits had flapped off into the night.

And with Vortigern hurtling toward him from the other direction, he'd just frozen up.

Thankfully, his horse had better sense.

It bolted back across the stream to the circle of stones and clambered up the mound until they reached the summit. From that vantage,
he turned in his saddle to see the war leader of the Picti slow down, knot his brow, and peer through the fog. It was then Bedwir realized the man had thought
Bedwir
his personal challenger. As if
he
was leader of the High King's armies.

Hah! And when Bedwir's horse turned tail and ran, the brute couldn't make sense of it.

Vortigern, however, realized the dire position he and the few with him found themselves in — and he took his great horn from his belt and blew it. Bedwir had often admired this horn, gilt with ancient runes from the house of Vortigern's grandfather, and even in the darkness Bedwir could see it shining above the battle chief's head. All of Vortigern's remaining warriors rushed down the field as he shouted his battle call.

“
Havoc … havoc!
To battle, men of valor!”

The Pict now spied Vortigern and charged his chariot directly at him. They met with a crash of weapons — Vortigern's shield shoving the spear to the side, and the Picti leader blocking the carefully timed chop with his torch.

But after they passed each other, the Pict's chariot hit a large stone, and his wheel separated, rolling off into the fog. The man jumped down, bellowing a Pictish curse, and turned to face Vortigern.

Vortigern ignored him. He scanned the field of battle and saw what Bedwir saw — that their men, though far outnumbered, fought bravely. Not only were they taller, stouter, and better armed, but they had more men horsed, bringing strength and speed to their attack. None of their own had gone down yet, though many of the enemy had fallen to the foggy ground, bleeding.

Vortigern finally detected Bedwir perched up on the mound. He shouted at him, snatched up an enemy spear, and spurred his horse upward.

Bedwir turned his mount, intent to dash down the other side — and found six Picti racing up at him, their spiked shields foremost.
Six?
He turned back to Vortigern, leveled his spear, and went
whooping down. If he died, then none would ever warn Colvarth of Vortigern's treachery. But what if Vortigern died? Aha! Bedwir smiled as he sped his horse downward.

He
had the high ground.
He
had the longer weapon. Vortigern would perish under his bright lance, and then Bedwir would reveal the treachery to all. He would hang Vortipor's headless body on a tree and restore Arthur to safety.

Bedwir the great, they would cheer. Bedwir the faithful!

But then his horse lost its footing. In one step, its right foreleg sunk into the rain-soaked earth of the mound, the beast rolled, and the world flipped. When next he looked, Vortigern's horse had thundered upon him, and the man drove his spear into Bedwir's side. At first, it felt like a hammer had rammed into his thick leather armor, but then the blade ripped through and pushed on his rib. The pain seared every fiber of his body, burning and burning. And yet harder Vortigern drove the spear, until the evil tip sliced through his skin and out of his side — and struck his faithful mount. The horse screamed, bucking and chomping.

Bedwir clamped his eyes shut as pain racked his body.

Merlin's wounds stung. He pulled the stopper from his waterskin and washed the blood from his face as best as he could in the dark. Putting the stopper back, he found his way back down the passageway. As he passed the tunnel where the others hid, he could hear Arthur crying, and Colvarth trying to comfort him. Merlin called to them. “It's just me … I'm going to Caygek now.”

Colvarth's voice spoke from the darkness. “That scream has awoken Natalenya and scared Arthur. Who was it, my Merlin?”

“We'll talk later. We're safe.” But Merlin wondered if it was true. With Arthur crying, their hiding place was in danger of being discovered.

Moving down the main tunnel, he found Caygek crouching to the left of the door.

Caygek jerked his blade at him. “Don't scare me,” he said.

“What's to be scared about?” Merlin said, feigning ignorance.

The moon lit up the fog outside, and Caygek studied Merlin's face in the half light. “You're bleeding.”

“I had a little tussle back there.”

“The witch?”

Merlin shook his head. “My sister.”

“Your …
sister?
Here in Kembry? Here in this tomb?”

“She's Mórganthu's granddaughter …
you
tell me how she got here.”

Caygek cursed under his breath. “I wasn't a follower of Mórganthu. I don't pretend to know his arts.”

“But you're a druid.”

“Not all druidow are alike. I am a
fili
, and a follower of the arch fili until Mórganthu cut him from this world. We opposed Mórganthu and his plans for a human sacrifice. It's been against our laws for the last ten generations of the druidow.”

“Tell me,” Merlin said, “why do you think human sacrifice is wrong?”

Dew drops hung from Caygek's brow, and he shook them off. “Life is sacred. The soil, the trees, the animals, the gods. The knotwork of nature re-creating itself, and man is part of that in a mysterious way, if you will. One of our brihemow has said:

“Thus we have corrected our old errors. We are always perfecting our truth. You know,
truth against the world
.”

“Do you know why Christians say human sacrifice is wrong?”

“I've never thought about it.”

“God requires the blood of all who fail to obey his laws. Yet he created us and loves us like children.” Merlin paused here and thought about his sister: so frail, so confused, and so ensnared. “So God sacrificed himself for us, so our blood doesn't need to be shed. Not even the blood of animals —”

A clanging of steel from outside caught Merlin's attention, and he and Caygek crept closer to the mouth of the tunnel. Three men with spears stood in the circle of stones, fighting a warrior on horseback. It was Vortigern, swinging like a madman — his strokes fell true, and soon two of them lay dead.

Colvarth's voice echoed from deep within the tunnel, soothing Arthur's cries. The words of scripture floated to Merlin:

Merlin noticed the third man was huge, with a bare chest and massive arms. His hair was greased back, and he had no beard. Blue whorls had been painted on his torso, and he hefted a long bronze-tipped spear.

“Picts!” Caygek said.

The man crouched, jabbing toward Vortigern to keep him and his horse back.

Nevertheless, Vortigern charged at him.

The Pict backed up and leveled his spear at Vortigern's throat.

Vortigern raised his shield to block it, his horse thundering forward, blade held high.

Colvarth's voice called out again, and now Merlin recognized it as one of the Psalms:

Vortigern rode down hard upon the Pict and ducked at the last second.

The Pict's spear point missed.

Vortigern swung his blade.

The Pict reversed his spear, blocked the sword, and rammed the butt into Vortigern's side, nearly unhorsing him.

Vortigern howled as he rushed past, then turned and charged again. This time the spear hit square upon his shield, piercing it. He howled in pain, backed up his horse, and chopped at the shaft until the Pict wrenched it out.

The Pict dove closer in with the spear, trying to jam it into Vortigern's face. Four more Picti joined him from behind, all whooping, holding their shields up and brandishing short spears.

Colvarth spoke again, this time quieter, and Merlin barely discerned the words:

Vortigern grimaced and reared his horse up and to the side, blocking the spear with his blade. Blood now spattered his ringmail under his shield arm, and he rode off into the fog blowing his horn.

Caygek shook his head, a smile on his face. “They're
retreating
.”

“Only Vortigern,” Merlin said, and he looked with dread on the Pictish war leader who soon gathered hundreds of torch-bearing men near the edge of the stone circle.

Colvarth's words once more echoed down the tunnel:

His voice trailed off, for Arthur's cries had turned to nothing but sniffles. Merlin hoped now that their position would remain unknown — but his optimism was ill founded, for he had momentarily forgotten Ganieda.

She now stepped into the stone circle. Though small of stature, the light from her dark cloak was menacing, and the fog churned around her like wolven wraiths. The Picts, astonished at her presence, fell back until only two Picts remained: the war leader who had battled Vortigern, and one other, with a large knot of hair perched upon his head.

The war leader threatened Ganieda with his spear. “Thusa back'ive, she-witch!” he growled. Merlin understood the man's speech, though barely. The words felt twisted, and they were spoken with a strange, guttural accent.

The other man, with the pile of hair, took a long stick with bells and shook it at her, calling out a throaty chant.

Ganieda did not flinch. Instead, she raised her arms. In her left hand shone a burning ball of purple flame. In the other, the white dagger with a sickly, greenish glow.

Merlin touched the stinging wound on his nose; the blood had just begun to scab over.

Caygek placed a hand on Merlin's shoulder. “What's she doing? Is she giving us up?”

Merlin sighed. He couldn't believe it either, but it was true.

“Then we have to kill her.”

“I've already done what I can,” Merlin said. “Run out now, and they'll know for sure that we're here.”

“If I had a bow, I'd —”

She raised her voice, and in a language Merlin did not understand she proclaimed something to them. Then she turned, and pointed at the mouth of the tunnel where they hid.

Merlin's heart began to beat wildly.

The Picts roared at her words and looked toward the entrance to the tomb.

But she screamed, and they all shut their mouths. She said something more, and then to emphasize her point, she took her dagger and pretended to slit the throat of the war leader. He snarled and backed up.

And then she disappeared, dissolving downward into the fog.

The Picts, stunned at first, searched the ground where she had been. Satisfied she was gone, they finally turned to face the mound and walked slowly toward Merlin and Caygek's hiding place, the light from their torches floating through the fog.

If Troslam could have complained out loud without giving himself away, he would have. Why had he ever promised Merlin that he'd look after Ganieda? So here he was, holding a spear and hiding behind a thick bush not twenty paces from Mórganthu's tent.

He had been looking for the girl ever since Merlin left, and had almost given up when his wife reproved him for failing to see if she was staying with the old arch druid. To be honest, Troslam had been avoiding the area, not wanting to deal with the druids gathered
there. Now, as he approached, he could hear the voice of a young girl arguing with Mórganthu inside the tent.