Merlin's Blade (17 page)

“And that's why we're here. In the smithy.”

His father pulled the blade out to check its color.

“Yes. And I hope I'll have my most excellent sword for him. Normally I'm angry when a man says he'll pay for an elaborate weapon like this and then disappears. But now I'm glad. We'll give it to Uther … and may he forgive me.”

N
atalenya screamed.

Vortipor jerked backward. “Thunder of Taranis, don't do that!”

He stepped forward again with his arm raised, and Natalenya shrieked even louder.

His upraised hand reached out … and grasped a cast-iron pot from where it hung from the ceiling above her. “See, I'm just getting this for your mother.”

Natalenya's shoulders trembled as she exhaled.

One of the servants peered through the doorway, then hurried away.

“Why did you shout?” Vortipor asked, cracking the knuckles of his right hand on the hilt of his dagger, which hung from his belt. “You have no need to fear me.”

Natalenya stared at him. His young face had already been bronzed and lined from years spent out in the wind and sun. If not for his sparse beard over his youthful chin, he'd appear twice her age. But his eyes … they lingered on her more than she liked.
A wolf
, she thought,
who has no bone to gnaw
.

“W-why does my mother need the pot?” she asked to break the silence.

“To warm up honey. And everyone else, including you, was busy.”

“I see.”

“She seems to have no end of jobs for me.” He stretched his neck down and peered at her, scum on his lips showing in the sallow light. “Why'd it take so long to take that wine to my father?”

Her face flushed. “I … I was delayed.”

He shook his head. “I see now. Did they tell you something, perhaps?”

She lifted her chin. “No!”

Natalenya's mother walked into the room and cleared her throat loudly.

Vortipor whirled to face her.

“There is the pot,” her mother called. “Come along. The honey isn't getting any warmer.”

The two left the room together, but before he turned the corner, Vortipor grinned at Natalenya, and his teeth seemed to her sharp and leering.

In the corner of the culina, she sat on the bench next to the shuttered window and prayed for help. How could her life change so in the course of a few hours? Was her father really going to promise her to Vortipor? If only her mother had a say. But no, her father only made decisions in consultation with his moneybag.

And what of her father's and Vortigern's talk about the High King? Were they considering treason? She had never known her father to speak that way, so it didn't make sense. He was a man who loved high positions, and as long as he could harvest coins from the
people, he seemed happy enough to let those above him have their way. Sure, he had sought advancement but never through disloyalty.

And Vortigern? He was brother-in-law to Uther. Surely she had heard him wrong.

Even so, she would keep her eyes and ears open just in case.

One thing she did understand, though, was that if Vortipor was like his father, she would loathe him.

A great sob knotted up in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and envisioned stuffing her fears into a bag and carrying it down a long hallway lined with closed doors. Soon she found an empty room, threw the bag in, and locked it away. Like all the other emotions not allowed in her father's house.

But then, while standing in the imagined hallway of her heart, she heard a voice call from the distant end of the corridor.

Who was this? She stood on her toes, looked through the bars, and took in a sharp breath. It was a ghostlike image of Merlin. He stood there, tall and nearly as strong as his blacksmith father, his golden torc shining in the torchlight below his shoulder-length, curly black hair. He smiled at her, his fine teeth showing, and her heart was drawn to him.

But it was hard to look at his injuries. The pupils of Merlin's eyes were scarred, and the eyelids disfigured. From there, long gouges emanated across his cheeks, temples, and forehead. Even though the scars were no longer red, their depth set Natalenya's teeth on edge.

Whatever happened, it must have been excruciating. Despite these wounds, he was noble, faithful, and strong in spirit.

He reached out to her, calling her name.

In a fluster, she opened her eyes. Why was he there, locked up in her heart? She'd always pitied him, one of the many disabled people who lived on the woodland moor. But had she ever really known him or considered him? Certainly not until the events of the past week demonstrated his amazing strength to stand for what was right. Despite his blindness.

And that was the real issue. Could she marry someone blind?
Truly love someone so deeply scarred? Yes, she realized now that she could. Oh, but how could he provide for her and a family? For the present he could work for his father, but after Owain died, what then? Merlin could never be a tradesman on his own. And
her
father would never approve. Never.

She wanted to run away and not come back. If she stayed, she'd be forced to marry Vortipor. Either way she'd lose her mother — her helper, teacher, and friend. Her whole life seemed to be crashing down around her, and these thoughts swirled in her head until she felt dizzy.

Finally gathering her wits again, she wiped her eyes and straightened her skirt before marching out of the room. There in the great hall, the men loudly gathered around the hearth, where Trevenna handed out wheat-coriander cakes brushed with honey.

But Vortipor was talking with his father, and his glance met hers before she was able to avert her eyes. He whispered to his father, whose smile quickly faded. His mouth became a hard line beneath his thick mustache as he clenched his fists, drew a long knife, and stabbed the wheat cake in front of him, slicing it in two.

Natalenya did her best not to notice, but her heart beat wildly.

Her father marched into the room dressed in his leather cloak. “Vortigern, are you ready? Mórganthu said after sunset. Come, let us see this Druid Stone again.”

“Men of Britain.” Vortigern's voice thundered through the hall. “We go to water our horses before sleep and to look upon this Stone once more. Gather!”

Before they left, Vortipor rushed over and seized three honey cakes. He stuffed them into his broad mouth, and many precious pieces fell to the floor to be trampled by the men.

The last one out the door, oddly enough, was Vortigern, who as the battle chieftan normally would have led the men from the room. Before closing the timbers, he faced her. And she trembled, for his gloomy eyes bored into her and seemed to say,
Beware, Natalenya … beware!

Owain used a poker to push the bright coals away from the sword, and then he clamped the tongs onto the blade. “We're ready for another time at the anvil.”

The leather-wrapped handles felt familiar in Merlin's hands, and the heat of the sizzling sword warmed the air.

His father positioned him so the glowing blade was over the anvil. “Ready?”

Merlin tensed his legs, back, and arms. “Ready.”

After hammering for a while, his father hid the blade back in the coals, and Merlin returned to the bellows.

“Tas?” Merlin asked. “Why'd you leave Uther's war band? That would have been exciting — to serve a prince.”

“Dangerous, I'd say. We helped keep the northlands clear of Prithager and Eirish, and we did it well while their raiding parties were small. But they sent a large force against us.”

Amazed he was finally hearing some stories from his father, Merlin asked, “How many?”

His father shifted the coals. “They had a thousand to our three hundred. Hotter, Merlin … That's better.”

“What'd you do?”

“Ah, we were up in Guotodin, with no help nearby and our route south cut off. So we retreated northeast to the closest fortress. Atleuthun was the old king at Dinpelder, and he was a sometime ally to Uther's father. We went there for help — stayed two days preparing for the coming foe — but in that time I fell in love.”

“Mother?”

“Yes. Gwevian was the king's daughter.”

Merlin stopped the bellows. “I never knew!”

“It's true. She was so beautiful. All that red hair down to her waist. You should have seen the braids she could make.” Owain paused, and Merlin marveled at his father's peaceful, almost wistful tone.

“But Atleuthun's house was pagan, so I shared the knowledge of
Jesu with his daughter. She not only believed; she fell in love with me even as my heart was drawn to her.”

“Why was Uther angry about that?”

“Slow down,” his father said. “But keep the bellows going. It was Atle who was angry, and that was the crux. Something perplexing about that man and his son, but I never put my finger on it. It wasn't long before I was thrown in Atle's dungeon, and Uther and the men had to leave with neither the king's warriors to help nor food. And an enemy thrice their size approaching from the southwest.”

Merlin worked the bellows mechanically, his thoughts centered only on his parents. “What happened?”

“King Atle tried twice to kill your mother for her refusal to deny Jesu. The first time he threw her from the highest cliff of the fortress and —”

“What?”

His father rattled among his tools. “Yes, it's true. To the glory of Christ, she lived, and not even a scratch marked her fair skin. She told me later she felt invisible hands protecting her.”

Merlin thought of the angel he'd seen in his own visions. “What did Atle do?”

“You mean what did
I
do? Because of the miracle, a servant snuck down and released me, telling me the tale. The woman was old and hunched over, but her heart was gentle.”

“So you got out.”

“I made my way to Uther's camp, where he was girding for battle.” His father sighed. “But we couldn't agree. I wanted him to help
me
save Gwevian, but he named me a fool for getting them shut out from Atle's fortress. Instead, he wanted me to help him in the coming battle. To stand by his side.”

“I see.”

“Ah, I was thick even to ask him, and all of us were in trouble because of Atle's wrath at me. At me!” His voice suddenly rose, and he hurled a tool, which clanged against the rock wall of the smithy.

Merlin jumped.

“And in the end I failed him. I left on the eve of battle to go to her.”

One thing still didn't make sense. “You said Atle tried to kill Mother again —”

His father groaned. “Yes. But this time his magicians tried to sacrifice her to his pagan water god. He bound her and set her adrift in a leaking boat as the tide rolled out.”

“How did God save her?”

“This time through me. One last hammering, and I think we'll be ready for shaping the blade with the grinding wheel.”

The work at the anvil passed quickly, as only the blade's tip and one troublesome spot near the guard needed light work. His father viewed the blade by the forge's light and grunted in satisfaction. “Ready for the grind.”

In this step Merlin sat on a stool near a small grinding wheel. He spun the wooden handle by hand while his father guided the blade, dipping it in water every so often to cool it. This step revealed how excellent his father's hammering was, as very little excess metal needed to be removed. Two different grindstones were used, the second one finer and flatter. After this his father smoothed the blade by hand with two small, flat rocks, one limestone and the other agate.

“Only one small spot where my hammer mark shows, but in spite of that, it's one of my best swords.”

“May I hold it?” Merlin asked.

His father gave him the long, round tang. Even though the blade wasn't fully sharp, it was still dangerous, as the wolf discovered when Merlin killed it. He held the sword carefully and felt its heft, smooth metal, and bevels. “Beautiful.”

“Now for the hardening. Bluster them bellows, and we'll be done in no time.” His father put the blade back into the coals and pulled out three glowing pokers, which he had placed there earlier. The familiar hissing sound filled the room as the pokers were pushed into the slim barrel of quenchant to warm it in preparation for the blade. His father used a recipe for the hardening quenchant passed on secretly by Elowek: sheep fat mixed with beeswax, salt, and snake blood.

When the blade had been heating for a while, his father asked him, “Would you get the hardening stone? It's about time to test the blade.”

Merlin let go of the bellows and turned to the stone wall behind him. Feeling with his hands, he found a small, squarish rock about waist level. Working it out of its hole, he reached into the crevice, grabbed the wire inside, and pulled out a small metallic stone threaded onto it. Here was their secret lodestone, which his father employed to judge the proper time of quenching so the blade would be as strong as possible. This was another trick Elowek had taught them.

The lodestone was a miracle in that it was attracted to the iron like a thirsty horse to water. And only when the blade was at its perfect heat did the lodestone stop being drawn to the metal. Elowek had bought it at great price from a blacksmith in Lundnisow, and Merlin was never allowed to take it out without his father's permission.

Merlin handed the lodestone to his father, found the bellows again, and resumed lifting, pressing down, lifting, pressing down until his father called to him.

“We're ready. The lodestone says the quenching should happen now.”

Merlin backed up against the wall and waited, because this step was dangerous to both the blade and anyone standing nearby. Once, flaming grease had exploded from the barrel and caught his shirt on fire. He never forgot the burn or the word-whipping from his father.

And sometimes a blade would crack or bend beyond repair. His father suspected either uneven heating prior to putting it in the fat or an inner fault of the iron, which was shipped in from Brythanvy especially for their swordsmithing. Merlin remembered that once a blade had shattered into eight pieces when quenched. Holding his breath, he sent a prayer to heaven on his father's behalf.