Merlin's Blade (27 page)

“You're welcome to any dye,” Troslam said, “but I'm afraid we're out of blue. We just used our last woad leaves and madder root to make purple.”

“How long will it take to make more blue?”

“Well, we won't get more woad till fall when the merchant comes through. We could try some bluestone, but it'd take hours to make it dark enough.”

“Purple?” Owain asked.

“Hmm.” Dybris paused, then shrugged. “Guess it'll have to do. So what shapes do we paint?”

“Anything. Beasts, knotwork, symbols. Just leave off the crosses —”

After Owain and Dybris finished painting their arms and hands, they each painted one of Merlin's arms, and then they all stood near the fire until the coloring dried to the touch.

“I'm glad the color darkened,” Owain said as he picked up his cloak. “Most will think it's just blue, especially at night.”

Before they departed, Dybris raised his hands to heaven and sanctified Troslam and his family.

Troslam bowed. “Thank you. We'll pray for your safety and success this night.”

The three men stepped out of the house to find an overcast gray sky frowning upon them. Merlin pulled his hood down, concealing his face in shadow. Behind he heard Troslam drop a wooden plank to bar the door.

“So, Drybris,” Owain said, “you think the druidow will be fooled by that portly blue boar you drew on your arm? His tail is so long you'd think a snake was biting his rump.”

“Hah! No worse than the moons you drew. They're so squashed they resemble Brother Loyt's bannocks.”

“Let's hope they don't look too closely,” Merlin added.

They set off down the path, and after a short distance, they came to the chapel.

“Tell me what you see, Tas,” he said.

Merlin's father described the violent scene before them: The latch had been ripped from the wooden door, and the shattered end of a brass sickle knife had been jabbed into the center. Inside the chapel, one of the overturned benches was smeared with blood.

Dybris ran in and fell to his knees. “Let's go,” Owain called. “Drawing crosses in the bloody dirt won't help if Mórganthu starts killing the brothers.”

Dybris followed him outside, and without a word they walked downhill through the deserted village and turned east at the main road. Rounding the mountain, they hurried past the ruins of the distant abbey to the rushing stream and crossed the Fowaven bridge.

Owain pointed toward the hills and the smoke rising from the druid camp. “We should slip into the woods that way. You lead, Dybris, since you've scouted their camp.”

Dybris agreed. Merlin grasped his father's arm as they left the path to trudge up a steep heather embankment. Beyond that, Dybris led them into a thick stand of pines. From there they turned straight north and, walking through the trees, paralleled the stream to a point below the druid camp.

As quietly as possible, they started to climb the hill, but after only a short distance, the monk's steps faltered. “What is it?” Merlin asked his father.

“Someone's been murdered,” Owain answered. “He's covered in blood, and by the look on his face, he died painfully.”

Dybris let out a mournful wail and grabbed Merlin's arm for support.

Natalenya tucked Ganieda's knife into her belt and then tugged at the crennig door until it closed with a groan.

The black, lifeless shadows of night was gathering in the deepest parts of the woods surrounding the path. She set out, but a slight rustling from the bushes to her left brought her up short. A snake crossed right in front of her, its chisel-shaped head sliding before its slow, thick body. Natalenya froze, her stomach tightening in a knot. But it passed by without noticing her, and once it was gone she walked slowly, warily, fighting the urge to break into a sprint. She reached up and touched Merlin's golden torc, which lay upon her neck, and found her courage once more.

Since Merlin and the others hadn't come back, she reasoned, then Allun must have agreed to lend his mule. Although Plewin was stubborn, Merlin had assured her that he pulled anything, including wagons, with an untiring and sure-footed stride.

When she arrived at the mill, all was silent and the building appeared dead — its sad roof sagging, the high windows desolate and grim. Was this where all the villagers gathered to have their grain milled and share the latest gossip? Where had everyone gone? Where was Allun?

She scanned the field beyond the ghost-white stone wall, but the mule wasn't there.
Plewin must be inside the mill eating a trough full of grain
, she mused. Merlin had said Allun fed her that way when he had extra.

Natalenya walked toward the mill, gravel crunching under her
boots. Pausing at the door, she pressed her ear against the thick wood and listened, but she didn't hear anything. Allun didn't appear to be there.
Too bad I didn't borrow one of my family's horses before father and mother left in the wagon
, she mused. But there was nothing she could do about it now.

A cold gust of wind blew, and the door creaked on its hinges. It was open. Unlocked.

She pushed on the rough wood of the door, determined to get the mule. Merlin was counting on her. They needed the wagon to transport the Stone. To destroy it.
Right
.

Natalenya stepped into the mill, and the darkness swallowed her. She waited a moment to let her eyes adjust, and then, off to the right, she saw the silhouette of Plewin in her stall.

She took three steps forward but then froze in her tracks.

The door behind her closed.

Then she heard the bar fall into place.

An evil laugh echoed through the room.

U
ther slashed the knife down again and again, then threw the softened dirt out of the ever-widening hole. There in the tower, alone, he could hear his panting breaths echo off the walls.

There must be something here
. The man in blue wouldn't have disappeared below the earth at this spot if something hadn't been buried here. Hopefully it wasn't just the man's bones.

Uther continued digging until, with a start, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“My … king, your queen stands here, and your … children. I have brought them.”

Uther looked up for an instant, and a wave of dizziness distorted his sight. When had Colvarth and his family climbed through the door? He nodded to his wife and took a long sip of mead, some of it sloshing off his chin and into the damp hole.

“Something here.” He pointed. “A man went into the ground.”

“You saw someone go into your hole?” Igerna asked, glancing sideways at him.

Uther blinked. Even if she thought him crazy, he
had
seen the man. He chopped again with his knife. Once the ground was sufficiently loose, he dropped the blade and scooped the dirt onto the growing pile at his right.

In the hole, his fingertips scratched the surface of a large rock.
Ah, that will be trouble
. Taking his knife again, he attempted to jab the surrounding soil, which was much harder and drier than the soil above. He strained to pull the boulder out, but the monstrous thing wouldn't budge.

He looked up and remembered the pickaxe he'd tied up as an anchor for the boat. If he fashioned a handle for it, he might be able to break or wedge the rock out.

Uther stood, and a swirl of darkness engulfed him. His knees felt weak, and he groped for the wall of the tower, holding on to the rough stones until his sight returned. He'd experienced this before when he'd been prone too long. As expected, it soon passed.
Just moved a little fast, that's all
.

“I'm going for the anchor from the boat,” he mumbled as he sat on the threshold of the doorway and swung his legs out. Maybe fresh air would help.

After walking down to the muddy bank, he stopped to view the rising fog and the sinking sun. If he wanted to find what the ghost man desired, it would be easier before the light failed.

He cut the pickaxe free from its rope and tied the boat directly to the tree. On his way back to the tower, he spied the dead branch lying next to the rock where Igerna had sat with Arthur earlier. Picking up the limb, he whacked it on the stone to test its strength, which didn't disappoint. Next he compared its thickness to the hole in the rusty pickaxe and found that a little whittling would make it a perfect match.

Magnificent!

Back inside the tower, he joined his family and Colvarth, who
were all sitting on a linen cloth in a corner, eating cold venison and barley bread. Taking a few nibbles of the bread his wife offered, he noticed the worry in her eyes — her brows two trembling arcs tethered tightly in the center. Ignoring this, he whittled the end of the thick branch until he could fit it in the hole of the pickaxe. Taking the branch out again, he worked a deep notch on the end with his blade. Fitting the pickaxe head on again, he chose three wedges he'd whittled off and hammered them into the gap with a rock. But his hand shook, and since Igerna was watching him like a concerned mother, he walked to the other side of the room to finish the job.

Why does my hand shake so?
he wondered.
Perhaps it's only hunger. I simply need to eat more bread
.

Colvarth joined him and studied the pickaxe with a curious eye. “My … king. What is the purpose of this … digging? You attack the ground as if to slay it. And now the pick?”

“You think I make a grave, eh?” Uther tucked his shaking hand behind his back.

“No, I do not.” Colvarth's words faded, and his face contorted, eyes bulging out. His skin changed to blue and then white.

Was the world going mad? Uther closed his eyes and shook his head. When he glanced again, Colvarth's face appeared normal. “Say this prophecy,” Uther whispered. “Whose grave is this? Who is buried here?”

“Speak not of such things!” And Colvarth turned away.

Garth's feet were cold and wet before McEwan finally heaved their boat onto the gritty shingle. He tied the rope to a bent cypress tree that leaned out from the bank, its roots sucking at the mud and slime. Even though the island was quite large, finding the northern landing had been harder than Garth expected, what with the fog so thick. The white dampness filled his lungs, made his throat itch, and clung to him like the shreds of a ghastly cloak as he stepped ashore.

Although he loved to fish here, he'd never been on the marsh at dusk, and it was nothing like the open, and rolling ocean he longed for. Out of the mist, birds squawked from sharp beaks, their chirrups ethereal and their eyes unseen. The frogs croaked so loudly that surely each would be found and plucked from its hiding place by the bill of some gray heron of death. And all the while the insects wailed a song of mourning as the gloom sped its way over the marsh.

While McEwan was distracted, swinging his stout club, McGoss pinched Garth's shoulder and whispered, “Remember, no tellin', or I make fish bait out o' yar guts. Hear?”

Garth held his breath and nodded.

The warriors in the other boat finally pulled ashore, disembarked, and began whispering to each other in low Eirish murmurs. Garth tried to draw close to them, but O'Sloan pushed him away. “Stay wit' the boats.”

Alarmed to discover he'd be left alone, but equally fearful of going with them, Garth pulled his cloak more tightly over his shoulders. “W-when will you be back?”

“Soon enough. How far is the ruined tow'r? I canna see it.”

“Ten throws of a stone, I'd say. Take the trail through the apple trees.”

The six warriors walked off into the mist, and soon the only evidence of their existence was the fading sound of their footfalls.

Garth was utterly alone.

“Why?” Uther called after his bard. “Why should I not ask? You declared my digging a grave. Is it the grave of the man I saw?”

Colvarth turned back and, glaring up into Uther's eyes, tapped his long finger onto the king's chest. “Speak of what you hope to find … Tell me.”

“You ask what I do not know. Something unexpected. Something powerful, maybe.” With these last words Uther's lungs felt smothered, and he took a deep breath.

“Are there not enough … strange things in Bosventor? Is the Druid Stone not … enough?”

“Maybe Jesu has sent something good.” Uther wheezed out the words. “Holy, even. Here in this very dirt where the man in blue drew the sign of the cross.”

“I saw nothing.”

“Are you my fool or my bard?” Uther yelled. “I have seen this!”

His words echoed through the tower, and Myrgwen and Arthur both cried. The fog had thickened outside, and Eilyne gaped at its sallow entrails leaking through the open doorway.

“Leave me alone, all of you. Go back to your meal. I am … digging.”

Colvarth bowed and, shuffling back to the broken circle of the family, sat in silence. But Uther could feel the bard's eyes on him still.

In anger, Uther raised the newly joined pickaxe over his head and, with a mighty blow, split the rock into three pieces. Finding the iron head still tight, he swung in earnest at the harder soil surrounding the rock, and in no time he threw the pieces of the offending stone to the side.

After pausing for a long sip of the mead, he dug again in earnest, and within a short time, he'd deepened and widened the hole until he could stand in the bottom. There he alternated between digging and throwing the dirt up in great handfuls until his arms dripped with soiled sweat and his eyesight dulled with the failing light.

“Uther, cease!” Igerna said from above. “What madness has come upon you?”

Setting down his pickaxe, he swallowed a last, long gulp of the frothy mead and flung away the skin. Mead had never tasted so refreshing. He needed to reward the man who brewed it.

Climbing out of the great hole, Uther looked at his wife and beheld two of her standing before him. He moved his lips to tell her that something was buried here, but no words escaped. Igerna tilted toward him. The very air reeled, and Uther collapsed in the dirt.

His eyes dimmed, yet he could feel his hands shaking.

All around him, people shouted, yelled, and shrieked.

The brutality of the murder shocked Merlin.

Dybris fell to his knees.

Merlin's father stood in front of Dybris and pulled out his dirk, tested its edge, and then returned it to his scabbard. “Who is it?”

“It's our Herrik! Those cursed druidow took all the monks captive” — he spat — “and they weren't satisfied with their victory, so they blazed the hillside with our blood.”

“Without his robe, I didn't realize he was a monk.”

“The devils stole it. Left him to die cold and bare, and now the wolves have gnawed his flesh. Even his hands are gone …”

Owain knelt to examine the body. “That's odd. I don't remember long swords among the druidow, but this chest wound is sliced straight through. See the blade's exit on his back, here? It's a wide cut too. Not a slim blade, that.”

Merlin fumed at the injustice of Herrik's death. Why did the druidow have to kill him? How many more bodies would they find on the path?

“Just last night,” Dybris said, “our new abbot had thought me excessive when I looped my old dirk onto my belt. And now look at this! O, God, protect them. Protect them all.” He rose and then hastened to a small spring gurgling from the hillside.

“What are you doing?” Owain asked. “We can't delay.”

“I'm wetting a cloth.” And with it, Dybris came back and cleansed the blood from Herrik's face. Next he took his bronze flask of oil and anointed the man's forehead, Merlin assumed, with the sign of the cross.

Then the monk lifted his voice in prayer.

Dybris choked out the last words.

Rising, he picked up fist-sized rocks and placed them around the body.

Owain grabbed Dybris's arm. “We haven't time.”

“Then we haven't time for anything.” Dybris shook Owain away. Taking more rocks, he added them to the others.

“We can come back later,” Merlin offered.

“There may not be a later. I pray this is the last soul who dies this night, but we know not what awaits us. Help me.”

Merlin moved to help, looking to his father as he passed by. Owain shook his head at first but later joined the others. Together they quietly gathered and raised a small mound of stones over Herrik's broken life.

“It's enough,” Owain finally said, and Dybris slowly nodded.

Merlin rose, then followed the men up the hillside. He wiped his tears and tried to concentrate on the blurry path ahead. Dybris guided his steps as they approached the top of the hill and the circle beyond. The path widened, and Owain led them into the darkness of the dense woods, where they hid behind some bushes and observed the druid gathering.

Within the circle of gigantic stones, a large number of druidow stood murmuring.

“Tell me what I'm seeing,” Merlin said, hoping to learn something that would enable him to be of some small help later on.

“There are seven druidow in green robes,” his father said, “and they all have drooping hoods that conceal their faces. They're chanting around Mórganthu, who is standing in the center of the circle near the Stone.

Near their hiding spot, druidow began to beat broad wooden drums.

Boom! Boom!

“Just beyond the ring,” Owain continued, “stand two large wooden constructions in the shape of cages, at least ten feet high and about five paces from each other. Young timbers serve as posts, and these have been interlaced with smaller branches. The druidow are depositing bundles of branches around the cages to build a pile of tinder.”

The judgment of wicker
. Merlin had heard antiquated tales of Beltayne, when the druidow of old burned to death prisoners of war or any they considered criminals, all as sacrifices to their pagan gods. Then, leading cattle and followers between the burning victims and through the evil smoke, the druidow claimed cleansing and protection from witchcraft.

But who were in the cages? Merlin squinted, but it was too far away for his scarred eyes to see. “Are the monks —”

“Yes,” Dybris said. “Those accursed druidow have locked them up.” He let out a muffled sob and grabbed Merlin's shoulder. “Do you see Mônda or my daughter?” Owain whispered.