Merlin's Blade (29 page)

Then, finally, it all made sense: Uther had killed Anviv, and the ard dre would kill Arthur. A son for a son. Mórganthu would put the child's head in some barrel or stick it on a spear. It was
wrong
. And if Garth allowed it, the child's blood
would
be on his hands.

“Thy path is twisted. Get thee gone,” a voice called from the fog of the marsh.

Whipping his gaze toward the sound, Garth saw a thin island floating toward him. Moss clung to it, and reeds grew from its prow. But it was a boat, and a man paddled it.

“The cock has crowed,” the man said as he peered at Garth with bloodshot eyes. “Take hope and go before the bear is bled!” His patchy gray hair was slimed down upon his ragged tunic, and his eyebrows had been replaced by thick scars, as if he'd been burned long ago.

This must be Muscarvel, the one all o' them scary tales were about. He's sure scarin' the wits out o' me!

The marsh man raised a rusty sword with astonishing speed and swung within inches of Garth's nose. “I say flee with the young one like a
piskyn
.”

Garth bumped backward, set Arthur down at his feet, and raised an oar for protection. “Leave me alone, you!”

Arthur lost his bread crust and began crying.

Muscarvel swung again and chopped off the tip of the oar, its wet splinters flying into Garth's face. The crazy man laughed as
he leaped to shore and sliced the rope holding Garth's boat to the cypress.

“Must away! Tombs for the noble, life to the living.” Muscarvel tossed his blade under a bush, waded into the water, and shoved Garth's boat away.

The old man swam and pushed the boat until the fog hid the island. “Come not back. Death stalks in the shadows,” he croaked.

“All right, I'll go! But leave me an' me boat alone!” Garth swung his oar and cracked Muscarvel on the head.

The old man sank beneath the water and was gone.

“So which is it?” Connek laughed. “Will you toss me that torc or shall I slice your throat?”

Natalenya almost forgot to breathe as she prayed for God's wisdom and strength. She clutched the knife Merlin had given her. Masterfully forged by Merlin's father, the blade was really quite small, and yet it felt solid and comforting in her hand. But what good was it? Could she really fight Connek and win? Could she ward off all his blows?

She looked into Connek's malevolent eyes and wondered if she should give up Merlin's torc. What
was
Connek's game?

“I'm going to count to five …” Connek said.

Natalenya looked around quickly to see if she could climb out one of the windows. But they were all too high, and in the darkness, she couldn't see anything to climb on.

If any hope remained, she wouldn't find it by protecting Merlin's torc.

What about Allun? Was he lying in the shadows with his throat slit? And what about the mule? She should already have been on her way to the druid camp with the wagon to help transport the Stone.

“Give me the torc, hag. I'm not takin' any chances this time, an' I prefer to keep its gold braids clean when I cut your ripe neck open. There's a reward out for you too. Did you know that?”

That was all Natalenya needed to hear. Without hesitating, she unclasped the heavy torc from her neck.
God, I need Your help!
“Where do I throw it?” she asked, stalling for time while she gauged the distance between them and the weight of the torc.

“Here. Right into my itching, happy hand.”

She hurled it right at Connek's head, and then ran.

Connek cried out as the torc bounced off his face and fell into the darkness. “You witch! I'll cut your fingers off when I catch you!”

If she could make him chase her in a circle, she could unbar the door and run out — but then she still needed the mule. What was she to do?

Wary footsteps padded toward her from the darkness.

She backed up, and her foot fell into the depression where the mule walked in a circle to turn the top grindstone. It was enough to orient her. With a burst of speed, she ran the track to the other side of the stones. Reaching to steady herself on the mill, she was surprised to find the upper stone missing. Allun must have set it on his benches. The miller was always a busy man but had more time to talk while dressing his stones, and Natalenya sometimes chatted with him and the other ladies of the village on those occasions.

Hearing footfalls behind her, Natalenya continued around the circle until she cracked her hip into the upper millstone, rocking the supporting benches. Pain shot through her leg, and she cried out.

Behind her, mocking laughter filled the air. “You're trapped. Turn an' get yer due!”

Natalenya reached out to her right and felt the wall of the crennig. To the left, then. She jumped onto the bottom millstone … and ran into Allun's workbench, covered with files and tools. Many of them fell clanging to the stone below, along with her knife.

“No way out, you rich brat!”

U
ther awoke. Besides his head feeling as if it had been bashed with a war hammer, his whole body ached, and his hands, tied behind his back, were numb and swollen.

He opened his eyes and found he could see out of only one, as drying blood had smeared across the other, gluing it shut. He tried focusing, but the world around wouldn't hold still. Finally he realized he lay in the bottom of a boat, and the rocking he felt was nothing more than gentle waves under the hull. A slight breeze blew and thinned the fog somewhat, but even then the final gasps of daylight couldn't pierce the gloom.

“Stay thine hand, O Boar of the Britons. Thou art safe from my biting jaws,” spoke an unfamiliar voice.

The stranger bent down and peered into Uther's good eye. “Thou needest not strike thy boggy servant in the pate. I mean no harm to thee or thy kin.”

Water dripped from the man's grimed forehead, and the smell of the swamp rolled off him. “Bah,” he shouted in Uther's face, making him jerk. “The rotten trees ha' taken thy torc, they have.”

“What?” Uther groaned, realizing his neck ached and his legs were twisted across the sharp edge of a thwart.

“I'll get it back, curse them. A king should die with his torc on!”

“Don't want to die. Cut my bonds.”

The man's mud-caked nose came in and out of focus. “Shah, ‘twill take only a moment, but it's too late. They come to slurp the mire off this glacking frog's bones!”

Uther heard footsteps on the rocks, with shouting and confusion.

“The other boat — it's gone!”

“The wee scout's taken it.”

“Hey! Who's that old'un crouchin' next to the High King?”

The man bent one more time and winked at Uther. “A task for me from thy good God!” He ran away, swinging a rusty sword. “For the Boar of Britain!”

Uther tried to lift his head to see, but his neck was too stiff. Cries and shouting echoed forth. Steel clashed. Someone screeched.

“He cut me, the limmer. Kill ‘im!”

A short shriek pierced the night, then all was silent.

“What now, O'Sloan?” came a voice. “We canna all fit in one boat, not w' McEwan, an' we already staved in the king's boat.”

“Lookit, another one, there! Must be the wild man's. ‘Tis a carved-out log that could carry two.”

“That'll do us, sure, now that we're rid o' McGoss.”

“Dinna say his name agin as long as I live.”

“Sorry. ‘Tis fool hard ta believe his evil deed. An' that poor bard.”

“Shah, I said. We judged the traitor by our good laws, and sure, I'll speak no more o' it. You, then, get in the log boat an' see if it sinks or nay.”

Uther used all his might to arch his back and untwist his legs.

A man shouted. “Thar's a snake in the log boat! I'll nah go in there.”

“We'll have to ferry o'er in two trips, then, what with Gilroy's body ‘n all.”

“But the boy's gone ‘n stole the king's heir. Sure ‘n the ard dre'll have our heads.”

Uther's addled brain tried to comprehend these tidings. His heir? Were they talking about Arthur? Anger surged through his limbs, but he couldn't break free of his bonds.

“He'll take a fury to us, sure,” one of the Eirish warriors said. “But we've got the High King, and we'll be rewarded well. The ard dre has special plans for this one, I ken.”

Merlin found a place to sit on a rock just outside the stone circle — reasonably close to the wicker cages and not too far from where his father lay tied to the Stone. There, as darkness finally spread over the hilltop, he pulled his hood down and prayed.

The drumming ceased, and the druidow stopped their ritualistic nonsense. In front of him, Merlin heard many footsteps approaching, so he hunkered down a little farther. The nearby crowd parted, and a man holding a torch stepped forward with his green robe rippling in the rising wind.

“At last, at last you have come back from the island,” the man said, and Merlin recognized his voice.
Mórganthu
. “And as promised, you have brought my enemy for judgment and sacrifice!”

“Aye, ‘tis true, Ard Dre,” said a voice on the right, “but we've lost two warriors, and I'm wounded along with O'Rewry.”

Merlin tried not to move or draw attention to himself. The man speaking was one of the Eirish warriors, and the faint smell of the damp marsh wafted from where he and his companions stood.

“It dinna go as ya told us it would.”

Mórganthu snorted. “And what could have gone wrong? Surely the young and weak presented no obstacle? Tying them up as I instructed was not difficult, hmm?”

“It dinna work that way, Ard Dre. McGoss dinna follow yer
orders. And by the look on his face, he dinna think we'd do it, but we judged him by our laws, and now that murderer is dead.”

Mórganthu clucked his tongue. “Really? I never thought him capable of that.”

Merlin's ears pricked as a man rasped out the words, “Let me go …”

Did Merlin know that voice? His poor eyesight frustrated him.

“And where is the heir of the High King?” Mórganthu inquired. “I do not see him here.”

“He cried too loud,” the warrior on the right said, “and so … we drowned him in the marsh.”

At this news, Merlin felt as if a massive hand had grabbed his throat and squeezed. Were they talking about Arthur … was he dead?

Mórganthu cursed. “You were told to bring him alive. Alive! Where is his body?”

“He … he slipped and we lost him.”

Merlin hung his head and gulped back his rage. How could the world change so drastically in so few hours?

“You drown the babe and then lose his body? You will pay for this disobedience!”

“Ard Dre … if it helps, we've brought this torc and blade as a gift for ya.”

“Ah, finally! The torc has finally come back to the keeping of the druidow … Yes, to bestow on one who is worthy. And the blade, yes, I see. Vengeance. Very appropriate. At least Belornos will be pleased with
this
new servant tonight!”

The rasping man struggled against his bonds. “Where's my wife? My children? What have you done with them?”

Merlin's heart sank. The man was Uther! And now Merlin's burden had increased. How could he — alone and blind — save his father, Uther, and the monks all at once? Indecision and fear began to tear at his soul like twin demons bent on destroying him.

“Oh, do not struggle, my bound one. You will see your queen
and family soon enough. Bring him to the Stone and place him upon it.” And as Mórganthu walked away, he laughed long and loud.

Natalenya felt Connek's blade slash forward and rip the back of her dress, cutting a thin line across her shoulder blade.

With both hands on the tall workbench, she kicked backward and hit Connek in the stomach. Thankfully she had two brothers who had, through their rough play, taught her to hold her own. Turning to her right, she vaulted onto the upper grindstone, causing its supporting benches to creak under her weight. As she slid off the other side, she banged her head on the swinging timber boom and crashed to the ground.

“Die, and I'll have my reward!” Connek shouted as he charged up and heaved his weight against the huge grindstone to topple it onto her.

Natalenya shook her head to clear it as the benches groaned and the wood splintered above her. The heavy stone tilted forward.

Terror drove her to roll away, find her feet, and grab the low timber boom. With all her strength she heaved it in Connek's direction. “Leave me alone,” she yelled.

As the boom swung forward, a thud echoed through the room, and Natalenya heard Connek fall.

“I'll get you, you rich hag!” Connek yelled from the ground.

She backed away from the grindstone and saw a glint of golden light reflecting off of something underneath the benches.
Merlin's torc? It must have landed there after hitting that despicable Connek's face
.

“The torc … It's under the grindstone!” she called as she made for the door.

Glancing back, she saw the thief stoop down and lunge underneath the stone. “I'll have it!” He grabbed the torc and laughed. As he scrambled forward, one of his knees hit the leg of a supporting bench, and with a great bang, the wood cracked and the stone fell.

Natalenya stood in shock as the dust settled. He was dead. He had to be. The stone had crushed him just behind the neck, and from there the thief's blood began to pool in the dirt.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she broke down, releasing all the panic and horror she felt. She hadn't meant to kill Connek … just slow him down. She hesitated a moment, then walked forward, knelt, and extracted the torc from his hand. Then she placed it around her neck once again, and its golden curve weighed heavily upon her. She wanted to take hold of Connek's dirt-encrusted hand and pray for his soul, but she couldn't find it in herself to do it. Maybe one of the monks could do that before they buried him.

Natalenya retrieved the knife Merlin had given her and placed it back in her belt.

Someone moaned over by the mule stall, where Plewin munched a manger full of grain.

Allun … he's hurt!

She quickly lit a rush lamp and found the miller tied up in a corner near the stall. After untying him, she offered him a sip from his waterskin.

Allun took a long drink, then sat up stiffly. “I thank you,” he said after a moment. “That crooked upstart attacked me.” He peered at Natalenya in the dim light. “He knew you and Merlin were coming. Planned on catching you here. But I kept my mouth shut that Merlin had already been here and gone. I prayed you'd come with one of your brothers, or someone else. Are you well? He didn't hurt you?”

“A scrape or two, that's all.” But her heart was still fluttering.

“You're a brave lass, you are. I'll throw that miscreant's body in the ditch, I will. Take Plewin if you must, but be careful out there tonight.”

Knowing her time was short, she helped the miller to his feet, untied the mule, and then thanked him before leaving. As she stepped out into the darkness, Natalenya shuddered, for the moon was already slipping below the horizon, signaling the start of the druidow's Beltayne feast, and she had to hurry.

Owain lay on the damp ground next to the Stone and struggled against the ropes that bound his feet and hands, but he couldn't loosen their chafing cords. A stranger had been placed upon the Stone next to him, but since Owain faced away from the gleam he couldn't see who the man was. Yet even with his back turned, Owain felt heat pulse from the Stone's craggy surface, followed by cold, and then back to heat. On and on. The druidow circled with continuous chanting while the drums beat a slow cadence once more.

Owain studied the wicker cages and wondered where Dybris and Merlin were hiding. Still watching from the bushes where Owain had left them? But his hopes burned away when he spotted two hands with purple-blue designs holding the posts of the nearest woven cage. So one of the two had been caught, and probably both, considering Merlin's blindness. They were all likely to die before that sluggish Vortigern came. Die before Natalenya even knew they'd been captured. Moisture dotted Owain's eyes as he realized that Mônda would live out her remaining days without seeing the light or knowing his own love properly.

And Ganieda. Young, impressionable, and with so many needs. What would become of her? Already Owain had seen her taking on her mother's hatred for the worship of Jesu.

And Merlin would die too, caught in a trap of fire that he couldn't escape.

The man next to him groaned and struggled and finally spoke. “Igerna!” he cried. “Myrgwen … Eilyne! Someone help me!”

Owain swallowed back bile as these words hit him like a hammer in the gut. The man was Uther, and with him held hostage, what could Vortigern do? Would he even discover the king in time? And even if he did, how could he attack and free them all with the life of the High King at stake?

Owain moaned and closed his eyes as a stronger chill crept from
the Stone, and the icy flow began to sap his hope away. He ground his teeth and thrashed his body to break free.

Uther spoke, but his words carried no strength. “… have lost … lost all.”

Owain rolled onto his back and squinted at Uther's face. “No! There is hope while we live.”

The king's body shifted, and his head turned slightly, recognition flickering in his eyes. “Hope, Owain?”

“Vortigern is coming,” Owain whispered. “He'll rescue us!”
Though the odds of that decline by the moment
.

“Yes. Igerna's brother.” Uther's voice gained resolve. “Goodly Vortigern.”

“Do you remember that night near Uxellum when we were pinned against the cliff? We were barely nineteen winters. Your father sent us to patrol in the mountains north of the wall, and the Picti caught us from above.”

“The Picti. They … threw spears down and dropped rocks … and —”

“And we hoisted you up. Ah, you routed ‘em! Sixteen to one, and they ran at your wrath!”

“I remember.” Uther strained to sit up but rose barely a finger's breadth before collapsing against the Stone.

“You were unstoppable when the battle frenzy came upon you.”

“Brewygh died with a spear … through his skull. Couldn't let anyone else die. Didn't want you to die.”

Owain coughed as the chill sank deeper into his flesh. “Uther, do you forgive me for leaving you for Gwevian? I couldn't stay with you both, and I need you to understand.”

“It's hard, Owain —”

“I need to hear you say it. I've needed it all these years. I'm sorry I failed you and the war band, but the new love that God kindled had to win out. Her father would have murdered her.”