Merlin's Blade (7 page)

Trothek cleared his throat and looked Mórganthu in the eyes with a steady gaze. “Only by lawful vote … of the six brihemow judges … could you … do such.”

“Yes, yes. Do not insult me. I know our laws,” Mórganthu said. “But you have lost your head, for your friend the arch brihem died last week at the chief gorseth of Boscawen and is not present.”

Trothek closed his mouth.

“I was
with him
when he died,” Mórganthu said. “Go ahead — try to oppose me!”

Trothek started to speak, but just a wheeze escaped.

The druid with the blond beard spoke up. “Shall I call the filidow to council?”

Trothek nodded. “Yes … young Caygek … do so.”

Caygek stood as tall as he could, still a head shorter than Mórganthu, and lifted his voice. “Filidow and all who would join. Hear me. The arch fili has called a council to weigh the matters before us. Convene in the pines on the eastern side of the circle!”

The news spread like fire, but hardly any from the crowd walked past Garth to join the council.

As Trothek began to limp off, Mórganthu bared his teeth and grabbed the old man's arm.

With great difficulty Trothek ripped free and limped toward Garth. As he passed, Garth noted a large black mole on the man's cheek, just above his beard.

Mórganthu took a few deep breaths and raised his voice. “Brothers, we shall ignore this filidow foolishness, for now is our time to worship this Stone that has been given to us for our power and freedom!”

The druidow each got on their knees and held out their hands to the Stone. A chant arose in a foreign tongue, and the men fanned their arms up and down as the song floated on. A drum beat in time to the swaying.

At first Garth saw nothing different about the Stone. But he felt his head sway with the slow rhythm of the hands. His fingers twitched to the beating of the drum. He tried to look away from the Stone to glance at Mórganthu but couldn't.

The Stone grew larger in his vision until every detail of it gleamed. He wished to touch it, and he almost let go of the chicken leg as he lifted his hands in hopes of feeling such a delightful rock. When he found it too far away, he wanted to run to it.

The Stone emanated power.

It pulsed with the people.

Vibrated with their voices.

His heart beat to its rhythm.

Strength coursed in his blood.

He wanted to serve the Stone.

To belong to these people.

Wasn't that odd? He'd never seen anything so beautiful.

A hand clamped over Garth's eyes and pulled him backward. A man's voice echoed as if from a cave, “Don't look at the Stone …
Stone
. You must leave this place. Bad things are planned here …
here
.”

Garth pulled the hand away and blinked. He felt dizzy. The man had a blond beard, and Garth realized it was Caygek. Behind him stood Trothek.

Caygek's brows knotted and his lips quivered.

Something dangled from Garth's hand … a chicken leg? He became aware of the strange people around him, and a great fear clutched at his heart.

Garth slowly moved away from the circle, then taking a bite of chicken, he bolted through the woods, back the way he had come.

When Merlin next opened his eyes, everything was blurry again. The straw of his bed prickled his burning back, and he felt a wet rag hanging across his forehead. As his mind cleared, the familiar sounds of the smithy filled his ears.

He moaned, and his father stepped over from the anvil to feel his forehead. “Hopefully your fever's gone for good.”

Merlin shook his head as his mind reeled with the things he had seen: his mother's death and the discovery of the strange stone in the lake — the very stone Mórganthu and Anviv carried in the woods days ago. Were they visions or delirium? His throat felt as if wool had been stuffed down it, and he drank some water. “What hour is it?”

“You've been asleep for nearly a day. I found you on the floor yesterday afternoon, and you've had me worried ever since.”

“I'm feeling a bit better,” he said, and it was true.

His father slicked the hair away from Merlin's eyes and went back to stoke the forge. Moments later someone rapped at the open door, a large shadow framed by the morning sun.

Merlin hoped it wasn't Mórganthu.

“Owain, my good, good friend!” the man's voice boomed.

Merlin's father set his poker down. “Come in, Kiff.”

Kifferow stepped into the smoky room. “Heard Merlin was whipped. The news is everywhere.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” Owain sighed.

Kifferow went straight to the mead bucket, just as he always did, glugged some, and belched. “D'I interrupt sumtin'?”

“Just your drinking, eh?”

Kifferow took another swig. “First drop today.”

Merlin's father walked over, yanked the pail from the big man, and whacked him in his bulging belly. “And the last from my bucket.”

“I'm not fat … Merlin, am I fat?” Kifferow stretched taller but not any thinner.

Merlin laughed. He remembered the last time he'd shaken Kifferow's hands. Besides smelling of sawdust, the man's fingers had been as thick as oat bannocks and his hands slippery with sweat, the right hand more calloused than the other. But Kiff's round silhouette told all. “Let's just say you swallowed the bucket too.”

Kifferow burped again. “Ahh, you can't see me through them scratches.”

“My eyes see better'n a drunkard's, Kiff. And well enough to know you're the biggest blur in Bosventor.”

Why did Kifferow and so many others act as if Merlin couldn't see at all? Sure, everything looked like colored smudges and shadows, but he could get around. Take care of himself. Even —

“Hey, Kiff,” his father said, “did you hear Merlin killed a wolf two nights ago?”

“A wolf? Really? Sure it wasn't Muscarvel dressed up in a rug? Yesterday I heard he crept near the fortress and threatened ‘em with a rotten eel.”

“Yes, Kiff, a wolf. Right here in the smithy. Broke through that window.”

“Musta wanted a drop o' your good mead, then.”

Merlin's father pulled some iron from the forge and hammered it into shape on the anvil. “Well, then, take a lesson, Kiff, since the wolf swallowed Merlin's blade for it.”

Kifferow picked up a heavy pouch and shook it. Recently forged nails clinked inside. “Enough here to begin fixin' the roof for them monks. Got any more braces?”

Owain pulled a set of iron braces from a barrel and handed them over. “Five. But I've got to work on the wagon. You need more?”

Kifferow grunted as he tested the strength of one of the braces. “I'll need three more by tomorrow. Double the nails too. Hey, you got plenty o' coal now, I hear, thanks to that wagon thief.”

Merlin took his boot and threw it at Kifferow. “He's my friend, Kiff.” The room spun, and pain exploded through Merlin's head, making him regret his outburst.

His father spoke up. “Leave him alone, Kiff. Just take your stuff and go, all right?”

Kifferow dragged his feet toward the door. “I'll stop by tomorrow. Keep yer mead bucket full, Owain.” And with a somber whistle, he walked out.

Owain set his hammer down and walked over to Merlin.

“By the way, I've got something for you.” He placed a leather-wrapped bundle in Merlin's hands. The seams had been stitched tightly, and the parcel had a long carrying strap. At one end Merlin's fingers found a buckle, clasped with a wooden peg.

“Where'd this come from? What is it?” he asked.

“You were sleeping when a certain someone dropped it off.” He lightly punched Merlin's arm with the side of his fist.

Merlin winced and hoped his father didn't notice.

“I almost sent her away before I understood. She said you can keep it. Anyway, there it is. And now I gotta get to work on that axle.”

Merlin sat in silence as his father pressed the bellows, pumping the coals into a hot orange glow. Could it have been Natalenya? After a moment Merlin found the wooden peg, loosened the buckle, and reached his hand inside the bundle. It was her practice harp.

He drew out the beautiful instrument and admired its workmanship. His fingers explored every nook and cranny, and when he touched the strings, they fairly sang on their own.

A rush of gladness swept over Merlin. Suddenly he looked forward to the hours of recovery stretching before him. He would learn to play.

Thank you, Natalenya
.

I
t's been a week and a half since the trial, and you say Garth is
still
sulking?” Prontwon set his bone-handled quill down on the table and slid some smooth rocks around to hold the parchment flat. “How can we help him?”

Dybris sat on a bench nearby. “I don't know. Garth hardly speaks to me.”

“Has he told you anything more about the crash? What scared him? Why'd he drive the horses so fast?”

“He's refused to say, and I didn't want to bother Merlin until he's on his feet again.”

“You saw him this morning, yes? How does his back fare?”

“It's healing well now. There's been no more sign of infection after that first scare. Ten days of rest has done him a lot of good.”

Prontwon shook his ink pot and removed the stopper. “Good.
I shall speak with him soon. As for Garth, well … I have my own suspicions as to what happened with him.”

“Anything you can share?” The whole matter had puzzled Dybris. The tales he'd heard over the last month gave him great pause. When Prontwon had asked him to join the abbey, Dybris hadn't expected the area to be so wild and strange. Whatever had appeared in the woods, it had caused the boy to drive the magister's wagon like a crazed fiend.

“The time may come for telling, but not yet.” Dipping his quill in the ink pot, Prontwon began copying a portion of Scripture.

“You don't think it has anything to do with the legends about Lake Dosmurtanlin?”

“No … Garth and Merlin were up by the old stone circle when the boy got scared, not down by the lake. How many years has our good God given you, Dybris?”

“Thirty winters. Why?”

“Well, you seem too mature to be listening to Bosventor's old wives' tales. I never guessed you had such a fanciful imagination.”

“You don't believe them? Isn't it true about all of the drownings? What about Merlin's mother?” Dybris studied Prontwon's expression carefully. Did he imagine it, or did a flicker of tension touch Prontwon's eyes?

“People drown all the time. That was an unfortunate accident.”

“But I'm told their bodies were never found.” Dybris paused, then decided he might as well ask what had been bothering him. “Are you sure there's not some creature in the lake?” He leaned over, setting his elbows on the table.

“Ach, now look. You've made my quill slip.”

“Sorry, Abbot.” But the table hadn't moved.

Prontwon fetched some light-brown pigment from a shelf and covered over the mistake with a brush. “People drown in the marsh too, but no one says that some dark creature lives
there
. And crazy Muscarvel doesn't count.”

Dybris glanced at Prontwon. “Who's Muscarvel?”

“An old man who lives in the marsh in some God-hidden hut. Oh yes, I've seen him and his rusty sword, and he is definitely no spook.” Prontwon sighed. “Anything else wrong with Garth?”

Dybris said nothing for a short time. A hundred more questions burned to be asked, but he swallowed them. “He's still not eating much even though he's no longer served oatmeal at every meal as punishment. Just plays with his dinner and doesn't ask for more.”

Prontwon stopped copying and stared at Dybris. “That bad?”

Dybris nodded.

“If it is as you say, then the remedy is in his repentance.”

“Yet the bagpipe … Can we buy it back?”

Prontwon scratched his quill carefully across the page again. “It is impossible to know where the merchant went.”

Dybris rubbed his temples and then covered his eyes. “I haven't told Garth yet that I found it hidden in my barrel — or that we sold it.”

“For God's love, Dybris —”

“He still thinks it's there … I didn't want to make matters worse. His nose twitches every time I go near the barrel.”

Prontwon slapped the table. “But the boy needed to know. It was sold last week!”

Dybris sat in silence.

Prontwon bowed his head, and his lips moved in whispered prayer.

After some time, Dybris finally spoke. “I'm sorry, Abbot, for my delay. I'll go and tell him now.” He rose to leave, but Prontwon put a hand on his arm.

“One other thought. Garth might need a break from the abbey. Get away for a while and come back with fresher thoughts.”

“Who would take an orphan?”

“Troslam and Safrowana have a girl Garth's age, and the Lord has given them wide and loving hearts. Garth could even earn his keep by helping with the weaving. Shall I talk with them?”

Dybris nodded, his heart lifting somewhat. “A change would
certainly do him some good. But please pray while I let Garth know about the bagpipe. And forgive me, again, Abbot.”

He ducked out the door of the round house they used as a scriptorium and walked along the path to the fields, dreading what he had to tell Garth. The sun had begun to sink, and soon the small abbey bell would ring, calling the brothers in for their evening meal.

There in the distance, Offyd worked near Garth, and beyond them Brother Neot instructed a group of other monks.

Offyd was breaking up the earth, and his wooden mattock sent up sprays of dirt, while Garth's hoe barely dented the soil.

“God's blessing, Offyd,” Dybris called. “How is the planting today?”

“Fine … if you count blows to the ground.” He glanced at Garth. “Poor … if you count the earth we've broken up.”

Garth glared at Offyd but said nothing.

Dybris sat down on a hump of earth about ten yards from them and called out, “Garth, come sit with me a bit.”

Garth dropped his hoe and approached Dybris, a downcast scowl on his face.

“Might as well give him the rest of the evening off,” Offyd called.

“Peace,” Dybris said, “this won't take long.”

Garth sat, clamped his jaw, and squirmed his shoulders to keep Dybris's arm off.

Withdrawing his arm, Dybris selected a stalk of grass and began breaking it into tiny pieces. He didn't look at Garth. “I came to speak to you about your bagpipe.”

“Do you have to sell it?”

Dybris closed his eyes for a moment. “You know why.”

The boy picked up a clod of dirt and flung it far out into the field. “All I know is I hate you an' I hate Tregeagle. Get yer gold another way.”

“From where?” Dybris asked. “This abbey isn't rich. If we have another bad harvest, we'll barely make it through the winter. I
checked our stores in the cave just yesterday, and there's almost nothing left.”

“You can't have me bagpipe!” Garth raised his fists and threatened to pound Dybris's shoulder.

Dybris covered each of Garth's fists with a hand and gently pushed them down. “It's already gone.”

“G-gone? You f-found it?”

“Sold. A week ago. A traveling merchant bought it.”

Garth's shoulders slumped, and his voice cracked. “Got nothin' now.”

“I know it seems hard, but God can see you through.”

“Me father's buried in the sea, and now his bagpipe's gone too. Got
nothin
'.” He scrambled to his feet and stood with his back to Dybris.

Dybris rose as well. “I'm sorry.”

“It was my only anchor! An' now I got nothin' to hold on to.” Garth stuck his hand into a bag hanging from his belt and fumbled inside. “Almost nothin',” he mumbled.

“You still have your memories of your father. And when you're older, I'll help you buy another bagpipe.”

Garth turned and yelled at him, “Not the same! … Sellin' me as a galley slave would o' been better!”

“Garth —” Dybris began, but the sound of feet thumping in the distance interrupted him. They both turned. Dybris's stomach tightened. A great mob of men — maybe a hundred or more — marched up the hill from the river valley.

With a racing heart, Dybris stepped forward, looking for weapons, but spotted just a few knives and small hatchets hanging from their belts. Most of the men carried dried wood, as if they planned to make a bonfire somewhere.

If they weren't a war band, then who were they?

One man set the pace, and behind him seven men in green robes advanced in a circular formation. Each carried a short pole looped through the edge of a stitched leather tarp, which bore something large hanging in the middle.

The bearded leader of the group strode forward on long legs, his black and gray hair blowing in the wind. He wore a green linen robe that matched the others', yet with dark leather cuffs and a blue-lined hood. He carried an etched staff with a flashing gem on top.

The other monks gathered behind Dybris and Garth as the group marched closer. When the leader passed, he no more than glanced at most of the monks, yet when his gaze landed on Garth, it seemed to linger. Had Dybris imagined it, or had he seen a glint of recognition?

Dybris looked down in time to see the boy pull from his bag a small, shiny black crystal of tin ore — the kind they mined in the area, and then crushed and smelted. Garth held tightly to this, but his gaze brought Dybris's attention back to the strange men. Many of their knives were made of brass and curved slightly, the leader's the largest.
Sickle knives
. He examined the men closely. Their arms and legs had been scarred with blue tattoos. The word was on his tongue when he heard it murmured by the monks behind him.

“Druidow.”

“Explains the smoke across the valley …”

“Headed toward the village …”

“So many …”

“Jesu, help us …”

Once the last straggler had passed and the road lay clear, Dybris took Garth's arm and walked with the other monks to the scriptorium as fast as he could without appearing panicked.

Bursting into the room, Dybris and the others related to Prontwon what they'd seen. The abbot listened to the report with a grave expression on his face, then dispatched a messenger to retrieve Migal and Loyt, who had been preparing the evening meal. Only when all twelve monks, along with Garth, had crowded into the room did Prontwon stand in their midst and address them.

“Hear me! What I have feared and, I am ashamed to say, tried to ignore for the past week has just been confirmed. The old stone circle on the other side of the valley has recently become the home
of druidow once more, and from the count you have given, possibly their entire number in the land of the Britons.”

No one moved or made a sound.

“From what you have said, they are headed to the village with some pagan intent. We must follow to know their plans. Brother Migal has brought us bread and a pitcher of water that we may not faint after our labors. However, considering what we may face, I suggest fasting for those who are able.”

Some took bread while others refrained, but all refreshed themselves with the water.

“As the evening closes and we enter the presence of the sworn enemies of our God, let us pray our evening prayer of protection.”

Dybris gave Garth a chunk of crusty bread as the brothers joined voices in song.

And then, with Garth lagging in the back, they set out for the village of Bosventor, following the path of the druidow.

As darkness descended on the smithy, Merlin lay on his straw bed practicing the harp. Over the past ten days, he'd learned to tune it and play a few songs, but his progress was slow. He'd rested under his father's orders, but now that the burning of his wounds had faded and his fever was but a memory, he yearned to be active again.

The door creaked open, but in the twilight Merlin couldn't see anyone. “Who's that?”

“Me.” It was a small voice. “Your sister.”

Just as he thought. “Bar the door behind you.”

“Why?”

“Don't ask. Where's Tas? I've been expecting him.” He reached for the mug of water next to his bed.

“I'll get it,” Ganieda said.

She picked up the clay mug, but it slipped from her hands. The vessel shattered and the water spilled.

“I'll help.” Merlin tried to find the pieces but touched his sister's trembling hands instead. “What's wrong?”

“Tas and Mammu left! They told me to stay with you. Let you sleep. But the fire's dying, and it got dark.”

“Where'd they go?” He found the pitcher next to the broken mug and poured water into his mouth.

Ganieda climbed onto the pallet and sat beside him. “The miller brought a bag of barley after supper. And news. There's a problem down by the meeting house. The whole village is going to be there.”

“The meeting house? Is someone to be judged?”

It was curious to have a meeting at night. Normally, the village elders met during the day inside the common house, which had been built next to the spring. The only time everyone showed up was to condemn a criminal to death — a rarity that had occurred only once in Merlin's lifetime. The magister, in consultation with the elders of the village, would make the pronouncement while sitting on what was known as the Rock of Judgment — really just a slab of natural granite that lay on the earth near the meeting house.

Ganieda began to cry. “I don't know. Tas wanted me to stay, and Mammu wanted me along — and they fought.”

“How long ago?” He reached out and felt her soft hair.

She sniffed. “The sun was on the hearth when they left.”

“Did they say for me to stay?” With his wounds nearly healed, he was looking for any excuse to be up and about.

“No … they didn't say.”

“Well, then, I'm going.” Merlin found his stiff boots, pulled them on, and tied them. They felt good on his feet after so long.

“You can't leave,” Ganieda said. “It's dark!”

“You think that matters to me?”
As long as there aren't any wolves along the path, that is
.