Merlin's Shadow (13 page)

Troslam ducked down and snuck over to a leafy oak. From there he dove next to a bush much closer to the tent.

Was that movement behind him? Or was it just the wind in the leaves?

He stiffened, sensing something approaching softly — secretly.

Troslam spun, his spear ready.

Something dark and furry leapt at him, baring its teeth and snarling. A wolf!

Troslam's heart vaulted inside his chest and his hands stiffened on his spear.

The wolf's sharp claws were on his arms now, its head turning sideways as it went for his throat.

Troslam twisted the spear upward, tucked his chin, and arched his back to get away.

But the beast's full weight slammed him down as the fangs clamped on to his bearded chin.

Troslam screamed and jabbed the spear at the beast.

The wolf tried to rip below his beard, and then yelped, jerking and writhing in pain.

“Get off!” Troslam yelled, rolling and slamming his elbow into the wolf's head.

The beast fell to the side, snarling.

The tip of the spear had jabbed into the wolf's belly, but not far.

Troslam tried to stab it in deeper as he pulled himself up, but the wolf flipped over, found its feet again, and ran off into the woods, whimpering.

W
ith hundreds of warriors bearing down on their hiding place, Merlin knew this was the end. Imitating Caygek, he put his back to the opposite wall of the tunnel and tried to meld into the shadows. He drew his sword and held it before his eyes one last time. This had been his father's treasure, and now he would die with it. The braided iron of the guard curved outward from two small, yellow gems that shone at the center. The leather-covered hilt felt thick and strong in his hands, and the dim sheen of the blade reflected the fresh cuts that lay across his face.

He took a deep breath, and sent a prayer heavenward — ahead along same the path that his soul would take to the Almighty.

The first of the Picts arrived in the fog outside the tunnel — faces pale as the walking dead under their dark, greased hair. Their bodies likewise, with the blue of the frozen north swirled upon their limbs like wind over a barren plain of hoarfrost.

Their spears were short, else he and Caygek would be easy pickings in the confines of the tunnel. Spurred by the shouts of their
leader, two of them advanced through the low doorway. Thankfully, the darkness made them abandon their shields and take up torches to illuminate the room.

Caygek whistled, and he and Merlin leapt out. The warrior on the right stood before them, his dry and cracked lips agape as Merlin swung his blade.

The warrior recovered his sense just in time, and used his torch to block the blow, but sparks flew into the man's eyes as Merlin thrust his blade through the man's chest. The Pict screamed and fell back. Another warrior took his place, stepping on the fallen man's bloody chest.

Merlin was only vaguely aware of Caygek, who was a very whirlwind of braids and blade. He had already dispatched two Picts, and was fighting a third.

The Pict in front of Merlin jabbed his spear at Merlin's throat.

Merlin spun to the right, grabbed the haft with his free hand, and struck the man through the belly. The man's form fell back, howling, toward the entrance of the tunnel, nearly blocking it — until a massive arm reached in, grabbed the man by his hair, and dragged him back out.

The torches hissed amongst the dying, lighting up the stone ceiling. In this waving, crimson glow, the massive leader — who had felled Vortigern — stooped into the tunnel. His long, bronze spear was clutched in his hands, and its tip and feathers were stained with Vortigern's blood. Dark were his eyes, with a lumped forehead. His nose had once been shattered by a sword, for it lay cloven across the bridge, with a deep scar.

He roared like a frenzied bear and rushed at Merlin.

Throwing himself to the rock wall, Merlin used his blade to parry the blow, but the man kept coming and smashed a fist across the Merlin's jaw.

Everything turned white: The stones of the ceiling, the Pict's snarling face, the walls, and Caygek's face, open-mouthed. Even the warrior's dark hair had gone pale, though it was now smeared —
blurry. The tunnel tilted, bent, flew from Merlin, and everything disappeared in the whiteness.

It was fog. And he could touch it, hold it, shape it, breathe it deeply into his lungs, and yet he could not feel anything about it except its heaviness. The fog thinned, slipping from his fingers like sand. Merlin stood upon the shore of a lake. It was night, but no stars burned in the sky. Clouds hung upon the edge of the horizon, and lightning flung from their lofty thrones down to the earth.

Music. A lilting tune flitted through the air. Drums rolled in the deepest glens of the lake. The waters roiled, splashing up. Ten feet from the shore, a hand broke the surface. An arm rose. Shimmering. Sleek and silver. Red hair, finer than fired gold, parted the waves, and the oval face of a woman ascended underneath those beautiful tresses. She floated now upon the water, and a glow of coppered-silver shone from her wrap. Above her collar lay a gilt torc with inlaid stones, white and dazzling.

It was Merlin's mother, Gwevian, smiling at him. “Do not fear,” she said.

Merlin's tongue was loosed now, and he spoke. “I'm never afraid in your presence, Mother.” He wanted to hold her — to remember and live again his young childhood, now lost in shadow.

“I speak not o' me, or of here, but o' what has befallen ya … and what shall soon take place. Do not fear, but arise and go forth ta where ya are taken.”

“What shall I do? Where am I going?”

“The only instruction tha' I have received for ya is this:
Depart
. Go where ya are led, and God Most High will provide and support ya. Once there ya must perform, by faith, the tasks set before ya.”

The water boiled again, and his mother began to sink. Tears fell from her eyes as she slid back into the waves.

Merlin ran out into the water, and his boots filled with liquid, cold beyond his imagining. He paused. “No! Don't leave me again.” But she was gone.

He rushed forward, deeper, and soon he was swimming. But
the water was cold — so cold. His breaths came quick and fast, and the chill numbed his thoughts of everything but his mother. “Come back,” he yelled, flailing at the water that separated them.

From the mist, his mother's voice called out again. “Depart, Merlin … ya must go …”

He sank into the freezing water, and his sight failed. There in the murk, music flooded back, the high notes calling him to the waking warmth of the world, and the low notes giving him strength.

It was a harp playing. The music floated above him — now around him — a beautiful melody plucked from heaven that filled his soul. He opened his eyes, and a man in a black cloak stood above, straddling him. Merlin lay on the ground, and the light of many torches filled the room. But it wasn't a room, it was the tunnel, and Colvarth held the Harp of Britain in his hands. A song, deep and rumbling, flowed from his old but tender lips. He sang, and the words were thus:

During the course of this song, Merlin's senses sharpened, and he became aware of the massive Pictish warrior standing before Colvarth,
ready to spear him — right through his harp strings. But the man hesitated. He cocked his head, rolled his lips, and blinked his eyes. Soon, he stepped back, listening, and the other warriors did likewise.

The fighting stopped. Caygek, blood spattered on his arms and breathing heavy, stepped next to Colvarth as the song ended.

The Pictish leader shook his spear at Colvarth. “A bhaird … who are yiu tha' know an song o' our peiple?”

Merlin pulled himself to a sitting position. His jaw was swollen and his head felt like a melon.

Colvarth continued to pluck his harp slowly — but his right eye blinked as he spoke to the man. “O Child of the Blue Salmon — hear me. I did not know your sovereign of many years ago, yet more than once have I visited Alba, met your people, and learned your songs. I bid you peace in the name of Prith-Tyritha, whom you call Crithan-Tuath.”

“Are southeirn doigs, and na friends o' Chrithane! She-witch shaid make yiu thraill, so gut yiu unless agree'ive be thraill.” The man sucked a wound on his hand, and the redness smeared his bristle-bound lips.

Merlin did not understand this last demand, but the man's flinty eyes told him he was serious.

Colvarth nodded slowly. “A pardon, Ealtain, Mighty Chieftain of the Prithager, we must all speak together to determine our answer. We will either fight, and no doubt you will gut us, or we will agree — but give us time to for counsel.”

“Give I yiu till burnig my torch ris nothing. Then spear or thraillring — you choos'ive.” His warriors removed their dead comrades, and then he stepped outside. But before disappearing into the night, he forced the handle of his burning torch into the moist soil. He leaned over, snarled at them, and then left — his heavy footsteps echoing into the night.

“What did he say?” Merlin asked as Colvarth helped him stand.

“He will either kill us, or make us slaves. We must decide before his torch goes out.”

Oh, Natalenya! She held the fears of all the world in her dark eyes as Merlin returned, jangled as he was from the blow by the Pictish leader's fist. He longed to go to her, to comfort her and be comforted in their last hour. But he knew he couldn't break his personal oath to distance himself from her. Even now he needed to keep her free from a man as disfigured as himself.

Garth, holding Arthur, asked a lots of questions, and Colvarth explained as best he could.

“We are trapped, but have been granted the strange choice of our escape. Either through choosing to fight, and thus the sure light of heaven, or else the dark path of slavery and thralldom — a captive without hope of being free. In the first, our hopes of granting the High Kingship to young Arthur will fail, but yet we will die belonging to and defending our land — men of freedom, able to hold our heads high at the feasting hall of our Father. And yet in the second, though surely filled with sorrow, even death, there is yet a small hope that our oath of fealty to Britain and the High Kingship shall be fulfilled.”

Caygek spoke first. “To me, I will submit to no man, and be no man's slave. My father once was a slave to the Romans building their roads. He escaped, yes, and then fought against them until they killed him. I've heard his tales, and I say we fight.”

Garth took hold of the corner of Colvarth's cloak. “I don't want to die. But I don't want to be a slave neither. Less'n they make me fish for ‘em, I s'pose. Do the Prithager make soup?”

“Oh yes, but not the kind you'd like to eat.”

“What's in it, sir, if'n I can ask?”

“Don't.”

“Cabbage? I don't like cabbage much. Me father always said —”

“Shush.”

Merlin wanted to speak but didn't know what to say. Being caught and made a slave was something that had haunted his mind
from childhood because he had heard too many stories of raiders taking away young men and women. The people simply disappeared, never to be seen again. And Merlin had no hope that this chieftain of the Picts would treat them well. Thus he felt that Caygek was right — they should fight.

But what had his mother said — it seemed only moments before? Her words echoed through his soul:
“Do not fear, but arise and go forth to where you are taken.”

Taken? Did God want them to hold on to hope and trust Him? Merlin felt like he was leaning over an open pit, about to fall into its black and stenching depths — and God wanted him to jump? To become a slave — maybe for the rest of his life? How would that help Arthur? How would that help anyone?

But if they fought the Picts, what then? Two warriors, a boy, and an old man against hundreds? Impossible odds, and they would all be killed. But maybe not … What of Arthur? Natalenya? No, they would take her, and … they would probably take Arthur as well. He would grow up as a Pictish warrior, fighting
against
Britain.

If
they
were taken as slaves, then someone would need to protect them, if possible. The only way to do that would be to become a slave himself.

So that was it.
“Depart. Go where you are led,”
his mother'd said. But where was God? Where was
His
protection? Merlin slammed his fist on the stonework, bit his lip, and closed his eyes as tears threatened their way out. Merlin would just have to trust, but it was hard … so hard.

The debate had gone on without him, but now Colvarth saw him and silenced the others. “Though we all have strong feelings in this matter … as we must … I take the right as eldest here to place this grim decision in Merlin's hands. I am old, and whether I depart now or delay my death shortly through toil, it will not matter so much for me. But I trust that Merlin, who loves each one of you” — here he looked to Natalenya — “will make the best decision for all of us.”

Caygek snorted at this, and Merlin looked hard at the druid.
Blood had flecked Caygek's cheeks, and he flared his nostrils. They stared at each other, eye to eye, until Merlin finally turned away to look to the torch dug into the ground at the mouth of the tunnel. The bottom had cindered, sputtering down to its last few flames. Their time was almost up.

Taking a deep breath, Merlin's words came out thick, due to his swollen jaw. “Caygek, you are wrong. Fighting ends all hope we have of fulfilling our oath and raising Arthur to be the next High King.
We will not fight them
, but will seek our freedom as soon as we may.”

Colvarth slowly nodded — while Garth and Natalenya's eyes glistened in the dark.

Caygek swore. “Son of a fool! I've made no such oath. I will be free or die.”

Merlin grabbed the man's tunic and pulled him close. “Then you endanger all of us. You've tagged along this far, and now you will abide by our decision.”

Caygek bellowed and clouted the injured side of Merlin's jaw.

The pain shocked him, and he let go of the man's tunic. His vision blurred for a moment, and the next thing he knew, Caygek had drawn his sword and the death tip prodded Merlin's chest. He held his breath.

“Who gave
you
leadership?” Caygek sneered. “Those that are fastest make the decisions, I say.”

A loud thump came from behind Caygek, and he dropped to the ground.