Merlin's Shadow (19 page)

Yet he was torn. He wanted to free Ganieda and get the fang, but now he needed to think. If he freed her now, then the weavers would know their secret had been found out and this glorious opportunity would be wasted.

Ganieda could wait … And the fang could wait. Just a little. Maybe Ganieda might use it to free herself. He needed time to think.

Backing away from the window and ducking around the left side of the house, he found the gate and slipped quietly out to the road. But he was on the wrong side of the house for going back to the stone circle and his tent, and didn't want to walk directly in front. So he snuck across the road, past a huge boulder, behind a bush, and worked his way across.

A hand came from behind a tree, grabbed on to Mórganthu's tunic, and jerked him sideways. “Got you at last,” the man said, his voice hissing.

Mórganthu tried to push against his grip, but couldn't break free. He found his feet and used his nails to gash at the man's face instead. For his efforts, the man hammered Mórganthu in the stomach, and he fell to the ground like a dry leaf.

“I should have skewered you the first time I saw you,” the man said.

Mórganthu lay in the dirt, gasping. He looked up to see who it was, but the moon, like a halo behind the man's head, veiled his face in darkness. A long white tunic lay upon the man, stained with soot, dirt, and blood. The bottom hem was wet, and stunk of fish.

The man spit on Mórganthu. “What a liar. You promised gold, and where is it?” He dropped and pinned Mórganthu's good arm with a knee. Then he jerked a Roman-forged
gladius
from his belt and stuck it under Mórganthu's nose. Froth fell from his teeth, and his thin lips quivered. “The Stone doesn't call me anymore … doesn't make gold for me anymore …”

It was Tregeagle, the village Magister, the once-fearsome overseer of the village and father to that wretched girl, Natalenya.

“You duplicitous imp,” he yelled. “Have the stone make gold or I'll cut your nose off.”

“I cannot. The Stone is hurt … The blade … the blade prevents it.”

“Then pull it out, curse you. Use your druid arts.”

“I cannot. I have tried.”

“Then give me
your
gold. You must have a hoard of it stashed away … buried … hidden.”

“I have none.” He wished he did, but the Stone had been injured before he'd thought to make his own coins into gold.

“I don't believe you.” Tregeagle pressed the gladius into Mórganthu's nose, and blood snaked down from the wound.

Mórganthu lowered his voice so no one would hear. “Wait … wait …”

“Why? Your ability to smell means nothing to me.” He grabbed Mórganthu's hair and pressed the gladius harder against the bridge of his nose.

Mórganthu sucked his breath in. Only a bit more pressure and his nose would be sliced off. He squirmed, but there was no getting away. At least not without giving something up. An idea came to Mórganthu — how to free himself from the beastly Magister's blade as well as exact vengeance upon Uther's daughters.

“I can get you gold … let me speak!” Mórganthu voiced, barely a whisper.

Tregeagle's lips bunched up, but the gladius didn't move.

“Vortigern will pay you gold for the information I will give you.”

“Vortigern?”

“Yes … Take your sword away, and I will tell you.”

The gladius moved away an inch, but Tregeagle still had Mórganthu's arm pinned and held his hair..

“Uther's daughters … are in the weaver's house … hiding there. Vortigern will pay you dearly for this information.”

“Why?”

“He wants all the heirs of Uther dead.” And Mórganthu wanted them dead too, but didn't say it. Revenge upon that man's entire house because Uther had murdered Mórganthu's son and caused his daughter's death.

Tregeagle drooled on Mórganthu's neck. “You know this? He will pay gold?”

“Happily … happily, O Magister. All the gold you can wish for.”

Tregeagle fell back, freeing Mórganthu. He dropped his sword clanking upon a rock. “Gold … I shall have gold again …”

Mórganthu pushed himself up and held his arm, which was stiff and painful. He would neither forget Tregeagle's infractions, nor forgive, for Mórganthu never let any trespass go. “Take your warriors and capture Uther's girls … and keep them until Vortigern comes.”

“No, but I will send Erbin to fetch Vortigern.”

“Troslam might take them somewhere else and hide them … No, you must capture them!”

“And then have to feed them? Are you mad? Let Troslam give those leeches his crumbs, I say. You'll keep watch, now, won't you?”

“I?”

“Yes, you and your druidow,” Tregeagle said, picking up his gladius again. “And if the girls get away, you'll pay with your nose … and then I'll kill you for being the clumsy imp you are.”

Mórganthu rubbed at the cut on his nose and backed away, nodding.

T
he slaves' trek north took over a month. The Picts raided, pillaged, and burnt their way home, encountering no group of British warriors large enough to stop them. Over two hundred other slaves had been taken during the course of their sojourn, and they trailed behind Merlin with clanking chains, moaning and huffing.

Natalenya fared the worst of them all. She started out each day walking strong, but then when the sun became hot, she would weaken. By the end, she would be helped along by Colvarth and Caygek until she would faint. That was when Merlin would bear her in his arms, for no one else of sufficient strength would carry her for fear of catching the sickness of bloated scabs that covered her arms and legs. Thankfully, the chains attaching him to Garth and Bedwir were long enough to allow him to do this penance.

And with each step, each raw stride upon Merlin's aching legs and bloodied feet, he carried her. Up hills and down valleys. Through streams, and under the dark canopy of forsaken forests. Past raided villages where the old women cried over their dead. Each
day when he picked her up, his back would begin to ache. Soon it would throb. And long before the end of the day's march, it would scream, and Merlin wanted to scream with it. Instead, he would weep in regret — of his decisions, of his foolishness, and of the suffering he had caused. Yes, and he would lament his misplaced trust in God who had neither healed Natalenya nor delivered them — until the tears ran dry and there were no more left to wet his growing beard and her dirty dress.

The only grace — if horrible, awful grace it could be called — was that Natalenya began to weigh less. This made Merlin's impossible task easier, and she became less painful to bear. But he feared for her, deeply, and would have gladly shared his own food with her if she would do more than nibble at her rations. And the wasting disease took hold not only upon her flesh, but also upon her mind and soul, and she despaired of life.

Near the beginning of the journey, Necton made two attempts to kill Natalenya, not wishing a diseased slave to travel with them. Each time, by some grace, Merlin was alerted in time to gather everyone around her and prevent him. Over the next few days, when Necton saw that no one else had caught the disease, especially Merlin, he relented and left her alone. His malevolent stare, however, hinted that he wished her to die and disappear.

Colvarth tried his best to help her, but no matter what chance herb he found while marching, none could halt the spreading boils or draw out their dread pus. The old man would shake his head, close his eyes, and pray, but there was little else he could do.

Bedwir also fell under Colvarth's care, and to Merlin's amazement, the man slowly healed of his wounds. By the end of their journey, he began to look again like one of Uther's warriors: stern, determined, and deadly. If only he had a blade. Though obviously grieved at their predicament, the man had an inner joy at finding Arthur — and Merlin resented this. Finding Arthur as a slave? There was little hope in that. Very little, as far as Merlin could see.

And Arthur himself would hold on to Garth's neck through the
long marches. Always quiet, always watching, he seemed to somehow understand their danger and did not add to the burden by crying without warrant. During rests he would crawl about, laugh, play with Colvarth's beard, pull himself up on Merlin's knees, and even take a few faltering steps.

Garth held up the best of them all, and though he complained bitterly about his lost bagpipe and the lack and quality of their food, he somehow thrived. To Merlin's amazement, he grew taller, and though thinner, it allowed his strength to show through the more. What did concern Merlin, however, was his long, whispering talks with Caygek, and his willingness to serve Necton — even when the man was cruel. Garth even tried to learn the Pictish language. Was he seeking better rations, which he rarely got, or was he hoping to somehow get his bagpipe back? Or worse, was he just avoiding Merlin and his sullen, scarred face?

Caygek, ahh … now he was a puzzle. If Merlin had been made of straw, then Caygek would have set him ablaze. Yet, the two-faced lout that he was, the druid would let Colvarth lean upon him as needed during their long marches — yes, Colvarth, the man whom all druidow hated because he had left their ranks and taken the Harp of Britain with him. Ah, they itched for his natural death and the day they could rightfully reclaim the harp. So why did Caygek help him? Merlin would have thought that Colvarth's swift death would have pleased Caygek more than anything in that man's miserable, sour life.

Peredur helped Colvarth as well on the rough journey, and more than once remarked how the old man was like the grandfather he'd never had. During the journey, Merlin gleaned some details from the young man's life … growing up in Kembry, his father having gout, his older brothers fighting the Saxenow. Him not being allowed to fight because of his small stature. And now he was a slave, and unlikely to ever see his family again — if any of them even lived after the Pictish raid. And it angered him to see their family's horses being used as pack animals. “Those horses were imported, bred, and trained for war. And the Picts don't even know!”

Colvarth tried to keep their spirits up during the march by leading them in prayer and worship, especially on every Lord's Day, but Merlin found it hard to focus on God with the slave collar pressing upon his shoulders. Raw wounds had formed, and as much as he tried to shift the iron band around, the sores never seemed to heal.

They marched northward over seventy leagues and finally passed the first wall built by the Romans — of stone stacked to the height of three spans and on top wide enough for two men to walk abreast. Such a foolish emperor to think he could keep the Picts out of Britain. Keep them from swooping down and taking slaves. At least this first wall, the
Vallum Aelium
built by Hadrian, was mostly intact despite it being abandoned many decades earlier. But what good did it do without warriors to guard it? None — and the Picts took Merlin and the other slaves through one of the many broken-down gates with neither hindrance nor challenge.

But they were not yet in Pictish lands, for the vast, trackless Kelithon Forest still lay between them and the second Roman wall — the point of no return. Merlin asked Colvarth who ruled the land between the two walls.

The bard blinked before answering, his wrinkle-lined eyes sunken now after so much exertion. “This is Guotodin land, and King Atle rules here. He has been a sometime friend to Uther's house — and sometime enemy.”

“Atle?” Merlin asked. “You mean he's still alive?”

“Alive? Oh, I would not be surprised. And that is more strange than you can know.”

“He was old when my father visited there, but why is that strange? You are old yourself.”

Colvarth sighed. “And shortly to die.”

“I didn't say that.”

“But it is true. And here is the peculiar part: The tales when I was a youth told that even then Atle was very old.”

Merlin shook his head. “Huh.”

“And years later I consulted with his advisers over a dispute with

the druidow. I beheld him myself then, and he seemed even younger than I, which makes little sense to me even now.”

“But my mother was —”

“Yes, I am familiar with the story of your father … with your story.” Colvarth looked at Merlin, his eyes alight. “You are Atle's grandson, and that may be worth something to us.”

“But he doesn't even know I'm alive. I can't prove the relation. And my father and mother ran from that man's wrath. What makes you think —”

“Yet I am filled with hopefulness, for you resemble him in some ways.”

Merlin pondered that thought for awhile, but dismissed it as folly. Why would Atle care about his fate? The man had tried to kill Merlin's mother, his own beloved daughter, when she became a Christian. Unless Atle had changed, and drastically, then he might hate Merlin all the more.

From that point on the terrain grew more rugged and the trees thickened. Merlin's job carrying Natalenya became harder. And her strength flagged — so that now Merlin had to carry her more often. As she lay in his arms unconscious through those arduous hours, he hoped she wouldn't remember that it was he who carried her, for he wanted to set her free from her promise to him, foolish him who had enslaved them, scarred and ugly him who did not deserve her love.

And as he plodded the ridgeways with Natalenya hanging limp in his arms, forded streams at shallow spots, and slogged through the tree-thick vales, all became a mashed pottage of pity, sadness, and anger — with a finger of madness stirring at the edges. Chains. Moans. Clinking. Aching. Slipping. Bleeding. Scabbing. Collapsing. Death. Dying. Desperation. These woods — this Kelithon Forest — became to him, and always would be, the forest of his penance, and the forest of his inner screams.

Finally, with deep exhaustion beyond anything Merlin had ever felt, they arrived at the second wall, the long-abandoned
Vallum Antoninus
, a broken and menacing barrier of turf and rocks whose
scattered bones marked the entrance into Pictish lands. Merlin had heard of this ruined wall — and the living death its passage represented — but had never imagined he himself would one day cross it.

And gratefully, after only a few more leagues, they reached the tribe's lands, the entrance of which was marked by a line of large, stone monuments decorated with decaying skulls of men and horses.

The village lay on the western shore of the largest lake Merlin had ever seen, its reaches stretching beyond his sight to the north. And beyond the village lay a high mountain range skirted by gray and brown-topped foothills with colossal, moss-bound pines.

The village itself was larger than Bosventor — perhaps three hundred domed huts made completely of stone, including the roofs. And the Picts had their own fortress built into the side of a glen not far away, and in the glen there flowed a stream that emptied into the lake. The surrounding farmland had not yet been tilled, as spring came later in the north.

“We are all blessed,” Colvarth said to Merlin after they arrived.

“Blessed?” Merlin said, hardly comprehending the word. He set Natalenya down on the grass and fell on his side, sucking in air.

“Yes, the land of the Picts goes another seventy leagues north …”

“We'd still be walking for a long while, sure. I'm glad too.”

“You would still be walking, yes. But I … I would soon die.”

And it was true, the old man had spent himself on the journey. Merlin rested a hand on Colvarth's shoulder and felt what little was left on his bones.

A celebration ensued for the warriors, victorious over their soft, southern enemies and rich with slaves and plunder. They feasted long into the night while the slaves' camp lay quiet like a corpse. Only one guard was posted, for no one, including Merlin, had the strength to flee.

But a thought bothered Merlin as he fell asleep in a drafty stone hut that had been given them: The village appeared to own no previous slaves. If the Picts captured slaves every year, what had become of them?

The next day, about midmorning, Necton came, took Arthur from them, and painted new designs of blue paint upon the young boy's chest. His wife, whom they later knew as Gormla, was standing to the side of the crowd, and he gave the child into her arms. Arthur cried as they carried him away. Merlin wanted to stop him, but there was nothing he could do. Not yet.

The warriors assembled all the slaves, and Ealtain addressed them. “Anns Tauchen-Twilloch be village-i, and airson bless'ive yiu ris our gle ghodis, and ris our peiple. Reborn is now an land, and be'ive yiu our offering ris it.”

Ealtain droned on, but Merlin ignored him. What did it matter? At least he understood the part about where they were — the village of
Tauchen-Twilloch
— and as far beyond the end of the known world as Merlin could imagine.

Garth stepped next to Colvarth. “I'm startin' to understan' their speech … Did he say they're goin' to sacrifice us?”

“No … at least not yet.” Colvarth answered. “It means we will be the ones working their land, their offering to it.”

Garth shared the translation with a slave next to him, and so the word spread.

And Merlin soon learned what Ealtain meant: Breaking up the soil with ard and hoe, even if their backs nearly broke. Digging out thousands of rocks until their knees were numb. Planting the crops of barley, oats, wheat, beans, and turnips, even in the pouring rain. Weeding until their fingers bled. Hauling water on aching shoulders whenever the summer wind raked the top of the land with its dry talons.

Merlin wanted to close his eyes and wish it all away, but couldn't. Slowly, he became numb. Numb to the work. Numb to the beatings when he didn't go fast enough. Numb to the deaths. Numb to everything except Natalenya. Merlin worried for her. With her sickness, no one wanted her working in the fields, and so she was relegated to a mold-and-slime-encrusted rock hut far away from the others. This was the “hut of the dead,” he had been told, and here she rested and, if it was possible, improved a little.

And some of the other slaves did give their very life blood, for they were whipped if they didn't work hard enough, and some men died at the hands of a merciless Pict and his ripping, choking rope. Necton himself was harsh to his slaves, especially to Merlin.

“Lazy doig, yiu!” Necton yelled at him one summer day as he clouted Merlin on the back for the third time with the haft of his spear.

Merlin had done nothing but stop to let Garth and Bedwir catch their breaths while the three were carrying water. Now Merlin had paid for it with a bruised back and a welt on his neck.

“Thusa work-ha harder yiu, or make-idh yui an Scafta thrail, and then yiu'll pay-sa.”

Merlin cringed at this threat to make him Scafta's slave, for Necton meant it, knowing full well Scafta longed to beat Merlin into submission and remove completely any threat from someone the people considered a rival bard.