Merlin's Shadow (23 page)

Necton grumbled at this, but discussed it with Gormla and the warriors. Finally, he tacitly agreed by throwing his spear down with an impressive flourish. As he did so, Merlin noticed him push a knife into his belt where it would be hidden behind his cloak. The other warriors threw their spears down as well, and a few were able to hide their knives in similar fashion.

Digon grunted and motioned for them to follow. Necton went first, pulling the reins of Gormla's horse, followed by two warriors leading the donkeys filled with plunder. Merlin and the slaves went next, and at the very back marched the final group of warriors. They soon found themselves on the very top of Dinpelder — a gently sloping plain surrounded by a thick rampart, with guards stationed at different points to keep watch over the surrounding countryside.

In front of Merlin lay a large village of timber huts. People milled about in the weak light of the morning, carving wood, tending sheep, weaving, chinking the cracks in their dwellings, and many other tasks.

As their party passed through, they came to a small market with wares of pottery, baskets, dried meats, and other things for sale. The owners looked upon them expectantly, and some even called out. Gormla slipped down from her horse, and one of the sellers grabbed her by the sleeve.

“Ye like jewelry, yes? Here, me lass, try a bracelet on!” And the man slipped a fine bracelet made of silver wire and dangling sea-shells over her wrist.

Necton stepped in between, ripped off the bracelet and threw it back. “Must sell-ametch first!” Gormla complained bitterly to him as he pulled her away from the booth.

As they walked on, one of the children, a youth with disheveled black hair maybe ten winters old, came out of his family's hovel and stared at Merlin like he were a convicted thief come to steal the family's lamb. The slave collar probably didn't help any.

When they neared the far end of the village, Merlin took his gaze off of the silent inhabitants and saw their party's destination. On
the highest point of the hill stood the strangest wooden longhouse Merlin had ever seen: It had nine levels, each with steeply sloped gable roofs, and each level progressively smaller until the top could hold only a single man on lookout.

The wood was dark, maybe pine, and this was used for roof tiles as well. The lowest level was huge … bigger even than King Gorlas's fortress, Dintaga — and the height of the building astounded him. The beams inside must be massive indeed to support such a structure. It was stave-built, with vertical timbers held together by sawn wood bands. At the top of every roof peak jutted out a fish, carved to look like it was jumping out of the foaming waves.

As they climbed up the hill and approached the hall, Merlin spied strange gods carved in relief into the cornice, jambs, and the huge doorway itself. These gods were giants who fought each other — their hammers swung by muscled arms. Each one blew storm clouds from thick lips, and lightning flew down to their feet, which stepped upon piles and piles of skulls.

Natalenya dismounted, and the horse and donkey reins were tied to the rail. Necton and two of his warriors took the bags of plunder and hefted it over their shoulders.

The guard knocked. “Open ‘er up,” he called, “this be king's business!”

V
ortigern shook off the snowflakes dusting the sleeve of his disguise and urged his horse up the road. The sun had just risen, revealing a burned-out abbey building that hugged the mountainside just ahead. What a rot, this trip was, coming back to that stinky little village of Bosventor to find and get rid of Uther's daughters. Didn't he have enough to do as High King? Wasn't rebuilding his war host enough? Wasn't fighting back the Saxenow on the coast enough?

Ah, but that druid, Mórganthu, had failed him. Hadn't gotten rid of the girls, and now Vortigern had to endure this nasty trip in cold weather. To make it yet worse, his back bothered him. Five days of hard riding had jolted him wrong and the pains shooting through his hip and spine made him feel like he had the horse on
his
back, not the other way around.

And why was Tregeagle so insistent? The man had sent his blithering servant twice, whining out of his puckered little mouth,
“Come and pay me for finding your nieces.” Pay him? Stick a sword through Tregeagle's flapping tonsils, more like.

Couldn't the man wait for the fighting season to end? For the Saxenow to settle down at winter's coming and leave the poor Britons alone? Leave the overworked and underpraised Vortigern alone?

A barn-muck of a mess, it was.

He really just wanted to rest for once in his life. To recline in his newly built feasting hall at Glevum. To eat and drink. To celebrate a little. But no … here he was, digging after Uther's little rabbits like he was still a common warrior.

He cursed out loud.

“What is it?” Rewan asked, his horse riding next to him. “Don't like the snow?” He brushed off the flakes that had gathered on his thighs.

They had ridden up to the burned-out buildings, and the road didn't go any farther. Vortigern had taken the wrong path, so he stopped his horse and ordered them to turn around. At least the monks were gone, and good riddance.

Before they rode back to the crossroad, Vortigern studied Rewan to see if the man's disguise was good enough. He didn't want anyone knowing the High King and his men had come. Their task would have to be secret. An old cloak, and even older tunic … but at his hip a tear had opened up and some of the leather showed through. “Tuck your tunic in, you fool.”

Rewan complied. “There's something else botherin' you. Is there unspilt blood left here? Something tells me we didn't finish our work last time.” He drew a dagger, put it between his teeth, and smiled at Vortigern.

As his new battle chief, Rewan would certainly understand because he had a mind for such things. Maybe now was the right time to talk about it. At least Rewan had some sense of what was right and wrong for a king to do.

Thankfully Vortigern's hapless son, Vortipor, had agreed to stay
at home and spend time with the fawning ladies. If he'd come along, he certainly would've cringed at what Vortigern planned. Vortipor would never understand this gift to him and his heirs.

Rewan and the three men with him had been handpicked by Vortigern for this task. He turned around and looked at them as they gathered their horses around him. Ruthless men, all, and willing to do anything for a bright coin and a full cup.

Vortigern cleared his throat. “The bottom of the bag, my men, is that I don't want Uther to have any brats who can stab me, or anyone from my house, in the back.”

Fest, one of the twins, spoke first — a brutish man with a chin sticking out so far that his little brain must have rolled down and stuck there. “So Arthur's back, huh? I thought he'd been taken by the Picts.”

“Not Arthur,” Vortigern sneered, “but his older sisters. I don't want Uther grandchildren running around either. His father killed my grandfather … I know how it goes.”

Enison smiled, showing the gap where his two front teeth had been knocked out. He was the smaller twin brother of Fest, and not nearly as smart. “So we's takes ‘em, eh? And then we's does … what wi'em?”

Rewan kicked out and struck the man's shin. “We kill them, dolt.”

The third man, Tethion, pulled his horse around, one hand fingering the feathered arrow shafts hidden by a cloth covering his saddle bag. “And that's why we're in disguise … so no one knows it's us — true?”

Vortigern nodded. They were catching on. “Not a soul here knows any of you four … at least not by name. Me, though, they'll recognize. So call me
Ivor
while we're here … catch it?”

“Listen up,” Rewan said so everyone could hear. “Nobody's to know the High King is here. Got that stuck in your noggin?”

Fest and Enison both nodded.

“And what's your problem, Tethion?” Rewan asked.

Tethion squinted his left eye and studied Vortigern. “These your
sister's kids, an' she was killed by them druidow, right? And now you'll have us kill your nieces? I don't get it.”

Vortigern paused. Igerna, his sister. He hadn't thought about her these many months. Of course he'd wanted her to live. She was descended from Vitalinus, wasn't she? But the spit started gathering on his tongue, and he ground his jaw.

“My sister was a traitor to the house of my grandfather,” he said. “She sealed her fate when she married the son of that butcher.”

Vortigern had wanted her to finally see things clearly … see her brother become High King … see the glory of their grandfather's house restored. He'd asked Mórganthu
not
to have her killed along with Uther, and Vortigern had made the arch druid promise. But it was an accident. Mórganthu had told him so. And now her tainted daughters would follow her to the grave. The bloodline of Vitalinus would be pure once again.

Vortigern reached out and grabbed Tethion's reigns. At the same time he drew his blade and jabbed it toward the man's stomach. “Do you have the guts for this? If you're not sure, I can spill ‘em on the ground and check.”

“No problem,” Tethion said, holding up his hands. “As long as I get some ale soon. Get me more ‘n a drop and I'll be jus' fine.”

“A drunk archer misses the target.” Vortigern said, sheathing his sword once more. “You'll be quick, silent, and accurate.
Got it?
”

“Some ale afterward? Even some sweet mead.”

Vortigern snorted and chewed on his moustache. “All right … When this is done, we'll all see what we can find on the way back.”

Vortigern and the four rode their horses no more than ten paces back down the road when an old man wearing a snow-covered hood stepped from the bushes and held up a hand.

“I see … I see you have come back to claim your own,” the stranger said.

Vortigern spit at the man's feet. “Get out of our way.”

But the man wouldn't move. “I know your errand, and I must speak with you.”

“Who are you and what do you want?”

The stranger's sleeve slid down a little on the upraised forearm, and some blue scar lines became visible in the morning light. “I am the one who sees all, O High King. By my druid arts I even spied your coming two nights ago, camped secretly as you were in the valley near the lake where you slept under the pine tree. Did you think I wouldn't know you in your disguise, Vortigern?” The man pulled back his hood, revealing his face and black-and-gray beard.

Vortigern dropped his reins and shook his head. It was Mórganthu, that renegade of a doublecrossing druid. How had he known who they were? Surely he hadn't been on the trail spying on them for the last few days … Vortigern had purposefully chosen empty lands for their path and had seen no one on the way from Glevum.

Vortigern's face turned hot, and he scowled. “Out with your words. And then get out of my way.”

“O King … O King Vortigern, I tell you that the ones you seek are near, and that
my
granddaughter is staying with them. She is not to be touched.”

Vortigern sniffed. “Why should I care?”

“Because we have something in common, you and I … a love for the Stone. It has given you power over the people, yes. For me, I want power over the very stars of heaven.”

The mention of the Stone piqued Vortigern's curiosity. He still felt its pull and the dreams of majesty it had given him. “What of the Stone … is its power restored?”

“No, no … not yet, but I assure you that one day it shall be … of that you have my word. But you, O King, might try to pull the sword from the Stone yourself … you have two good hands and are strong … yes, and you are the High King now, the rightful heir to Uther's sword.”

This intrigued Vortigern. Could he, through brute strength, do what Mórganthu could not through his druidic arts? But that wasn't what he'd come for. Maybe after the girls had been taken care of. “I don't have time for this,” Vortigern said. “Now get out of my way.”

“Patience, O King, for I must speak with you about my daughter's daughter. She is black haired, so you'll not mistake her for Uther's, or the weaver's. I need your solemn promise —”

“And you'll trust me more than I trust you?”

“Ah, you refer to our previous disagreement. Know, O King, that all is forgiven. After all, we are a forgiving people.”

“And a thieving people too. Uther's torc was missing when I buried him. Give it to me.”

The druid looked down. “I … I do not have it. What does it look like?”

“It had two eagle heads with amethyst eyes.”

“A warrior must have stolen it.”

Vortigern took in a breath. He had his own torc from his grandfather and didn't need Uther's. What he wanted was to make sure that it was never worn by a rival. No matter. If he had success in getting rid of Uther's daughters then he never need worry about that again, at least from Uther's line.

Eh, but how fun it would be to run the old man down and see him scream under the sharp edges of his horse's hoofs. It would be so easy. One less thieving druid in the world. But what of the Stone? What if Mórganthu held the Stone's secrets? What if he alone could restore the Stone to its power? A longing filled Vortigern to see the Stone again. To touch it. To experience again the ecstatic visions that'd driven him to reclaim the kingship, to kill Uther, to kill anyone in his way.

Did Mórganthu stand in his way? Perhaps not, but Vortigern hated him all the more because he needed him. “You have my promise, but nothing more. Now get your muddy legs out of here or I'll kick you into a ditch.”

Mórganthu bowed and stepped aside.

Vortigern and the others rode around an arm of the mountain, bringing the village into view on the southern slope. Smoke trailed upward from the holes in the crennig roofs — half of them anyway. It seemed the village wasn't as bustling as last spring. Had the people
moved away? Died? Hopefully not of sickness — that was the last thing he needed, catching ill after finally claiming what was rightfully his.

He led them onto the village green where they watered their horses and ate a small meal of smoked meat before remounting and heading up the main track that led to the old fortress — and Tregeagle's house. Finally they arrived, trotted the horses into his yard, dismounted, and tied up the reins. Vortigern banged on Tregeagle's door with the antiquated Roman eagle carved into it. What a joke, he thought.
Vortigern
was the real power in Britain now — not Uther, and certainly not the Romans who would never return.
He
was the High King.

“Open up,” he called, “I've got business here!”

After Vortigern and his men rode off, Mórganthu slipped into the forest at the side of the road — when he heard a curious noise behind him. It was a distant scuffing of feet. Someone — a figure in a dark robe — was standing outside the charred remains of one of the abbey buildings.

Mórganthu crouched behind a fallen oak with branches full of dead leaves, and waited, watching. The person was looking around, listening with a hand cupped near his ear. Finally, he began walking on the road toward Bosventor — no, he was half limping, in an urgent-yet-wary sort of way. Had the man been injured at some point?

When the man shambled past the fallen oak, Mórganthu bit the end of his healed stump of an arm. It was that Dybris fellow … that prying, foolish, interfering, and altogether death-deserving monk. What had he been doing in the abbey's ruins? Scavenging, perhaps? For what? Mórganthu wondered at how he could have missed spying such a thing with the orb. The monk lived in the old chapel in the village proper, that he knew, but was there something else, something secret, that drew him here?

And how had the monk become hurt such that he limped now? Ahh, on Beltayne night when the sword had been sunk into the Stone … that had to have been it. Mórganthu remembered seeing the monk's body crumpled up against the wall of Owain's smithy — perhaps McEwan's club had performed that magnificent bit of work.

Mórganthu dearly wished that this Dybris had fled along with the other monks when Tregeagle had driven them all away after Merlin left.

But the perilous question was … had Dybris overheard?

Mórganthu gulped. Did the monk know about Vortigern and his plan to kill the girls? If so, he would go straight to the weaver's and —

Mórganthu's heart began beating fast. This was the undoing of all his patient plans, and he would have to act swiftly. Vortigern, that oaf of a king, would go to Tregeagle's first — which meant it was up to Mórganthu to stop Dybris.

He sat down on the snowy grass, took out the orb … and put it back, realizing his mistake.

Seeing wasn't enough. With such short notice, there was no stopping the girls from escaping. He had to deal with it on his own — and get Ganieda out of there
now
. If Uther's girls escaped, and Ganieda was left in the house, then he could not predict what Vortigern would do in his rage. He might kill Ganieda. He might burn the place to the ground.