Merlin's Shadow (6 page)

A
s Vortigern's warriors notched arrows in their bows, Merlin panicked, grabbed the rim of the cliff, and dropped. He skinned his shins and left knee, but landed in one piece. Together with Garth, he helped Colvarth stumble into the boat.

An arrow whizzed by right where Colvarth had stood a moment before.

Merlin jumped in as two arrows struck the boat, and then helped Garth clamber in.

“The
last
one in,” Garth said. “I can't believe it.”

The fishermen turned the sail to catch the wind. But as they pulled away from Dintaga, two of the warriors jumped into the water and grabbed on to the edge of the boat.

Caygek hit one over the head with his pommel, and the man fell into the water.

Merlin had more trouble with the second warrior, who was able to pull himself into the boat.

Merlin pointed his blade at the man, but hesitated. Besides fighting the Eirish warrior and Mórganthu to save his father's life, Merlin had never killed a man.

Seizing the advantage of Merlin's delay, the warrior hammered him across the ribs with his forearm. Merlin fell to the deck, hit his head, and dropped his sword.

The warrior unsheathed his own blade and raised it to jab Merlin through the chest. His dripping face was red with fury, and his black hair wild.

Merlin recognized him — it was the same man he'd knocked from the horse.

“Die, druid-murderer of the king!” he yelled.

The sword stabbed forward, but then faltered. Colvarth, who had been laying between Caygek and Merlin, pulled hard on the man's foot. The warrior wavered and plummeted — the blade's tip still falling toward Merlin.

Merlin rolled to his right, and the blade sliced the skin of his left arm. He sat up, spun, and jammed his elbow into the fallen warrior's face. “Vortigern is lying,” Merlin yelled. “We're
saving
Arthur.”

But the man kept struggling, and so Merlin, Caygek, and the tall fisherman wrestled the warrior and threw him over the side. He dropped with a splash, leaving his sword behind.

Still, a spear hurtled over Merlin's head and ripped a hole in the sail. More arrows fell, but the boat left the island — and the shouting warriors — far behind.

For the first time in two days, Merlin sighed in relief and looked at his surroundings. The boat that had saved them was very different from the boats built for Bosventor's marsh.

Unlike the flat-bottomed, squat, or leather-sided coracles Merlin was used to, this boat was big. From its thick keel to its raised prow, seven men could lay down — if they didn't mind the pile of fish that had been netted and thrown into the center on top of the stone
ballast. The ship was twelve feet wide, and its hull was made of two wooden skins — an outer chinked with pitch and wood shavings, and an inner, both of which had been nailed to the thick ribs made of curved oak. The single mast was placed part way to the front of the ship, and its old sail stood twenty feet high.

But on a second look, Merlin was surprised how old, worn, and cracked the decking was, to the point some of the the nails were missing. This boat was originally built to be seaworthy, but now its timbers creaked, and the accumulation of water in the bottom worried him.

The tall fisherman they'd bargained with saw Merlin's face and bellowed, “What? Don't like my boat, uhh? You think we sink and become little pyskow — little fishies, uhh?”

Merlin flinched.

“I tell you, this boat was my grandfather's, and it's as solid as the day he inherited it from my great-great uncle. So you want to swim instead?” Over his solid frame was wrapped a blue and brown plaid, and his balding head and chin were fringed with grayish-orange hair. His nose was hooked, maybe from having been broken, and his skin was tanned by years on the open sea.

His dark eyes studied Merlin.

“Thanks for taking us on board,” Merlin said, still wondering if the boat would hold together for their journey.

Natalenya, with Arthur in her arms once again, wiped blood from Colvarth's face using a rag and some water from a cask.

“No more,” he said, wincing. “That stings.”

The fisherman examined the damaged sail. “You have nice friends on Dintaga, uhh? Our fee just went up another three silver.” He pulled a large needle and twine from a wooden box at the side, climbed up, and began sewing the tear to strengthen the cloth and prevent it from ripping further.

“I'll pay you fifteen,” Colvarth said as he held out the silver coins. “Five for each of you. For risking your lives to save us.” Colvarth then introduced the traveling party, explaining their plight only as
much as was needed, leaving out the fact Arthur was the son of the High King.

“Sure, an' your piping was true,” the youngest fisherman of the three said to Garth. He had a full head of brown hair, thrashing in the wind, and he looked like a younger version of the tall fisherman. “You
were
in trouble — but not the kind of trouble we like to deal with.”

“This is my son, Henktor,” the tall fisherman said. “Hard worker, him — makes me proud. Crothak, however” — he thumbed at the heavy-set man tending the rudder — “is a lazy dog who fiddles with his nets.”

A broad smile, with a few tooth gaps, spread over Crothak's face. “Don't mind Inktor. If I am a lazy dog, then he's a barking one who scares all the fish away.”

The three fishermen laughed.

Merlin and the others gathered together at the middle of the deck, where the boat was steadiest. The sail stood forward from this point, and they were in no danger from the boom. Natalenya passed out some barley bread, cheese, and dried meat.

“May I have more?” Garth asked. “Me tummy's awful empty after these last two days ridin' hard an' such.”

Natalenya gave him a double portion, and he smiled. When she finished her own food, she sang a song in Latin, which Merlin only understood a portion of. But she began to cough after a few verses, and stopped singing.

Inktor stepped up to the group and furrowed his brow. “No Roman talk on my ship, uhh?” he said.

“You don't like the Romans?” Natalenya asked, coughing again. Her eyes narrowed. “They used to patrol these waters and protect the likes of you. Aren't you afraid of sea raiders?”

Merlin remembered that her father, the Magister of Bosventor, had been descended from Romans stationed on this very coast. He put a hand on her arm.

“Sea raiders?” Inktor said, jutting his chin out. “I can outsail any of the Eirish or Scoti. But you land-tillers should worry about the Prithager.”

Natalenya smirked at him. “Really now … Picti?”

“I said
don't speak Latin
. That's how I got hurt — curses on the Romans, making us like slaves in their army.”

“What happened?” Merlin asked.

“Forty years ago I fought under Servyt up on the wall before the last remnant of the Romans left. My patrol, we were ambushed, and the Prithager sliced me up to find out how much the soldiers had dwindled.” He lowered his plaid and showed them his back.

Merlin sucked in his breath. He knew his own back had been scarred from being whipped, but this man had nearly been flayed alive.

“Would have died if Crothak's brother and his men hadn't saved me. I say worry about the painted ones. The sea raiders won't come inland, but the Prithager will. With nothing to stop them, a horde could swarm down from the north, right over the silly, broken wall that the Romans built. Bloody devils.”

“Me father an' I were fishermen,” Garth said. “Did you ever meet Gorgyr of Porthloc?”

“Can't say I have. Why aren't you with him, uhh? Fathers can always use a stout lad.”

“He's dead … a storm.”

“An ill fate, that'un.” Inktor said. “Happens to the best. Anyway, we're headed for Baegower, where Crothak's uncle lives. We've got a long journey, uhh? So no more Latin.” He pulled up his plaid and stomped off to tend the sail with his son.

They all rested as best they could. Arthur tried to curl up in Natalenya's cloak, but her coughing made him cry, so the boy finally settled down with Garth. It was painful for Merlin to hear Natalenya, who coughed badly until falling into a wheezing sleep.

Merlin's slumber was poor as well, what with the boat rolling and the occasional spray of water over the side. And his dreams were
filled with the spectre of a ship chasing them. As fast as the western wind lifted their sail and pushed them along, the pursuing boat still gained. Soon it came within hailing distance, and at its prow stood Vortigern with a bloody blade in his hand.

Bedwir stood near the shore holding a borrowed spear, cursing his swollen nose and wishing his clothes were dry.

Before him, Vortigern, Vortipor, and a few select others prepared two sailing boats. It had taken nearly an hour of riding down the coast to get to the nearest fishing village, and then they had to negotiate the borrowing of the boats. When the fishermen refused, Vortigern had commanded that their nets be shredded — and only then did they relent.

Bedwir wrung the bottom of his pant leg out again and remembered the scuffle onboard the ship with the fugitives. If only he hadn't struggled, perhaps he could have learned more. What had Merlin said before they threw him overboard? That Vortigern was lying and that they themselves were trying to save Arthur?

Bedwir looked warily at Vortigern. Sure, Bedwir had followed him since Uther had put the battle chieftain in command that fateful night in Bosventor. Bedwir had even trusted Vortigern, in a way. But every time something important happened, Vortigern would do something odd.

The worst was that Vortigern had not picked Bedwir to go along with the main party. Of the forty or so warriors present, only half could fit on the boats, and Bedwir was deemed unworthy to come along.

What if Merlin
was
right — that Vortigern had lied to them? What if the fugitives were trying to save Arthur? Was Vortigern more interested in his own kingship than his nephew's? The only way to find out would be to go along in the boats.

And if Vortigern wasn't loyal to Arthur, then the child was in great danger. But what of the druid who had helped dump Bedwir
into the water? Oh, the madness of it all. He'd just have to find a way to go along.

“What a lousy, liquid lot,” the warrior said next to him. His name was Penkoref, Bedwir remembered, and he liked to stay up late drinking with the other warriors.

“What's lousy is getting thumped, losing your sword, and being thrown in the sea,” Bedwir said. “What's your complaint?”

“I get seasick, that's wot,” Penkoref said. “All I ask for is a fire and ale, a dry place where I can curl up, and Vorty-growl sez I'm goin' fishing. Well, I'll be sicker'n a squid, I sez, but he don' care, I gotta go.”

Bedwir had found his chance, but knew he'd have to take hold of it with both hands. Turning on Penkoref, he shoved the man down to the ground with a snarl. “Son of a disloyal weasel, I'll not have you speak against Arthur!”

The man blinked up at him. “Wot? I said nething o' the kind —”

“I'll trounce any man here who isn't willing to sacrifice all for Arthur.” Bedwir shook his spear at the other men around him, and they backed off. “Get up, Penkoref. I challenge you for the right to save Arthur.”

“A duel! A duel,” the men shouted.

Penkoref stared at Bedwir, and their eyes locked.

Bedwir winked.

A slight smile spread on Penkoref's face as he picked himself up off the ground. “You do, eh? Well, I challenge back. I'm ez loyal to Arth' ez any warrior hereaboots.”

“A duel!” the men shouted, and someone threw Penkoref a spear.

“The winner goes after Arthur, and the loser stays back,” Bedwir shouted.

The warriors began chanting, “Winner for Arthur. Winner for Arthur!”

Bedwir crouched, leveling his spear.

Penkoref did the same, and the two charged each other.

Bedwir turned his spear to the left, dodged right, and jabbed it
into the ground in front of Penkoref's running legs. And for once in this dreadful day, it wasn't Bedwir who went down.

Penkoref sprawled to the dirt.

Bedwir brought his point to the man's chin. “Yield.”

“I'll only yield if ye'll acknowledge me honor,” Penkoref said, and then
he
winked at Bedwir. “That I'm ez loyal to Arthur ez any.”

Bedwir pulled Penkoref up. “I'll acknowledge your honor, but not your skill.”

Just then Vortigern burst into the clearing. “What's the meaning of this?”

“Bedwir for Arthur,” the men shouted. “Bedwir's taking Penkoref's place on the boat.”

“What?” Vortigern said, shaking his head.

And so the men shouting louder, “Bedwir for Arthur!” and they picked him up, carried him to the shore, and placed him triumphantly in a boat.

Penkoref bowed his head before Vortigern, looking very sorry.

Bedwir watched as Vortigern backhanded the defeated man, and then punched him in the gut. Penkoref fell back, sucking air. “Weakling,” Vortigern said, and stomped off to the boats — and Bedwir.

“I don't want you,” Vortigern shouted. “Get out.”

But all the men shouted, “Bedwir for Arthur … Bedwir for Arthur!”

Vortigern's lips turned sour, and he turned on the men. “Get in the boats, you lazy louts.”

Then he turned back to Bedwir. “I've got my eye on you,” he said, his hand on the hilt of his blade. “Any trouble and
your
fish guts will join the ballast.”

The men who had been picked filed into the boats, taking care to keep their cloaks from touching the filthy deck, and then they shoved off.

The owner of each boat had been forced, along with a helper, to navigate. The sails went up and the two ships were away.