“Garth! It’s me . . . Natalenya!”
The monk blinked and swallowed, a look of desperation on his face. “I’m sorry, Natalenya. I didn’t know you and Merlin were here. Necton’s come to destroy this fortress and take you all captive.”
“How did you — ?”
“Come to be his prisoner? I’ve been a missionary to the Picti on the coast for three years. There’s a settlement on the Molendinar River, and we’ve even built a church. Necton knew I could translate for him, so he took me.”
Necton grimaced at Garth, grabbed his hair roughly, and wrenched him forward until he fell to his knees beside the man with the bag over his head. “Mungo! Thusa tellha ris openidha dunstuck gatesi!”
Garth was forced to look up at the fortress, and only spoke after he was slapped in the face. “Necton commands you to open up the gates . . . or else he’ll kill this prisoner.”
One of the guards untied the bag over the man’s head and pulled it off.
Taliesin jumped and slapped his hand to his mouth. Despite the blood dried dried onto the man’s face, Taliesin knew him: his great-uncle Ector.
When the truce meeting actually began that night, it was with the lighting of ten bonfires and the preparation of a glorious feast. Arthur’s stomach turned at the thought of eating in that odious building, — surrounded by the dead, but he gritted his teeth and attended Vortigern as commanded.
Vortigern’s retinue had brought wagonloads of woolen mats, upon which reclined the men privileged enough to be chosen by Vortigern and Hengist to attend the feast — almost a thousand in total. Besides the two kings — who were each allowed their personal sword — all of those inside were weaponless, in the spirit of the truce.
Outside and eating less sumptuous fare sat the two armies — on opposite sides of the building, with Vortigern’s men to the west, and Hengist’s to the east.
But the truce inside was a friendly affair: the Saxen leaders had brought great vats of wine and, intermingled with the British nobles, passed the cups back and forth, drinking deeply.
At the same time they gorged on meat, soups, and flatbreads, all roasted and baked in the bonfires. No less than thirty deer turned on spits, and the aromatic smoke rose to the top of the old roof structure and escaped through the smoke hole and the numerous roof sections that were now drooping or missing.
Vortigern and Hengist found their seats upon two wooden thrones, and then the proceedings began. Nine druidow entered, amusing Arthur until they brought forth wooden trumpets and sounded them while marching in a circle with a shuffling, jerky dance. He had to cover his ears discreetly, for the trumpets sounded like nine rats dying. Next the druidow lit a ceremonial flame and flicked their curved brass daggers in and out of the flames, chanting:
Hear now a rede from olden day . . . When druid fires blazed bright.
The people came to Hen Crogmen . . . To dance the ancient rite.
And so today we bless this peace . . . ’Tween Saxenow and Brit.
Within this place, this sacred space . . . Today it shall be writ,
Turn not from us, nor from our kin . . . The men who do live free.
Come nigh to blessed oak array . . . Our gorseth ye shall see;
There worship we our primal gods . . . Tread not the paths of men.
Through smoke and fire thy oaths fulfill . . . At rarest Hen Crogmen.
When the druidow finished this ritual, they retreated to cluster behind Vortigern’s throne, with Podrith standing directly to the High King’s right. Then, with grunts of disapproval from the druidow, the priests of the Saxenow strode forward to perform their rites. Four of them came first, each in a red robe with a white sash. A fifth man approached leading a beautiful white horse. All of them began to make neighing and whinnying sounds as they danced around the horse, until they startled Arthur by grabbing the horse’s neck and pulling it down to a short stone pillar and slicing it open.
Arthur began to feel sick as the horse thrashed and fought while its blood drained upon the makeshift altar. Apparently the other Britons felt the same, for a great murmur of disapproval arose from the crowd.
“Cease!” one of the Saxen priests shouted in the Britons’ tongue. “We who serve the Men of the People require silence!”
At this the Britons murmured all the louder until Vortigern raised his hand. They quieted, but nothing could change the seething anger written on their faces.
When the shameful sacrifice was done, the horse was brought to the fire to be cleaned and roasted for the reprehensible gluttony of the Saxenow — and Arthur cursed them and their ways. Why would Vortigern make peace with such a people? Arthur wondered.
Vortigern and Hengist then began talking with one another, but their interaction was subdued. The bags under Vortigern’s eyes were puffy and red, as if he’d been crying and drinking all day.
And then there was Hengist — proud Hengist — whose face was a mask of guarded mirth, for he would only smile when Vortigern was looking. His pale hair was slicked back and his golden armbands reflected the light of the fires so that his skin appeared ablaze.
There was a young woman who feasted next to Hengist, and Arthur found her vehemently staring at him on more than one occasion. Her hair was like long, golden flax, braided with cords of red and brown leather. Upon her head lay a slim golden diadem, and her finely laced dress was a multicolored plaid of brown, tan, and white. If she had not been a Saxen and a pagan, Arthur would have considered her to be a great prize.
But then a strange voice entered his head . . . a voice that was not his own:
Stare not at me, slayer of my uncle!
What you behold is not for a beast like you.
If it were not for this feast, I would slit your throat and toss the globes of your eyes into the fire.
The girl arched one of her brows and bared her teeth.
Do not be surprised I can speak to you thusly.
I am a prophetess among my people, and the god I serve, Wotan, has given me many powers.
Fear me, murderer!
Arthur turned away from her, shook his head, and tended to his duty of waiting on Vortigern. But he could feel her glare burning into him, and the urge to flee beat into his chest like dark waves upon a storm-tossed shore. He pushed against these feelings, and finally vanquished them as he focused on what Vortigern was saying to him.
“Artorius,” the high king said with a vacant stare, “fill my goblet once more.”
As hero of the battle, Arthur had been required to be the personal and esteemed servant of the High King. Why have I been elevated to such a role? Arthur asked himself more than once, and the only answer he could surmise was that his presence would aggravate Hengist. What good purpose this could serve, he didn’t know.
He went quickly and returned with a decanter of one of the finer meads, one scented with plum and the flowers of clover.
Soon after, Vortigern made another request. “Artorius, my son, take this bloody venison and have the cooks roast it until the edges are charred . . . and bring some oil for my beard.”
But it wasn’t the oil of gladness Arthur gave him, rather the oil of mourning. The tales of Vortipor’s entombing the night before swirled amongst the British warriors, and Arthur picked up that Vortigern had wept and screamed. The man’s lineage was at an end, and Arthur couldn’t help but think of how Vortigern had tried to end Uther’s years ago.
Arthur was out of earshot for a time, waiting on a cook to make a special vinegar sauce the High King delighted in, and when he came back, bearing the golden vessel, Vortigern and Hengist were holding hands ceremonially — in a pact of truce, Arthur guessed.
But he was wrong, for it was more than a truce. Both kings stood, and Vortigern spoke with much halting and coughing, though soon his voice grew stronger.
“British . . . and Saxen nobles . . . I announce to you that we have forged a lasting truce . . . between our peoples . . . one that shall never be gainsaid . . . a truce that we will, toge
ther, fight the invading Picti in the north and rebuff the . . . the . . . threat of Gorlas from the west.”
Here Vortigern paused, as Hengist withdrew his hand and replaced it with the hand of his daughter, who had stepped forward.
Vortigern cleared his throat and continued. “Furthermore, to seal this truce, I announce to you my . . . immediate marriage to Hengist’s daughter, Reinwandt. Thus shall join two great peoples. Thus shall peace be preserved. Thus shall the loss of my house” — and here a tear leaked unbidden from his right eye — “the loss of my wife . . . children . . . and grandchildren . . . be restored.”
Arthur sucked in his breath as a stunned silence filled the room — from both Saxenow and Briton alike. Reinwandt curtsied to Vortigern and then looked up at him with unblinking eyes set in a stern, emotionless face.
And of all who could have protested this unholy alliance by marriage, the only one who stood up was Fodor. The envoy shook his head and then bowed before the High King.
“My majestic, illustrious, most noble lord . . .”
Vortigern closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “What is it now?”
“My illuminated, majestical sire . . .”
“Out with it!”
Fodor’s chin began to quiver. “It is your lineage, my lord. If you marry this Saxen . . . uh . . . princess, you will sully your children’s pedigree, and the bloodline of their children’s children, and then — ”
Vortigern drew his sword and pointed it right at Fodor’s upturned nose. “Be silent!”
The envoy clamped his mouth shut and drew his twitching lips inside.
In the next moment a disturbance came at the back of the room, near the gate. One of Vortigern’s warriors marched forward with a spear pointed at a man dressed in black — and not just dressed in black, but with a black mask over his face and a wrapped harp hanging from his shoulder.
Merlin . . .
Mórgana, having traveled with Loth, Mórdred, and Mórganthu to their new fortress in Lyhonesse, sat in its ornate upper throne room. A fire burned on the hearth under a small, skewered boar, whose dripping fat fell and sparked the flames higher, filling the room with a luscious, salty aroma.
Mórdred banged the door open and threw his dusty cloak over a low table. Mumbling something, he scuffed his way to the fire and sliced off a long slab of boar meat.
Mórgana paid little attention to the him, for the orb held her interest much more.
“The hunt was useless,” he said, stuffing his mouth. “Did you hear me? The only deer I saw escaped into the brush, and I swear it was the only thing alive on Lyhonesse besides the rodents!”
“Really?” Loth said vaguely from where he stood behind Mórgana’s throne. He, too, looked into the orb.
“Not a single, nasty deer . . . not even a paltry partridge. Why did we come here?”
From where she sat on her carved, wooden throne, she lifted the orb higher so both Mórganthu and Loth could see. Inside swirled images of British men as they stealthily climbed down from a high mountain fortress in the dark. Below them lay the campfires of Picti warriors.
“So,” Loth said, “they think they canna’ escape Dinas Crag sae easily? They think they’re goin’ to come back with help? Ha!”
Mórdred edged closer and peered into the orb to see what was going on.
Mórganthu turned to Mórgana. “What . . . what will you do? Will you use the fang upon them?”
“Yes, of course. I have already traveled there to alert Necton about their secret valley, and I’d rather not intervene in that way again right now. Besides, I’ve been waiting to use the fang upon those that have been hiding Merlin and his brood, and its power will make sure that they die.”
She pulled the fang from its sheath and held it up until its green fire merged with the purple flames of the orb to form a strange blue blaze that danced between them.
Mórganthu reached out with his only hand and brought his fingertips close to the blue fire. “This joined color reminds one of the flames of the Stone, does it not?”
Mórgana looked at him and lifted her nose in the air. “Has your old age made you a dotard? Do you not know that the supremacy of the Stone is the merging of two great powers? Thus it was before Merlin impaled the Stone, and thus the Voice has decreed it shall be again.”
“One can only hope.”
Mórdred snorted at his great-grandfather’s remark.
“There is no need to hope,” Mórgana said. “It is as certain as the death of these British runaways.”
She plunged the fang down toward the closest man inside the orb, and he screamed. As the fang came back up again, some smoke sizzled from its tip. Again and again she plunged the fang down until every man who had tried to escape lay either bleeding upon the cliff face or had slipped and plunged headlong to his ruin.
The fang now smoked so powerfully that Mórganthu backed away.
Mórgana swayed as strength drained from her. The room spun, and she would have pitched forward had Loth not steadied her. Using the fang like this taxed her to the core, and she would have to rest for a long while before she could use it again. But when she was strong enough, she vowed, she would inflict disease upon the inhabitants of Dinas Crag. She laughed. “Before long, yes, very soon,” she said, finding her voice, “Merlin’s litter will be slaves again!”
“But more importantly,” Loth said, “the fall o’ Luguvalium combined with the capture and slayin’ of Rheged’s vaunted horses means that our enemy’s power in the north is almost broken.”
“But we hate the Picts!” Mórdred said. “Didn’t they destroy Grandfather’s kingdom?”
Loth spat. “Nay, it was Merlin who destroyed my father and his kingdom, and his helpin’ Rheged angers me sorely. Luguvalium was always a broken crutch to my father, and I’ll never mourn their downfall. Our kingdom is in the south now . . . with our queen.” And here he bent and kissed the back of Mórgana’s hand.
Mórgana smiled, pulled her hand away, and gave a little laugh. “You want to be king of the south, you say? That will only be true if Vortigern can be dealt with.”
She took a deep breath and stood tall once more. “Let us look, then, upon him . . .” And as she passed her hand over the orb, the scene inside shifted to reveal Vortigern seated on a throne, and next to him, Hengist and Reinwandt.
“You see?” she said. “I have made his heart to be a sweetcake in my hand. The fruition of our plan is almost complete.”
But then the shadows in the orb shifted, revealing Merlin’s face. He stood before Vortigern and bowed.
“What?” Mórgana shrieked. “He is not supposed to be present at the feast.”
Mórganthu pushed his head in closer and squinted at the orb. “Will this ruin our plans, my daughter’s daughter?”
Mórgana gnashed her teeth, finally pausing to take a little sniff. “No. I think not. And if there is any danger of that, then I will intervene — even if it costs me dearly. The planned course must not be disturbed, and I will make sure my pawns carry out their orders.”
The wind blew strongly in Taliesin’s hair as he gripped his basket of rocks. Far below, Necton was trying to force his great-uncle Ector to talk.
“Speaksa!” Necton shouted, and when Ector didn’t respond, he slammed his fist into the back of the man’s head.
Great-Aunt Eira gasped.
Taliesin picked up a rock. If that Pict does that again, I’ll —
But Ector shook his head, strained against the bonds with his trunk-like arms, and finally spoke to those on the wall.
“I’m supposed to tell you to open the gates,” he shouted. “To beg for you to save my life. But I will not! Hold the fortress as long as you can, and don’t give in to these filthy, horse-killing dogs — ”
Great-Aunt Eira, called out, “No! Ector, no!”
Ector stared at her. “Hold fast, Eira! Don’t fear!”
Necton pointed a spear at Ector’s back, his lower lip twisting angrily as he spoke. �
�Openidha!”
Taliesin cocked his arm back, ready to throw. “Leave my uncle alone!”
Necton looked up, trying to see where the voice came from.
“I’ll open the gates,” Great-Aunt Eira shouted, her hair blowing wildly around her. “Just don’t kill him!”
Taliesin looked at her, confused. Should he throw his rock? Or should they give up? But there were just too many Pictish warriors on the path below Necton . . . if they opened the doors to try to save Ector, they’d all die or be slaves.
“No!” Ector said. “He’ll kill me anyway. Don’t open the gates!”
“Openidha!” Necton yelled once more.
Great-Aunt Eira swooned to the side and Taliesin’s mother supported her. Tears ran down Mother’s cheeks, but she said nothing, only wrapped her arms around her aunt and hugged her tight.
“Openidha!”
The spear in Necton’s hands tensed, and Taliesin knew the time had come.
Ector struggled against his bonds, then ceased, closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth.
Taliesin threw his rock. Like a good water-skipper, it was — flat, and sharp edged — and it sailed down in a perfect arc toward Necton’s head.
Necton set his jaw and brought the spear back to strike.
Eira screamed.
A gust of wind blew, and the rock shallied to the side. But it still struck the Pictish king in the shoulder, leaving a wound that began to bleed.
Necton twisted to the side in pain, and his spear missed.
Taliesin clapped, yelling.
More rocks flew from the heights, and the Pictish warriors with Necton began to back away.
Necton shouted at them and raised his spear once more. Garth grabbed it and tried to shove it to the side, cracking the butt of the spear into Necton’s mouth.
Necton backhanded Garth in the face.
The monk slipped on the loose shale, and fell.
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 18
