Merlin's Blade

by Robert Treskillard

  Garth dropped his hoe and approached Dybris, a downcast scowl on his face.

  “Might as well give him the rest of the evening off,” Offyd called.

  “Peace,” Dybris said, “this won’t take long.”

  Garth sat, clamped his jaw, and squirmed his shoulders to keep Dybris’s arm off.

  Withdrawing his arm, Dybris selected a stalk of grass and began breaking it into tiny pieces. He didn’t look at Garth. “I came to speak to you about your bagpipe.”

  “Do you have to sell it?”

  Dybris closed his eyes for a moment. “You know why.”

  The boy picked up a clod of dirt and flung it far out into the field. “All I know is I hate you an’ I hate Tregeagle. Get yer gold another way.”

  “From where?” Dybris asked. “This abbey isn’t rich. If we have another bad harvest, we’ll barely make it through the winter. I checked our stores in the cave just yesterday, and there’s almost nothing left.”

  “You can’t have me bagpipe!” Garth raised his fists and threatened to pound Dybris’s shoulder.

  Dybris covered each of Garth’s fists with a hand and gently pushed them down. “It’s already gone.”

  “G-gone? You f-found it?”

  “Sold. A week ago. A traveling merchant bought it.”

  Garth’s shoulders slumped, and his voice cracked. “Got nothin’ now.”

  “I know it seems hard, but God can see you through.”

  “Me father’s buried in the sea, and now his bagpipe’s gone too. Got nothin’.” He scrambled to his feet and stood with his back to Dybris.

  Dybris rose as well. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was my only anchor! An’ now I got nothin’ to hold on to.” Garth stuck his hand into a bag hanging from his belt and fumbled inside. “Almost nothin’,” he mumbled.

  “You still have your memories of your father. And when you’re older, I’ll help you buy another bagpipe.”

  Garth turned and yelled at him, “Not the same! … Sellin’ me as a galley slave would o’ been better!”

  “Garth —” Dybris began, but the sound of feet thumping in the distance interrupted him. They both turned. Dybris’s stomach tightened. A great mob of men — maybe a hundred or more — marched up the hill from the river valley.

  With a racing heart, Dybris stepped forward, looking for weapons, but spotted just a few knives and small hatchets hanging from their belts. Most of the men carried dried wood, as if they planned to make a bonfire somewhere.

  If they weren’t a war band, then who were they?

  One man set the pace, and behind him seven men in green robes advanced in a circular formation. Each carried a short pole looped through the edge of a stitched leather tarp, which bore something large hanging in the middle.

  The bearded leader of the group strode forward on long legs, his black and gray hair blowing in the wind. He wore a green linen robe that matched the others’, yet with dark leather cuffs and a blue-lined hood. He carried an etched staff with a flashing gem on top.

  The other monks gathered behind Dybris and Garth as the group marched closer. When the leader passed, he no more than glanced at most of the monks, yet when his gaze landed on Garth, it seemed to linger. Had Dybris imagined it, or had he seen a glint of recognition?

  Dybris looked down in time to see the boy pull from his bag a small, shiny black crystal of tin ore — the kind they mined in the area, and then crushed and smelted. Garth held tightly to this, but his gaze brought Dybris’s attention back to the strange men. Many of their knives were made of brass and curved slightly, the leader’s the largest. Sickle knives. He examined the men closely. Their arms and legs had been scarred with blue tattoos. The word was on his tongue when he heard it murmured by the monks behind him.

  “Druidow.”

  “Explains the smoke across the valley …”

  “Headed toward the village …”

  “So many …”

  “Jesu, help us …”

  Once the last straggler had passed and the road lay clear, Dybris took Garth’s arm and walked with the other monks to the scriptorium as fast as he could without appearing panicked.

  Bursting into the room, Dybris and the others related to Prontwon what they’d seen. The abbot listened to the report with a grave expression on his face, then dispatched a messenger to retrieve Migal and Loyt, who had been preparing the evening meal. Only when all twelve monks, along with Garth, had crowded into the room did Prontwon stand in their midst and address them.

  “Hear me! What I have feared and, I am ashamed to say, tried to ignore for the past week has just been confirmed. The old stone circle on the other side of the valley has recently become the home of druidow once more, and from the count you have given, possibly their entire number in the land of the Britons.”

  No one moved or made a sound.

  “From what you have said, they are headed to the village with some pagan intent. We must follow to know their plans. Brother Migal has brought us bread and a pitcher of water that we may not faint after our labors. However, considering what we may face, I suggest fasting for those who are able.”

  Some took bread while others refrained, but all refreshed themselves with the water.

  “As the evening closes and we enter the presence of the sworn enemies of our God, let us pray our evening prayer of protection.”

  Dybris gave Garth a chunk of crusty bread as the brothers joined voices in song.

  And then, with Garth lagging in the back, they set out for the village of Bosventor, following the path of the druidow.

  As darkness descended on the smithy, Merlin lay on his straw bed practicing the harp. Over the past ten days, he’d learned to tune it and play a few songs, but his progress was slow. He’d rested under his father’s orders, but now that the burning of his wounds had faded and his fever was but a memory, he yearned to be active again.

  The door creaked open, but in the twilight Merlin couldn’t see anyone. “Who’s that?”

  “Me.” It was a small voice. “Your sister.”

  Just as he thought. “Bar the door behind you.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask. Where’s Tas? I’ve been expecting him.” He reached for the mug of water next to his bed.

  “I’ll get it,” Ganieda said.

  She picked up the clay mug, but it slipped from her hands. The vessel shattered and the water spilled.

  “I’ll help.” Merlin tried to find the pieces but touched his sister’s trembling hands instead. “What’s wrong?”

  “Tas and Mammu left! They told me to stay with you. Let you sleep. But the fire’s dying, and it got dark.”

  “Where’d they go?” He found the pitcher next to the broken mug and poured water into his mouth.

  Ganieda climbed onto the pallet and sat beside him. “The miller brought a bag of barley after supper. And news. There’s a problem down by the meeting house. The whole village is going to be there.”

  “The meeting house? Is someone to be judged?”

  It was curious to have a meeting at night. Normally, the village elders met during the day inside the common house, which had been built next to the spring. The only time everyone showed up was to condemn a criminal to death — a rarity that had occurred only once in Merlin’s lifetime. The magister, in consultation with the elders of the village, would make the pronouncement while sitting on what was known as the Rock of Judgment — really just a slab of natural granite that lay on the earth near the meeting house.

  Ganieda began to cry. “I don’t know. Tas wanted me to stay, and Mammu wanted me along — and they fought.”

  “How long ago?” He reached out and felt her soft hair.

  She sniffed. “The sun was on the hearth when they left.”

  “Did they say for me to stay?” With his wounds nearly healed, he was looking for any excuse to be up and about.

  “No … they didn’t say.”

  “Well, then, I’m going.” Merlin found
his stiff boots, pulled them on, and tied them. They felt good on his feet after so long.

  “You can’t leave,” Ganieda said. “It’s dark!”

  “You think that matters to me?” As long as there aren’t any wolves along the path, that is.

  And just in case, he snatched up his dirk, slid the scabbard onto his belt, and tied it around his waist. Fear churned in his stomach like the tidewaters on the craggy Kernow coast.

  “I mean me … you can’t leave me.”

  “Come along if you have to. Tas wanted you with me, and since I’m going, you come too … And you can help me get there faster.” He stood up and found his staff next to the wall.

  “You sure?”

  “Stay close and don’t wander off.”

  Outside, the last smear of the orange sun fell beneath the hill that stood between their land and the marsh. A chill wind blew as they set off down the path, Merlin tapping out ahead with his staff. He wrapped his cloak tighter, but could do little else as the gusts whistled through his hair and sent shivers down his back.

  Ganieda hummed a slow tune he’d often heard Mônda sing. She slipped her small hand into his as they turned east onto the main road of the village and continued on toward the meeting house.

  Merlin felt every sense crackle as they passed Allun’s mill and entered a stretch of road flanked by heavy underbrush. Off to their right, he heard movements in the bushes.

  A snarl.

  Merlin kept walking, but his grip on his sister’s hand tightened.

  “Keep going,” he whispered.

  Deep growling now. Behind and in front.

  Fear crawled up from the pit of his stomach and grabbed the inside of his throat. How many? Dogs or wolves? “Stay close,” he said as he drew his dirk and whipped his staff around low to the ground.

  “Don’t hurt them!”

  Her words barely registered as Merlin’s mind flooded with memories of the attack seven years before. That time it had been the same: He and Ganieda had been alone on the path outside their house. Howling wolves had surrounded them. She’d been hardly two years old. Defenseless. He’d been eleven and had tried to save her by keeping the wolves back.

  But they had attacked him — and she had never been touched. They knocked him to the ground and mauled him, scratching and biting his face. By the time his screams had reached his father, it was too late. His eyes had been ruined and his face marred forever.

  “No, Merlin!” Ganieda pulled at his arm. “It’s my wolf, Tellyk, and his friends. They want to see me.”

  Merlin snapped back to the present. For a moment he tried to comprehend his sister, then another snarl jerked his attention to the bushes. “Get behind me, Gana!”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE NIGHT OF DECISIONS

  One of the wolves lunged, snarling, at Merlin’s ankle. Panicked, Merlin jabbed his staff toward the sound and bashed the wolf on the side of the nose. With his other hand, he tried to stab it with his dirk, but the creature jumped back with a whimper.

  Ganieda called out, “Go away … Away, Tellyk!” She waved her hands toward the bushes. Swiftly the wolves slunk through trees and brambles, downhill and away from the village.

  “Th-they’re gone?” Merlin asked, still whipping his staff around.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. They’re my friends. Especially Tellyk.”

  He wished he could see her face to judge whether she was telling the truth. “When did you make friends with them? Why do they obey you?” Merlin took her hand again. This time it was his that trembled.

  “A long time. I don’t remember when.”

  As he struggled to grasp the implications of this revelation, Merlin noticed a smudge of light blazing farther down the road. “We’ll talk about this later.” He pointed at the light. “What’s that?”

  “A bonfire in the village pasture.”

  “Anything else? Do they have the gallows up?”

  “I can’t tell. There are lots of people … shadows. The whole village must be gathered for the fire.” Her voice turned petulant. “Why didn’t Tas and Mammu want us to come?”

  “Let’s hurry.” A blazing fire meant no wolves.

  They approached the village green and entered through the main gate, which creaked in the wind. So why had everyone gathered? Merlin held Ganieda’s hand as they walked toward the crowd. Soon he picked out amid the general noise a voice, strong and deep, speaking to the people. He’d heard that voice before.

  “… to call you back to the old way. To call you as lost children back to the only way your ancestors knew — they who claimed this wooded land as their own and coaxed forth crops from the soil, who mined the streams for tin, who built your homes.”

  Merlin searched his memory, and a sickening feeling settled in his stomach.

  “Your ancestors call you back to worship the old gods — the guides, the healers, those who bless your fields and cattle, who protect you from witchcraft and guard your children against the wailing sidhe … the gods who are furious at your obstinacy.”

  Mórganthu!

  “You have spit in their bright faces. They who have been faithful to you. Turn … turn back!”

  Brunyek, the oat farmer, shouted from the crowd. “Eaah! If they’ve been so faithful, why’d my two sheep get killed by wolves last week?”

  “If you had been faithful, son of the ancient woods, then the god Kernunnos would have tamed the wolves and made them your friends.”

  Merlin held tighter to Ganieda’s hand.

  Mórganthu turned and held his arms out to someone in the crowd. “Olva, if you and your husband yet choose the druidic way, then the god Grannos will take your son into his arms and heal him.”

  The couple whispered to each other excitedly.

  It bothered Merlin to hear this. How did Mórganthu know Olva’s name and that her son was sick?

  “And Brioc! I see the fear on your face with another year of uncertainty, debt, and too few lambs born. I proclaim that your crops will flourish and your flocks will thrive if you return and worship Crom Cruach and the great god Taranis again.”

  Brioc grunted from Merlin’s right.

  “And not least, Stenno.” Mórganthu extended his hands to a young tin miner, his voice growing almost tender. “Your father would not have died and left you destitute if he had worshiped Belornos, protector of all who hew the earth.”

  Merlin fumed. Why didn’t anyone speak out against this? These were lies. “Ganieda, are the monks here? Do you see them?”

  She grasped his sleeve for balance and stood on her tiptoes. “Can’t see over the people.”

  Mórganthu spoke louder. “All who hear my voice, come. Come and seek the druid way. Seek the secret knowledge, wisdom beyond your ken!”

  “Where’s Tas? … Do you see him?” Merlin asked his sister.

  “No. Just those near the bonfire. It’s too dark everywhere else.”

  Mórganthu strode back toward the bonfire. “This! … This is the source of wisdom!” With a flourish, he bent down.

  “He threw a leather skin to the side,” Ganieda said. “I can’t see what’s under it, though.”

  Merlin knew what was under the tarp but hoped he was mistaken. All the people around him stepped back, and someone’s heel crunched on Merlin’s toes. He backed up as well, then hefted Ganieda up so she was positioned above the crowd. “Tell me what else you see.”

  “A rock of some kind, black … no, silver. Oh!”

  A blue light appeared, and now even Merlin knew where the Stone lay.

  The bonfire seemed to dim. Mórganthu stepped next to the Stone and raised his voice to a crescendo. “This Stone has been given by the god Belornos. He who loves it will be blessed, but he who is found unworthy of it will be destroyed.”

  All around Merlin, people dropped to their knees.

  “What’s happening?” he asked his sister.

  “Men are bowing … They’re all druidow! They’re mixed in with t
he people.” She shivered as if with excitement, and Merlin set her down with a prayer.

  The men raised their hands in homage — he assumed to the Stone. Where are the monks? Merlin wondered. Where’s Prontwon?

  Mórganthu spoke again. “Who will be the first among you to join us?” His voice was soothing and inviting.

  The druidow rose to their feet as a lone voice spoke up. “I will be first.”

  “Good, good. Step forward. Who are you?” Mórganthu asked.

  As the man stepped through the crowd to enter the circle, he spoke again. “I will be first, but not to worship your blasphemous Stone. I have come to speak truth.”

  Abbot Prontwon!

  Prontwon stood before Mórganthu, his voice steady and his stout frame firm.

  Mórganthu stepped back and studied the newcomer.

  “Yes, I will be the first,” Prontwon called out. “The first to stand against this trickster.”

  Mórganthu stepped forward again, but Prontwon continued. “I will show this Stone an idol and this man a liar.”

  “You … you call the wrath of the gods upon you!” Mórganthu screeched.

  Prontwon turned and faced him. “Your gods are demons from the pit of hell.”

  “Do not, I say, do not speak ill of the ruler of the blessed underworld, for Belornos will repay you.”

  “There is but one Ruler — the Son of God, Jesu the Messiah — about whom God has sent Holy Scripture into the uttermost parts of the earth by the power of His Spirit and the blood of His saints.”

  Merlin felt a cheer rise in his heart at Prontwon’s boldness, but it died on his lips as the crowd remained silent.

  “And this,” Mórganthu shot back, “is a lying spirit who bewitches you all. Break the spell that chokes your life! Throw off the puny god of these little monks and their cross.”

  “The cross is for the forgiveness of our sins.”

  Flourishing his staff, Mórganthu pointed at Prontwon. “And do you know, O people, what this sin of your abbot is?”

  Prontwon stepped back, paused a moment, then replied, “Go ahead. Tell them. It matters not.”

  “Hah. It does matter.” Marching over, Mórganthu grabbed Prontwon’s right arm and ripped the sleeve all the way to the shoulder.