“Tattoos!” Ganieda said. “Drawn on his arm. There’s a snake with the horns of a goat. The symbols of the druidow.”
Merlin held his breath. Had he heard right?
Mórganthu lifted his voice in victory. “It matters, I say. For the sin your abbot committed is that he, yes he, was a druid!”
The druidow snickered as the villagers fell silent.
“It is true,” Prontwon said. “I was young. And foolish.”
“Wrong! Wise beyond your years. My brother taught you, and you ate each word as if you were a starving bird.”
“And in my hunger, I did not see clearly.”
“Then how can you be trusted now?” Mórganthu jabbed the bottom of his staff down.
The abbot cried out, wrenched his foot free, and then limped backward. “Jesu opened my eyes, and I saw for the first time my need.”
Mórganthu shouted so that it echoed off the rock walls of the village green. “A fool and the follower of a fool. Leave this Jesu!”
Prontwon turned to the people and implored them with raised hands. “Do not deny Jesu your Lord. What benefit did we ever receive from following these gods?”
“Benefit indeed,” Mórganthu mocked. “All they have received from Jesu is slavery to the churchmen from Erin, slavery to their worthless writings, and slavery to the Roman army.”
Prontwon lifted his head and stood as tall as he could. “The Word of God is priceless —”
Mórganthu’s form forced him backward. “The writings of these monks are from the dead lands of the East, foreign and not to be trusted.” His voice boomed from deep in his chest. “British ways for the Britons! … Away with the foreigners!”
All the druidow shouted with Mórganthu, stomping their feet and banging together anything that would make noise.
“Look, the old monk is shouting too, but I can’t hear him.” Ganieda laughed. “The villagers look funny covering their ears.”
“British ways for Britons. Away with foreigners!”
Ganieda’s voice rose higher. “That geezer of an abbot’s climbing on top of the druid’s rock. He’s cupping his hands around his mouth.”
“People, hear me —”
But Mórganthu struck the side of the Stone with his staff, and blue fire burst forth.
“The monk’s legs are on fire!” Ganieda said. “You should see his face — all red, and his eyes are bulging.”
Prontwon crumpled forward and fell off the Stone.
Merlin’s heart hammered in his chest. Prontwon was on his knees, the blue light of the Stone dancing upon him. Brown-robed monks ran forward and put their hands under and onto the abbot, appearing to whisper prayers as the noise subsided.
Mórganthu declared to the people, “You see! You see for yourselves that the judgment of Belornos is upon him. He dared desecrate the Stone and is now struck down!”
Merlin could stand no more. “Stay here,” he told Ganieda. He shoved his way through the crowd and broke into the center of the circle. The shadow of a tall man stood in front of the dying light of the bonfire and the weird blue flames of the Stone.
“Now, I ask once again,” Mórganthu called. “Who will be the first to join us?”
A voice, young but firm, answered from the crowd. “I’ll join.” Someone short, dressed in a brown robe, stepped into the ring. “If you’ll have me.”
It was Garth.
“No!” Merlin yelled as he sprang forward and swung his staff at the dark figure of Mórganthu.
PART TWO
SHACKLE’S POWER
SWIFT AS THE MOON THE WHITE STAG RUNNING,
FLEET AS THE OWL THE HUNTER HUNTING,
SHARP AS THE CLAW THE SWIFT SPEAR STRIKING,
RED AS THE SUN THE FRESH LIFE FLOWING,
LEAVED IN GREEN, THERE ALL BRITAIN DIES.
CHAPTER 10
STRANGE MEETINGS
Merlin opened his eyes to see deep forest.
As his sight adjusted, he could clearly make out the details of his surroundings. He broke off an oak leaf and studied it in the low light that filtered through the trees.
Was it morning or evening? A vision or a dream?
Far off in the distance echoed the sound of someone sobbing.
He stood up from the grassy bower and scanned the trees in the direction of the cries but spied nothing.
A man’s voice cackled from behind. “You’ll never find ‘im!”
Merlin whipped around, suddenly conscious that he had neither staff nor knife.
On a boulder inside the mouth of a cave sat a man of grotesque proportions. Nearly twice the size of Merlin, he had muscled arms that bulged in comparison to his scrawny legs. In one hand he held a large knotted club that could crush Merlin’s head with one blow.
The man’s shirt and bright red pants were torn and stained. One of his legs was shrunken, and its foot stretched and bent. His back curved so much that upon reaching his neck it had bowed toward the ground again. To compensate, his skinny neck craned upward so his ponderous head appeared to float in front of him.
“Search as you like. Crom says you’ll not find ‘im. Hahaha!”
His tongue licked at a few remaining stumps of teeth in his rotting gums, and his bulbous nose jutted forth between tiny black eyes. From this monstrosity of a head hung great knots of moldy yellow hair, long enough to pass his knees, and maggots and flies crawled in and out of the thick strands.
Merlin stepped back. “Find whom?”
“You don’t know? Well ‘ee’s mine, an’ I won’t let ‘im go.”
Without moving his body, Crom snapped his neck forward so his mouth slavered within a few feet of Merlin, who cringed at the smell of decay. “I’ll et ‘im up one day. Maybe tonight. But before then, Crom Cruach thinks he’ll et you!”
His teeth clicked forward, and Merlin ducked. The club rose and whizzed down.
Leaping to the side just in time, Merlin again heard sobs coming from the wood behind him. He darted through the pines toward the sound, and Crom limped after, smashing down trees with his club. Merlin soon found he’d entered a steep-sided canyon through which the crying echoed down from above.
Crom roared with laughter just behind him.
Onward Merlin ran. His gaze raked the rock walls, searching for a way out, but there was none. Instead, the ravine narrowed.
Crom limped on behind, whacking the cliff so that chunks of rock cascaded from above.
In desperation, Merlin broke off the sharp end of a dead tree limb and tucked it into his belt. Coming to a young oak, he leaped up and grabbed a branch overhead, bending the entire tree with all his strength. He clutched the branch with both hands and crouched behind a nearby pine.
Keep coming, brute.
Crom stepped closer, his sneaky black eyes darting back and forth.
One more step …
Crom sniffed and shuffled forward. Merlin let go of the branch. The tree whipped upward, clouting the giant’s face, and Crom roared in anguish.
Merlin made a run for it, but an impossibly skinny foot jerked forward and tripped him. Before he could right himself, Crom picked him up by the scruff of his shirt and dangled him over his putrid mouth.
“You’ll not see ‘im again. Say good-bye, little crunchkin!”
Crom brought Merlin closer to his drooling lips.
Pulling the stick from his belt, Merlin jabbed it straight into Crom’s eye. “Let me go, beast!”
The monster shrieked. He flung Merlin down the valley, fell to his knees, and pulled the stick out of his bleeding eye.
Merlin hit the ground hard, which knocked the air from his lungs. By the time he struggled to his feet, Crom had risen as well. With spit flying, the creature declared, “Won’t just et you. Crom’ll rip your skin off while you scream to the bloody heavens!”
There was no way past him.
Merlin ran in the opposite direction and soon came to a small trickle of a stream. At the end of the ravine stood a rocky hillside from which th
e water dribbled down. The sobbing sounds floated down from above.
Up Merlin clambered. When he neared the top, Merlin turned back to see Crom scaling the cliff faster than seemed possible. The monster’s eye streamed red into his yellow hair, and he bellowed hideous threats. With a final burst of effort, Merlin pulled and kicked himself up the last few difficult feet until he could see over the ledge.
Not ten feet away sat a boy. His back was turned, but Merlin could tell he had red hair and wore a stained tunic and leather trousers. As the boy cried, he turned his head to the side, and Merlin saw blood and tears smeared across his face, all but obscuring the spray of freckles on his nose.
Was he Garth? Merlin studied the boy’s face, with pouting lips and faintly upturned nose. He couldn’t be sure, having never seen Garth properly. He called out, but the sobbing boy didn’t seem to hear as he stared at a bloodied bundle of cloths in his lap.
Merlin scrambled over the ledge as a flash of light filled the sky. All at once, between him and the boy stood the man dressed in white, the angel from his first vision. He spoke, and his voice shook the air like a thousand thunders.
“STAND STRONG, MERLIN!”
Crom roared from behind, too close. Panic welled up in Merlin, and he wanted to run, but he kept his gaze on the angelic figure before him.
“I tol’ you, little crunchkin,” Crom said, his breath like rancid fire wafting over Merlin, “that the boy is mine.”
As Merln turned to face the monster, a club thudded him on the head, and Crom pulled him back down the rocky slope.
Merlin yelled as he twisted away from the grip on his legs. He kicked violently, but they were held too tightly. He struggled to sit up, finally opening his eyes.
A vague blur moved toward him, and someone grabbed his shoulders. “Easy, boy. You’ll wake the High King himself with your bellowing.”
Merlin drew in a great shuddering breath. “Tas? Where am I?”
“In bed. The sun rises, and I just started my work, no thanks to you.”
Merlin touched his head; his right temple throbbed. “Crom hit me on the head …”
“What?” The blur he knew as his father’s face drew in closer. “Don’t you remember last night? Mórganthu, it was.” His father stepped away for a moment, then pulled up a chair.
“I recall walking with Gana … Oh … now I remember.”
His father slammed his hand on the table next to Merlin’s bed. “You caused a riot.”
“Me? And Mórganthu did nothing?”
“You swung first, rabbler.”
“Only after Prontwon was hurt.”
“Allun and Troslam helped me pull you —”
“I can handle myself!” Merlin sat up, but his head pulsed, and he almost fell over.
“Can you now?” Owain said. “After Mórganthu wrenched your staff away, he walloped you like hot barstock on the anvil. The druidow wanted to rip you to rags. We took you out.”
“What happened to … to …”
His father itched his beard. “To your friend? Mórganthu ended the meeting and announced he’ll speak again at noon today. Garth marched out with them like a dwarf legionnaire.”
“And Prontwon? How is he —”
Owain snorted. “Don’t know. I was worried about you. Carried you home. That Garth, he’s caused enough trouble!”
“You care too. Remember the bagpipe?”
“Stop risking your life.”
Merlin leaned back against the rock wall of the smithy. “And you’ve never risked yours? You’ve hinted of your past. Tell me, Tas.”
There was a long pause, then Owain cleared his throat. “I can’t.”
“Did you ever care about something enough to risk your life for it?”
His father drank from the pitcher and wiped his mouth against his sleeve. “Just for my family. Family is all that matters.”
Merlin felt a tightness in his chest, but he pressed further. “And the villagers have no families? Tell them what you know about Mórganthu.”
“You want me to preach like Prontwon? You’re more of a fool than I thought.”
Merlin couldn’t hide his excitement. “You’re respected, Tas. They’d listen —”
“Did that staff completely addle your brains?”
“You threw Mórganthu out —”
His father put a hand on Merlin’s mouth. “Why’d you bring Gana to the bonfire and leave her?”
“I —”
“Mônda and I came home — and I lugging you. But Ganieda was gone. Know where I found her?”
Merlin shook his head.
“At that Stone. Some of the druidow were guarding it, but a lot of villagers hovered around. Some were touching it.”
“Who?” Merlin was shocked.
“Grevin. Stenno. Priwith. And Olva brought her sick child. Two of Tregeagle’s men were there. I had to drag your sister home.” And then his father’s tone turned to a whisper. “Did you sense it? The Stone’s power?”
“You mean the flames?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. The longer I looked at the Stone … It’s hard to describe. It stirred something deep within me. I wanted to touch it, but I had to get Gana back.”
Merlin thought about the Stone. It had hurt Prontwon and enchanted Garth. How did it have such power? If only he could see it clearly, maybe he’d understand. “Are you going at noon?” He reached in vain for his father, who had risen.
“Yes. But early. I want to see the Stone without Mórganthu present.”
“I’m going too, then.” Merlin stood. His head still hurt, but he wasn’t about to let his tas go near that glowing rock alone.
“No more rabble-rousing?” His father’s tone felt like ice pellets.
“No lashing out. Promise. I’ve had enough lumps for a while.”
“Tregeagle might put you on a galley.”
“I thought about that.”
His father grasped Merlin’s shoulders and shook him gently. “Not enough!”
“I need you, Tas —” Merlin reached out and hugged his father, who stiffened at first but slowly hugged back, gripping Merlin’s head and hair in his calloused hands.
“Not enough, son. Not enough.”
Merlin’s first meal of the day was a poor one: the milk was sour, and there weren’t enough oats for his liking. No one else complained, but he was glad when Mônda took the dishes away and his father asked him to go to the nearby smokehouse and buy fish for their evening meal.
And the best part was that his father considered him healed enough for such a job.
Merlin wrapped his harp in its leather bag, swung it over his shoulder, and grabbed his staff. As he had numerous times before, he went out behind the house, climbed the slope, swung over the wall, and carefully found the worn track leading to the docks and marsh beyond.
This was the perfect time to go, as the fishermen would be out on the marsh, and the docks would be clear. After buying the fish, he could sit and think for a bit. Maybe play the harp. He followed his nose to the satisfying smell of the smokehouse, which lay near the shore of the marsh, next to the docks. Here Megek, an elderly fisherman, dried and preserved the fish others brought in from the wetlands.
The smokehouse was an old stone building divided in two — one half for curing the fish that hung over smoldering wood, and the other for gutting and cleaning the fish. An iron-plated door separated the rooms.
Merlin knocked on the outside door and tried the latch, but he found it locked. He called, but no one answered. Odd; Megek was always there during the day. As Merlin walked away empty-handed, he heard a woman’s voice from uphill.
A man answered her in a demanding tone. “Give me! Offered a pay ya for all o’ yar eiskes. The ard dre said.”
“You can’t have them,” the woman said. “These are for guests, I’ve told you already. Let go!”
By the sound of her voice, the woman was young and from the moor somewhere, but the man? Merlin thought he sounded Ei
rish.
“Stops askin’,” said a man whose voice rattled, “an’ sticks her wit’ a blade —”
“Shame, McGoss! Ask, take, then pay. No hurtin’! So lass, give! The crennig man said ya’d just bought his last.”
The woman screamed.
Merlin strode up the hill but marred his entrance by stumbling on a root. A mass of men in multicolored garb surrounded the woman. How many? Six? Merlin started to raise his staff … then put it down. He prayed God would give him wisdom to help the woman, as well as protect himself.
“Is something wrong? May I help you, ma’am?”
“I … ohh,” she began but stopped short.
One of the men peered into Merlin’s face. Somewhere metal slid against metal — maybe a sword from a sheath. “He’s short o’ sight. Look at his scars.” It was McGoss, with the rumble in his voice.
“Are they stealing your fish?” Merlin asked the woman.
“No, no, it’s all right. Really. I’m fine. Believe me.” But he detected a shrillness in her voice that belied her words.
He struck his staff on the ground, gripping it to hide the tremor in his hands. “Leave her and her fish alone. And we say fish with a p here in Kernow. Pyskes.”
The men moved around, and Merlin couldn’t keep track of them. Had someone gone behind him?
A hand grabbed the back of his tunic and jerked him up so the tips of his boots barely touched the ground. He felt empty air in all directions.
“Put me down.” He wanted to lash out but prayed instead.
“Since ‘ee’s a lad o’ the tongue,” the giant of a man said from behind, “let’s see if ‘ee knows to say ‘pummel’ wit’ a p.”
“Let me stick ‘im first” came McGoss’s voice.
“McEwan, what’s that on his back? Some sort o’ bag?”
Merlin reached to snatch the strap but missed as they pulled it from his arm. The wooden peg clattered on a rock at Merlin’s feet, and the foreigners hushed.
A new voice spoke. “McEwan, let ‘im down. Yar roughin’ a shanachie, an’ here’s ‘is harp.”
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