Merlin's Blade

by Robert Treskillard

  Malicious laughter echoed through the room.

  “You shall worship me! This village shall worship me! This island shall worship me! All shall worship me!”

  Merlin backed up against the wall. “Never!”

  In a rage, the Voice sliced his sword at Merlin’s neck, and all went black.

  With Offyd tending the sleeping Prontwon, Dybris closed the chapel door and walked down the path to the village pasture and the gathering of the druidow. As he passed the houses and gardens of the villagers, he wondered if Offyd was right. Had any of the brothers besides Herrik fallen victim to its temptation? They were often scattered in different fields, and it would be easy to succumb, to sneak away, maybe even to worship the Stone.

  But the main thing was to find that rascal of an orphan.

  Dybris himself had felt the tug on his own heart as he looked at the Druid Stone the evening before. Had felt the desire to touch its rough surface and see what secrets it contained.

  His thoughts were cut short by footsteps hastening toward him from behind. It was Tregeagle’s wife, Trevenna, and her daughter, Natalenya.

  “Dybris!” Trevenna called. “Offyd told us you were on your way to the gathering.”

  Dybris hesitated. “I’m checking to see if any of the brothers are there.”

  “Will you stand up to Mórganthu as Prontwon did?”

  He winced. “No, I was only going to —”

  Trevenna grasped him by the elbow and faced him. “But it is needed.”

  Dybris did not know what to say. Trevenna looked at him with fearful eyes, her chin uplifted and her brown-gray hair tousled by the light wind. Here was the proud wife of the town magister and who was he to gainsay her?

  “The people need you … need someone!” Trevenna said. “With Prontwon ailing, they have no one to guide them. Who will tell them the truth?”

  “Arguing with the druidow won’t accomplish anything. Really now, I just want to find Garth.”

  Natalenya stepped forward. “What if the villagers leave the faith?”

  All this talk made his head hurt. He desperately needed a little sleep. “I confess that I haven’t given it much thought. I’ve been concerned about Garth and the other monks.”

  The women continued to plead with him as they walked down the hill toward the gathering on the village green. When they reached the gate, Dybris saw a thick crowd of people around the Stone. From their midst came shouts and the sounds of a scuffle.

  “It’s Merlin!” Natalenya cried out, and she ran ahead of them into the throng.

  Through the cold fog, Merlin heard someone call faintly. Warmth shocked his face, and he sucked in the air.

  “He’s breathing,” someone said from far away.

  His shoulders warmed and his arms tingled.

  “He’s waking,” said another.

  Merlin opened his eyes. Light shone between two darkly smudged forms.

  “Oh, God … Oh, God!” someone cried nearby. Was it his father?

  Merlin’s legs tingled, and he tried to sit up.

  “Help him,” someone wailed. It was Natalenya’s voice.

  Hands supported him. He rubbed his face and rose up on an elbow. “Natalenya?”

  Her voice trembled. “Oh, Mother, don’t look —”

  Merlin’s father was crying.

  “What’s happening?” Merlin asked as a choking smell filled his lungs. “What’s wrong?”

  Natalenya spoke. “We pulled your hands off the Stone, and a big man yelled at us, and he …”

  Trevenna continued from his right, dignified in spite of the trembling in her voice. “We saw the struggle and how you accidentally touched the Stone. We pulled you free, but that man touched the Stone too. He said, ‘This is how,’ and then he caught fire and burned to death.”

  Owain’s sobs grew louder. “Kifferow!”

  Natalenya helped Merlin sit up. “It was terrible. He yelled but couldn’t pull his hands away.”

  As Merlin crawled over to his father, the smell of burning flesh made him gag. He placed an arm around his father’s back but found Mônda’s hand already there.

  She jerked her arm away and hissed at Merlin. “Leave him alone. Can’t you see he’s suffering?”

  Merlin ignored her, holding tighter to his father, whose body heaved as he knelt before the smoking body of his friend. “Tas … Tas, I’m sorry.”

  “Why’d you interfere?” his father snapped. “Kiff wouldn’t be dead if you’d left us alone.”

  “What happened to Kiff was meant for me. The Stone tried to kill me.”

  “Then, then —”

  “If you’d touched it, maybe you’d be lying in Kiff’s place.”

  His father beat the ground as Merlin glanced at the shadowy forms of people gathered around them.

  A deep voice spoke. “And so here are the mongrel and his whelp come to lick my feet!”

  Mórganthu.

  Owain stood. “Look what you did!”

  “I? I did nothing,” Mórganthu scoffed. “I was not even here. Are you sure you did not cause this amazing spectacle?”

  Merlin’s father stepped back and shook his head, his voice raspy. “Then why did this happen? Kifferow touched your Stone, and it killed him.”

  Mórganthu sniffed, but Merlin heard no sorrow in his voice. “A moment. In a moment I will answer your question. Everyone, back away from the Stone and sit.”

  The people moved away. Merlin rose and found himself in the center of the widening circle, with his hand on his father’s shoulder. He wondered where Natalenya had gone. Mórganthu stood nearby like a dark statue.

  With his father guiding him, Merlin retreated to the inner edge of the circle, where they sat down next to Mônda and Ganieda.

  Merlin placed his arm over his father’s shuddering back. From the other side, Mônda’s sharp nails pricked Merlin on the back of his hand. He yielded by moving his hand farther down and hung on to his father’s thick leather belt.

  In the center of the gathering, Mórganthu seemed to be biding his time.

  “What’s he waiting for?” Merlin muttered, turning toward his father.

  Owain twisted around and appeared to survey the gathering. “He’s a showman,” he said, his voice tinged with anger and pain.

  More and more villagers gathered, and by the sound of them, it seemed the entire village had come.

  Just as Mórganthu cleared his throat to speak, Mônda dropped her hand down and gouged Merlin again. He jerked his hand away and nursed his wound. There was blood. Why was she doing that?

  Mórganthu raised his voice. “I declare to you … I declare that the Stone is angry with this village. The Stone has slain this man because he was found unworthy of it. All who fail to worship and truly love this Stone will be destroyed!”

  Mórganthu struck the Stone with his staff, and blue flames erupted from its surface.

  Merlin covered his eyes. “Don’t look at it, Tas.”

  “Why not? It’s amazing. If you could just see it properly.”

  “You’re right,” Mônda said. “And the Stone will make you a chieftain if you follow it. See the respect shown to my father?”

  Merlin whispered in his father’s ear. “Mórganthu is lying. Kiff worshiped it, and it killed him!”

  Owain shook his head as if shooing away a buzzing gnat. “Yes, that’s right, he was killed. I remember now.” Yet he kept looking at the Stone.

  “That’s wrong,” Mônda whispered. “The Stone tried to save Kiff. Don’t meddle like Merlin did. The Stone is wonderful.”

  “It’s wonderful to see,” Owain said. “I’ve never felt like this.”

  “All … All who desire peace need to worship the Stone,” Mórganthu shouted. “The great god Belornos gives it to you as a gift. You need only fear if you fail him. This man” — he kicked Kifferow’s charred leg — “was killed because not enough of you have chosen to turn back to the old ways.”

  “Psst! Tas,” Merlin whispered. “Is
Garth here? Do you see him?”

  “Sure. Across the circle. That Dybris fellow’s jabbering at him, but the boy just keeps shaking his head and turning away.”

  “Will you take me there?” Merlin asked. “I want to talk to him.”

  “No. Owain will stay here,” Mônda said.

  “I’m going to stay here, Merlin. He’s surrounded by the druidow, and he looks fine.”

  Merlin felt helpless.

  “Who will step forward?” Mórganthu asked. “And return to the old ways? The ways of Britons before this blight of monks.”

  “Tas —”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Mônda interrupted.

  “Don’t bother me anymore, Merlin, I’m looking at the Stone. It’s —”

  Merlin shook his father’s shoulder. “Are any other monks nearby? Any of the brothers?”

  “You don’t care,” Mônda whispered to Owain.

  Owain brushed Merlin’s hand away. “Why should I even care? Why should you?”

  Merlin became infuriated at Mônda’s interference. “I need to know. Tell me, please! Look around.”

  “Just Dybris. Satisfied?”

  “No, I’m not. You need to speak out against Mórganthu. Tell the people the truth.”

  Mônda kissed Owain loudly on the cheek. “My father is good. You like him, Owain, don’t you?”

  “He looks stronger today … and kind. He’s not so bad.”

  What was going on in his father’s heart? Was this his father talking?

  “Surely,” Mórganthu said, his words as slippery as a frog, “surely you all see the beauty of the Stone. All who desire it, come forward!”

  The shuffling began. Merlin looked behind him and was amazed how many blurs of people moved toward the Stone.

  “Tas, how many?” Merlin asked. “Who’s going forward?”

  His father didn’t answer.

  “Tas?” Merlin turned back, but his father was gone. Panic set in, and he patted all around for the familiar shape. He soon discovered Mônda and his sister were missing too.

  Merlin’s blood raced through his heart, and his legs tensed to spring forward and drag his father back. But it was too late. He felt the chains of his blindness and raged against his inability to stop what was happening.

  “Tas, come back!”

  The nightmare of the previous night was happening again. But at least Dybris stood nearby. Merlin waited for the monk to speak up, but he heard nothing as the flow of villagers walked to the front of the gathering. Why hadn’t Dybris said something?

  Merlin prayed for strength. His father and the villagers were in danger, and the evil spirit in his vision wanted all the Britons to worship the Stone. With his hands trembling and his knees shaking, Merlin stood amid the jostling crowd and raised his voice for all to hear.

  CHAPTER 13

  STANDING STRONG

  Good people of Bosventor, hear me!” Merlin called.

  The forms moving around him paused, and he sensed them turning to face him.

  “Brother Prontwon spoke the truth to you last night. He told of the deception of this Stone and the curse of the old ways.”

  No one responded.

  “He told you not to give up on Jesu. He told you to —”

  “Shut yer mouth, Merlin. We heard Prontwon last night. Nothin’ new,” someone bellowed.

  “I’m not telling you anything new,” Merlin answered. He wondered if the speaker had been Brunyek. How could he follow the Stone? He was a hardworking farmer, and Merlin knew that he faithfully attended chapel.

  “I speak of something older even than these gods the druidow worship. I tell you of the Great Ith’esov, the I Am who makes a covenant of peace. I’m telling you about His Son, Jesu, who made all things new. This is the God that created the whole earth and —”

  “Be quiet, Merlin,” a voice shouted out.

  “You be quiet,” another shouted nearby.

  “Stay out of this, Allun!” the first man said.

  The two scuffled, and someone cried out as he was thrown to the ground.

  The first man spoke again. “You, Merlin, don’t tell us what to do. Let the heads of the families decide. Let Tregeagle decide, I say —”

  The tall figure of Mórganthu stepped forward. “Steady, steady, my young man. This dispute is entirely between Merlin and the kind personage of myself.”

  The man backed off.

  “Now then,” Mórganthu said as he snaked his arm around Merlin’s shoulder. “What is the trouble? Does your head hurt from last night? Terribly sorry. Civilized men like us should settle things properly. How may I help you?”

  Merlin wanted to pull away from Mórganthu and clout him in the head. Send him crawling away from the village never to return. But Mórganthu waved something in front of Merlin’s face that had a strong aroma, like pine mixed with bitter berry. After only a few whiffs, Merlin’s anger faded, and he couldn’t remember what he’d been about to say. He tried to speak, but only gibberish fell from his tongue.

  “There, there,” someone beside him said. “We all feel a bit confused now and then.”

  Merlin walked beside this kind stranger, who placed an arm over his shoulder. “Who are you?” Merlin asked.

  “A friend” said the man with a gentle voice.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the Stone, where you’ll be happy.”

  The stone? The Druid Stone? That’s what he was speaking against. And the voice belonged to Mórganthu. A surge of anger flowed through him. Yanking away from Mórganthu’s arm, he turned and inhaled the fresh air.

  Mórganthu pulled at his collar, but Merlin ducked and broke away. Now he could think straight, and he remembered his task. “Everyone, hear me! This man deceives you. Kifferow died because he worshiped the Stone. There is nothing but death where the druidow lead!”

  Mórganthu snarled and threw Merlin onto a pile of musty leaves. The arch druid’s voice roared, “Hear me! Hear, my people. Ignore this son of a braggart. He is no leader of men! He is but a boy who is blind, cursed by the gods.”

  Mórganthu pulled off his hood so the torc at his throat gleamed. He lifted his arms, allowing the sleeves to fall down and reveal the myriad of blue tattoos that Merlin knew to be there. Then Mórganthu shouted to the people, “Remember the song our ancient bards sang …

  If ever one of six things you bear,

  the folk will hear and follow you:

  A harp whose notes hang in the air,

  or druid-coppered scars of blue.

  Fine cape and hood o’er brihem’s hair,

  or knowledge wise of fili true.

  King’s knife held at the back made bare,

  else torc of woven metal hue.

  “This boy,” Mórganthu said, “this boy is no chieftain of men! He has no torc or office that you should follow him. Ignore his doggerel, and let us begin our worship of the Stone.”

  The villagers laughed as Mórganthu kicked Merlin.

  “No torc! No voice. Get away from here,” the people jeered, mimicking Mórganthu. Some even spit on him.

  Merlin brushed the dirt off his face. No torc? He felt the hard curve of metal hidden in his pouch. With new confidence he stood again before the villagers. “Give room, good people.” He swung his staff out in a gentle arc so everyone backed away. He untied his bag and reached in.

  “All of you, listen to me! You have known me as Merlin, the blind son of your blacksmith, sport for your children, and one of no account. And so you ignore my words and follow this man, this liar —”

  Mórganthu stepped up again and yelled “Silence!” but Merlin kept on speaking.

  “Look and see what my God has given as a sign for you to follow me and turn away from this druid madness.”

  Merlin pulled the torc from his bag, and it flashed golden before their eyes. He bent the ends out and placed it around his neck. Taller he felt, and princelike before them. His blindness but a mystery, and his scars the marks of a true wa
rrior.

  Hushed murmurs weaved through the crowd as the villagers turned toward Merlin.

  “All of you, come away to hear my words.”

  Merlin oriented himself by the position of the sun, walked a good distance from the Stone, tapped until he found the granite slab that was the Rock of Judgment, and climbed upon it. And to his utter amazement, the people followed. He had expected one or two, but so many? Even Merlin’s father had come, his covenant armband flashing in the sun and his dark beard hanging down onto his chest. But was that Mônda pulling on his arm?

  Mórganthu fumed as he, Anviv, Garth, and the druidow were left standing at the Stone. He turned to his son. “What is this? Where would Merlin get such a sign of power? Beyond the land of the Eirish, no torc has been made of that ilk since that cursed Agricola and his Romans stripped us of our treasures.”

  “My father,” Anviv said, “may I go and taunt the blind one?”

  “Ah, yes. I see, I see. Raise his bile. Let him make a fool of himself for wearing that torc?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No … this is a more serious puzzle than your renowned heckling can solve.” Mórganthu closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Then, my father, I think it is time to call your friends to come help us. Let the silly blind one, shall we say, be seen no more among the people.”

  Mórganthu sucked in air between his dry lips. “You are wise, O son! Our thoughts run in the same river.” He walked south across the village pasture and stopped at the stone wall that encircled it. Then he whistled down into the small tree-filled valley where the village spring ran.

  Six warriors burst up from the brush, hair hanging past their shoulders and distinctive clothing showing through their traveling cloaks, which had been thrown back in the sunshine. Their tunics had been cut with a long slit in front, the sleeves tight to the elbows but billowing downward. Over these they wore embroidered leather jerkins. Their belts held swords with curved jeweled handles, and stiff boots covered their laced leather leggings.

  Mórganthu addressed one among them who had a long, gray-streaked beard and a slim silver torc at his throat. “Welcome officially to the first of many villages we will rule, O’Sloan, my war-band leader.”