Merlin's Blade

by Robert Treskillard

O’Sloan bowed.

  Next, Mórganthu turned to a man at O’Sloan’s right who stood a head and a half taller than the others. “And you, McEwan Mor. I have need of your swift Eirish club.”

  Another warrior, dark of hair as well as countenance, stepped forward and fell to his knees before Mórganthu. “Ard Dre,” he said with rattling voice, “fer a bit o’ gold, I’m willin’ fer thy deed, nay matter the blood!”

  O’Sloan pulled the man up and yanked him back. “McGoss, ya were nay called for’ard. We should hear the task afore we speak o’ knifin’.”

  Mórganthu spoke low of his mission, and McEwan looked out toward the massed villagers. “Ya mean that’un there standin’ on the slab? Ya wish us to knife that’un?”

  “Yes, yes. He is the one.”

  A warrior in blue snorted. “Ken ya believe it, O’Sloan? ‘Tis the bard ‘imself.”

  “Och, man, we canna do it. ‘Tis against our law!”

  “What? He is no bard,” Mórganthu said. “You are mistaken.”

  “Nah, I canna be. He has the torc o’ a bard, an’ the harp o’ a bard, an’ he is speakin’ as a bard. In our view o’ things, we dare nay chance it. Isn’t that so, McEwan?”

  The big warrior nodded. “We’ll nay touch ‘im, nay hurt ‘im. If ya try, we’ll oppose ya.”

  “What of McGoss?” Mórganthu asked. “Surely he will do it.”

  O’Sloan placed a hand on the hilt of his dagger. “We’ll slit ‘im first, we will. Such is our laws, an’ ya well ken the curse that would visit us fer even thinkin’ such a thing.”

  Mórganthu swore. “So you break your oaths so easily, O’Sloan?”

  “We’ll do as ya say in all else, but ya ken our ancient laws, and we daren’t grieve a bard.”

  Mórganthu rubbed the bulging veins on his face. “I shall let this matter pass, but you will show your loyalty. Or else I shall send you back where you will eat the rags of your thievery at the hands of that two-faced Christian Eirish king!”

  O’Sloan bowed before Mórganthu. “As sure as our lives depend on ya, we’ll do yar biddin’ in all else. Give name to the task.”

  “Go, all of you! Go back to camp and await my orders there.”

  O’Sloan’s eyes lit up, then he seemed to hesitate. “We been sittin’ by the stream all mornin’, so we’ll gladly go back to yar vats o’ drink an’ victuals, but ya’ll have to promise us ya will nay hurt the bard.”

  “Yes, yes. I promise I will not hurt him.” He waved them away. “Your copsed path is there.”

  O’Sloan and his warriors descended into the small valley again and headed eastward.

  When they were out of earshot, Mórganthu walked back to Anviv. “I promised I would not hurt him, and I will not. But I swear I will cut off my own hand if this meddling son of Owain An Gof does not die before the Beltayne fires are lit tomorrow eve!”

  “O Father,” Anviv asked, “may I have this boon?”

  “Not you. I cannot risk that. Cannot risk losing you. You must lead the druidow when my spirit departs to be renewed in the waters of the deep. Fetch our new friend Connek from where he loafs by the meeting house.”

  Anviv nodded and headed back toward the village, returning shortly with the thief beside him.

  Mórganthu whispered a long time in Connek’s ear. About halfway through, Connek grinned. Finally, Mórganthu held out three gold coins.

  Connek groped for them, but Mórganthu knocked the thief’s hand away. Connek’s eyes followed the coins as each slid back into Mórganthu’s bag.

  First the largest coin … clink.

  Then a thick one with a horse pulling the sun across the sky … clank.

  And finally one stamped with the head of the dead usurper King Vitalinus Gloui … chlink.

  Connek licked his lips as he left Mórganthu, walking with determined steps to Merlin and the meeting of the villagers.

  It appeared someone was arguing with the scarred fool.

  “And why can’t we worship this Stone and your Christian God at the same time? None of the other gods seem to mind.” A low rumble — half laughter, half assent — went through the crowd.

  “Priwith,” Merlin said, “you yourself have sat under the monks’ teaching. You know God commands us not to worship anyone or anything else.”

  “But it is the most striking thing I have ever seen.”

  “That may be true, but that doesn’t mean we should worship what has been created. That’s like confusing your goat and its milk, but the Druid Stone isn’t even like that. Pledging yourself to it is joining yourself with evil.”

  “I sense nothing evil about it …”

  “I understand you don’t feel its presence, but evil lurks there nonetheless. Go and see Kifferow’s body. Go ask the good abbot.”

  “Kiff was a drunkard,” someone yelled from the crowd.

  With wide eyes, Connek took note of Merlin’s heavy golden torc. There was more gold on that soon-to-be-cut neck than Mórganthu had offered him. He slid his rusted knife out and tested its edge with a sweaty thumb. Surveying the large crowd, he shook his head in dismay.

  Some bloke next to him had a coughing fit, and half the crowd turned. Connek’s cheeks flushed red as he pushed his knife up his sleeve. He pretended to cough too and kept his hooded face down.

  Soon the attention went back to Merlin, and Connek ever so slowly worked his way through the crowd until he stood just behind the inner row surrounding the Rock of Judgment. The gold torc peeked out from underneath Merlin’s thick black hair and dazzled in the afternoon sun.

  Connek imagined how it would feel to slip the heavy torc into his own bag.

  The silly talk seemed to go on forever, but to his delight, it finally became a confrontation. And if it turned to blows, then in the confusion he could —

  “All of you, hear me,” Merlin called. “Don’t give your lives into the hands of Mórganthu.”

  “We’ve heard enough of your monkish talk,” a man to the left shouted. “I’m going to the Druid Stone to see it again.”

  The people murmured in assent and turned to walk back to Mórganthu. Only Tregeagle’s wife and daughter and a monk in his ridiculous robe now stood between Connek’s knife and Merlin, with that tempting prize. The monk had his eyes closed, foolishly praying to his god, and the women, conferring together, would never be able stop him.

  Best of all, Merlin was blind as a worm and wouldn’t even flinch. Connek’s memory still burned with images of Merlin and his father wrestling him to the ground, trussing him, and sending him to Tregeagle for judgment. No more would he smell these spoiled rich people’s food. No more would he go around in near rags or sleep in the cold with nothing but his cloak. Gold to finally live at ease!

  Connek slipped his hand into his sleeve and gripped his trusty knife. Just last month it had helped him secretly kill and rob a man in the woods outside the village of Meneth Garrow. Oh, how it itched to be used again. Just two more steps and he’d plunge it into the braggart’s chest, grab the torc, and run.

  CHAPTER 14

  A CHANGE OF PLANS

  As Connek tensed his legs to lunge forward, the sound of horse’s hooves pounded down the road. Up the main village track from the east galloped at least twenty horsemen. The ones in front wore ring-mail doublets, while the rest were clad in thick leather jerkins. Many had longswords at their belts, and all carried spears and shields. Their steeds glistened with sweat, and the riders looked grim with their long whiskers and polished helms.

  Seeing the large crowd gathered in the western half of the village pasture, the warrior in front raised his arm and led his band to the open eastern side. Right up to Merlin and Connek.

  Rat bones!

  Connek’s face grew hot with anger as he hid his knife once more. He shouldn’t have waited. If he’d killed Merlin instead of daydreaming, he could have run to the safety of the nearby woods. But not now. These warriors would gallop after him and spear him like a jousting dummy.

  Four
men lifted ox horns and let out a blast that hurt Connek’s ears.

  The warrior in front had a dirty yellow beard that hung between the chains of a polished silver amulet — ripe for plucking, Connek thought. Then his gaze fell on the golden boar securing the leader’s dark-red cloak, the insignia of a personal soldier of Uther, High King of the Britons. That, too, would be excellent loot … But then Connek saw the two-handed sword strapped to the man’s back and decided that perhaps there were easier targets for his thievery.

  Mórganthu, Anviv, and some attending druidow edged up to the mounted warriors. Connek could see Mórganthu’s stiffness as he surveyed the situation.

  Trevenna, the magister’s wife, whispered in the ear of some little brat, maybe eight winters old, and handed him a cheap coin. The boy raced over the stone wall and disappeared up the path leading to the top of the hill.

  The lead warrior swung down from his horse and laughed. “You’re a peculiar village with such a young chieftain.” He stepped up to Merlin, who had just descended from the Rock of Judgment along with the monk.

  The monk whispered to Merlin, who thought for a moment and then shook his head. “I’m not a leader here.”

  “Should I believe this?” the warrior asked.

  “These people follow their own hearts.”

  “Yet you bear a torc of such workmanship.”

  Oh, how Connek wished to rip the torc off that neck! Soon, soon.

  “But for your age,” the warrior continued, “I would swear that you feast our host this night. Where is your chieftain, then — Tregeagle — whom men here call Magister?”

  “Tregeagle resides up the hill.” Merlin held out his staff toward the Tor. “His wife and daughter are in your presence, and you are expected.”

  The man squinted. “You see well for being blind.”

  “God has made up for what I lack.”

  Trevenna introduced herself. “Are you his battle chieftain, the one called Vortigern?”

  “I am that and more.” He turned away from her and surveyed the field, the village’s meeting house, and the spring beyond.

  “As there is good pasture here,” Trevenna said, “and very little on the Tor, my husband will come down to greet you. But what of …” Her eyes searched among the men.

  Vortigern cleared his throat. “The High King? Uther is coming … and Queen Igerna … along with their daughters and son.”

  “How soon?”

  “Morning. Kyldentor hosts them tonight, and Uther is inspecting their fortifications. We will hold a court of fealty here tomorrow when the sun stands over the trees.”

  Mórganthu’s eyes opened wide and then narrowed into tiny slits. He shot Connek such a glare that the thief stepped backward and tripped over the feet of some pesky villager, who snarled at him.

  The High King was coming? Not Gorlas, the king of Kernow? Not the king of Difnonia or of Kembry? But the High King? Fear tightened like a noose around Connek’s throat. To get the three gold coins, he must kill Merlin before the Beltayne fires next evening. Yet to commit murder while the High King’s warriors were here? He’d have to choose his place and time very carefully.

  Shock hummed through the crowd at the news, but Tregeagle’s daughter appeared calm. Vortigern also noticed the girl, and his gaze lingered long. “Is this your daughter, Natalenya, whom I have the pleasure to meet?”

  As Trevenna nodded, he yelled, “Vortipor! Get your mud muckers down from your horse and meet Tregeagle’s daughter.” He turned back to Trevenna. “Excuse my son while he finds his feet.”

  Soon a young man stepped through the ranks. He was tall and thinner than his father, with russet hair, a flat nose, and dark eyes. His beard was patchy and short, and he wore a reddish-brown cloak sewn with silver threads.

  “Vortipor, this is the harpist we’ve heard about.”

  The young man bowed, took up Natalenya’s hand, and kissed it.

  Connek almost laughed when her face turned white.

  Trevenna quickly stepped between them. “My family and I are honored to have you and the High King as guests.”

  At that moment, Tregeagle, followed by Lictor Erbin, rode into the pasture on the family’s white horses. They cantered around the group of warriors, rode up to Vortigern and Vortipor, and dismounted.

  Connek cased Tregeagle’s finely tailored saffron tunic, his white linen trousers, and his amazing belt made from Roman gold coins. Soon, Connek would have clothes like that. And if he wore Merlin’s torc, then some other village far away might make him chieftain, which would mean that he could collect the taxes — hah! — and rob everyone legally!

  Tregeagle grabbed the hands of each man in turn and greeted them with a grand smile. “Welcome to Bosventor. Come, shake off the dust of the road and let us fill the welcome bowl together.”

  “Villagers of Bosventor! Distinguished guests!” a voice called from behind. Along with the others, Connek turned toward the Druid Stone, where Mórganthu stood, feet planted, both hands on his staff. How had he slipped away without keen-eyed Connek noticing?

  “You who know me as the arch druid,” Mórganthu said, “and you who do not, I call you to come and see the Druid Stone.”

  He struck the Stone, and it glowed dimly blue.

  Once Connek looked, he felt an invisible hand grab him by the scruff of his neck so that he couldn’t turn away. Inside the Stone, a vision appeared of him smirking and wearing a golden torc while he stood over the mangled body of Merlin.

  At the same time, one of the druidow beat on a drum. It pulsed throom, throom in his ears, and Connek found his feet moving forward against his will. By some unspoken accord, the villagers formed a wide circle around the Stone.

  Connek could hear Tregeagle, that mealymouthed magistork, screeching at the villagers. He heard Vortigern’s harrumphing laughter cut short.

  Mórganthu, that benevolent leader of men, called out, “Tregeagle, Magister, we have not had the pleasure of your presence. Come forward and see what brings your people happiness.”

  Trevenna drew close to Tregeagle, but he ignored her and turned to his lictor, Erbin, who Connek thought was dressed like a clown in his Roman breastplate and red cape. Tregeagle, a frown on his chicken-thin lips, whispered to him with creased brow. But Erbin’s eyes gazed at the Druid Stone. Tregeagle couldn’t get his mighty lictor’s attention though he waved and called.

  It would have been a great time to steal from Erbin if not for the two Vorti-whoevers.

  Connek laughed when Tregeagle snatched the gladius from his lictor’s scabbard and marched up to Mórganthu. Hah! Tregeagle’s in for it now. Connek had seen what Mórganthu had done to the druidow who opposed him. He’d seen their bodies in the woods.

  Tregeagle shouted and swore at the druid. “Cease this enchantment!”

  “Calm. Calm yourself, orphaned son of the Romans. In the Druid Stone you will fulfill your deepest desires.”

  “Stop your babbling. How do you know what I desire?”

  “Magister,” Mórganthu said, “what you desire is power. But even more you desire coins. Gold coins!” Mórganthu raised Tregeagle’s belt and tapped a gold coin.

  Tregeagle slapped Mórganthu’s hand away. “And you’ll give me gold? Hah. Take your rag-loving brigands and get out of my village.”

  Mórganthu peered long into Tregeagle’s eyes. Then, glancing at the gathered warriors, he sighed. “A bargain. We will pack up and depart your village if I fail to make an iron coin turn to pure gold before your very eyes.”

  Tregeagle whistled and, without warning, grabbed Mórganthu by the tunic, holding the flat of the gladius to the druid’s face with the blade edge up against his nose.

  Mórganthu blinked.

  Tregeagle smiled, his brows furrowed. “I accept. But know that I carve the noses off duplicitous imps.” He let go of Mórganthu, who staggered before catching his fall.

  “Give me a coin, then … a bysall.”

  Tregeagle drew forth a slightly bent iron coin.
“Make it into gold!” he scoffed.

  Mórganthu took the small coin and held it before the people. “Watch.” He struck the Druid Stone with his staff, and it blazed up. Mumbling some indecipherable words, he threw the coin onto the black surface of the Stone.

  Tregeagle puffed his cheeks out, for there lay the same bent coin, but it was now pure gold.

  Connek’s heart nearly stopped beating. It could make gold! He yelled and pounded his fist into the air.

  All around him, the people shouted and stomped their feet.

  Tregeagle fell to his knees. Not daring to touch the blue fire, he gripped his sword and flicked the glimmering coin off the Stone. He held it before his puzzled eyes, scratched the coin on the edge of the sword, and marveled at the gold shavings left in the palm of his hand.

  “How did you do that?”

  Mórganthu grinned. “Not I. It was the Stone. Try another coin. The Stone gives permission.”

  Tregeagle pulled from his bag a handful of silver, brass, and iron coins and threw them onto the Druid Stone, each one turning instantly to gold. The magister’s hands shook as he swept the golden trinkets off the Stone with his blade. Gathering them up, he held them before his spinning eyes. And he laughed until all the villagers laughed too.

  Connek didn’t join them.

  His reveling turned to anger as the coins fell into the grubby hands of Tregeagle. Connek walked forward, fell at Mórganthu’s feet, and begged for coins to put on the Stone too.

  Mórganthu bent down and whispered in Connek’s ear, “Begone! You shall not get crumbs from my plate unless you do my bidding before tomorrow night.” And Mórganthu kicked him.

  In blistering rage, Connek retreated toward the outer circle of villagers, but three women almost ran him down. That too-good-for-you Trevenna was first, followed by the bizarre Mônda and her daughter, Ganieda.

  Trevenna ran to her husband and knelt beside him. She pulled on his shoulders and spoke in his ear. Tregeagle ignored her and braved the blue fire, raking newly made gold coins off with his bare hands and showing them to her. She, unbelievably, spurned them.

  In contrast, Mônda and her daughter gawked at the gold coins and hugged Mórganthu, who greeted his daughter and granddaughter with a broad smile. They danced around Mórganthu and the Stone to the beat of the still-throoming drummers.