Merlin's Blade

by Robert Treskillard

  In that moment an idea sprouted: a way to defeat the druidow and bring the villagers back to Jesu. It was dangerous, and Dybris knew it might fail. He looked out to the bleeding sun sinking in the west — and smiled for the first time that day.

  Yes … he would dare it.

  Merlin and his father smithed together for the first time since Merlin’s flogging. While they worked, his father described to him how the blade’s bevels became smooth and straight. How the tip formed a more graceful arc and the tang was lengthened.

  During each heating, Merlin worked the bellows while his father tended the coals. The bellows were positioned near the window so they could suck in the extra fresh air and feed the fire. More than once Merlin reached out and touched the new iron bars his father had fit in the window. No more wolves will get through there, he thought contentedly.

  The oversized forge required constant attention to spread the heat around the blade: cooler for the tip, hotter near the guard, and the tang out of the coals. His father had an expert eye to know when the blade’s color meant it was ready for the hammer. And as this was best judged in the dark, his father preferred swordsmithing after sundown. Too hot and the metal would spark and ruin its strength. Too cold and his father would tire from excess hammering.

  Merlin found peace in the rhythm of heating and hammering, heating and hammering. Some of his happiest times were working with his tas after dinner. No farmers impatient for a tool to be fixed. No horses to shoe. Just him, his father, and a blade.

  Once the color was true, his father would clamp onto the handle a special pair of tongs he’d made that would allow Merlin to hold the sword without getting burned, as well as maneuver it without losing his grip. Timing was critical, and his father’s forearm burns testified he didn’t want the blade slipping in the tongs.

  During each hammering on the anvil, Merlin held these tongs with both hands. Despite his blindness, he had learned from his father over the past five years to lift the sword slightly off the anvil between hammer blows. This was important to keep the heat from escaping into the anvil. By doing this the visits to the forge were reduced and each blow strengthened.

  Now and then during the hammering, his father would call “Trelya,” which meant that Merlin should flip the sword. This was tricky because Merlin had to lift the sword, flip it, and set it on the anvil at the correct angle in time for the next hammer blow.

  In this way father and son worked together as one man: lifting, dropping, hammering, lifting, turning, dropping, and hammering. But the part Merlin liked best — when his father wasn’t sullen or angry — was heating the blade, because there was time to talk while Merlin worked the bellows. Maybe tonight he could get more answers from his father than he had been privy to these many long years.

  “Tas, how’d you decide to become a blacksmith?” Merlin asked.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’d like to hear it. We have time.”

  His father paused, and when he spoke again, it was so quiet Merlin barely caught his words. “The truth is that I stumbled into the craft. When your mother and I traveled to Kernow, I needed work, and a monk at Isca Difnonia told us this village’s blacksmith needed a helper. So we came to Bosventor.”

  “Was that Elowek, who owned the smithy before us? I hardly remember him.”

  “That was he. I learned the trade without planning on it, swordsmithing and all. When he died I bought the shop and house from his widow, and we’ve been here ever since.”

  Merlin’s father used a poker to shift the coals around the blade. “A little more air … That’s it. Funny how life changes you. Now I’m the one known as An Gof, ‘the Smith.’ I can still hear the old man whistling.”

  “Hadn’t you ever thought about being a smith?”

  “Oh, like most boys, I was fascinated by the heat, sparks, and ringing of the anvil. But no, I hadn’t thought about it. You see I … You don’t know this, but I was the youngest son of a chieftain.”

  “Really? My grandfather was a chieftain? Where?”

  “Rheged, north of Kembry. The fortress of Dinas Crag. I hear my oldest brother, Ector, rules there now. My father wanted me, as the youngest, to be a leader in the church and had me trained for it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” All the years his father was unwilling to visit the chapel surfaced in a fresh light. Fear sank like a rock into Merlin’s stomach as he waited for the typical lash from his father. But this time it was different.

  Owain stepped away from the forge and walked over to Merlin, who kept working the bellows, but slower now.

  “Part of my life has been locked up, for I don’t know how long.” He placed a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

  Merlin’s fear ebbed away.

  “But now I’m free, and my soul can move. For the first time my father’s faith, and my son’s faith, is now mine.”

  “When did Grandfather leave the old ways?”

  “I don’t know, but he was the first in our family. I prepared for the church because it was expected. Ah, but I failed him in that! I wanted to be a warrior like my brothers and spurned his desire for me to be a monk and serve the church. I told the abbot and left.”

  “Was he angry?” Merlin asked.

  “As a churchman, he understood. I’d —”

  “No, Grandfather, was he —”

  “Ahh … very angry, yes,” Owain said. “But he didn’t disinherit me at that time.”

  The light from the forge dimmed, and Merlin pressed the bellows faster to keep it going. “In leaving the abbey, did you reject God?”

  “Not really. Just being a monk.” His father returned to the forge and scooped fresh char-wood around the edges. “As the son of a chieftain in Kembry, I had certain privileges, among which was meeting others of my rank. And higher. One became a fast friend. He was a lad three years younger than I, named Uthrelius, the son of High King Aurelianus.”

  Merlin dropped the bellows handles. “You and Uther are friends?”

  The smithy was deathly silent, until his father said, “Not anymore. But I served in his war band before we parted. And a bitter parting it was. He was just a prince then. Now a score of years have gone by.” Owain turned away from the forge, and his voice became wistful. “Many years … and he is High King and I am nothing. Nothing but a blacksmith.”

  “But you’re more than that, Tas,” Merlin said. “And you can be more. It doesn’t matter what you do with your hands. It’s your character and faithfulness. Your honesty.”

  “Sometimes I doubt it. Uther certainly won’t think so.”

  Merlin hadn’t considered what Uther would think. “Will he even remember you? Does he know you’re in —”

  “Bosventor? No. He doesn’t expect to see my face tomorrow. Nevertheless, he won’t have forgotten. But I hope time will have lessened his rage at me for deserting the war band.”

  “And that’s why we’re here. In the smithy.”

  His father pulled the blade out to check its color.

  “Yes. And I hope I’ll have my most excellent sword for him. Normally I’m angry when a man says he’ll pay for an elaborate weapon like this and then disappears. But now I’m glad. We’ll give it to Uther … and may he forgive me.”

  CHAPTER 19

  REVELATIONS OF THE HEART

  Natalenya screamed.

  Vortipor jerked backward. “Thunder of Taranis, don’t do that!”

  He stepped forward again with his arm raised, and Natalenya shrieked even louder.

  His upraised hand reached out … and grasped a cast-iron pot from where it hung from the ceiling above her. “See, I’m just getting this for your mother.”

  Natalenya’s shoulders trembled as she exhaled.

  One of the servants peered through the doorway, then hurried away.

  “Why did you shout?” Vortipor asked, cracking the knuckles of his right hand on the hilt of his dagger, which hung from his belt. “You have no need to fear me.”

  N
atalenya stared at him. His young face had already been bronzed and lined from years spent out in the wind and sun. If not for his sparse beard over his youthful chin, he’d appear twice her age. But his eyes … they lingered on her more than she liked. A wolf, she thought, who has no bone to gnaw.

  “W-why does my mother need the pot?” she asked to break the silence.

  “To warm up honey. And everyone else, including you, was busy.”

  “I see.”

  “She seems to have no end of jobs for me.” He stretched his neck down and peered at her, scum on his lips showing in the sallow light. “Why’d it take so long to take that wine to my father?”

  Her face flushed. “I … I was delayed.”

  He shook his head. “I see now. Did they tell you something, perhaps?”

  She lifted her chin. “No!”

  Natalenya’s mother walked into the room and cleared her throat loudly.

  Vortipor whirled to face her.

  “There is the pot,” her mother called. “Come along. The honey isn’t getting any warmer.”

  The two left the room together, but before he turned the corner, Vortipor grinned at Natalenya, and his teeth seemed to her sharp and leering.

  In the corner of the culina, she sat on the bench next to the shuttered window and prayed for help. How could her life change so in the course of a few hours? Was her father really going to promise her to Vortipor? If only her mother had a say. But no, her father only made decisions in consultation with his moneybag.

  And what of her father’s and Vortigern’s talk about the High King? Were they considering treason? She had never known her father to speak that way, so it didn’t make sense. He was a man who loved high positions, and as long as he could harvest coins from the people, he seemed happy enough to let those above him have their way. Sure, he had sought advancement but never through disloyalty.

  And Vortigern? He was brother-in-law to Uther. Surely she had heard him wrong.

  Even so, she would keep her eyes and ears open just in case.

  One thing she did understand, though, was that if Vortipor was like his father, she would loathe him.

  A great sob knotted up in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and envisioned stuffing her fears into a bag and carrying it down a long hallway lined with closed doors. Soon she found an empty room, threw the bag in, and locked it away. Like all the other emotions not allowed in her father’s house.

  But then, while standing in the imagined hallway of her heart, she heard a voice call from the distant end of the corridor.

  Who was this? She stood on her toes, looked through the bars, and took in a sharp breath. It was a ghostlike image of Merlin. He stood there, tall and nearly as strong as his blacksmith father, his golden torc shining in the torchlight below his shoulder-length, curly black hair. He smiled at her, his fine teeth showing, and her heart was drawn to him.

  But it was hard to look at his injuries. The pupils of Merlin’s eyes were scarred, and the eyelids disfigured. From there, long gouges emanated across his cheeks, temples, and forehead. Even though the scars were no longer red, their depth set Natalenya’s teeth on edge.

  Whatever happened, it must have been excruciating. Despite these wounds, he was noble, faithful, and strong in spirit.

  He reached out to her, calling her name.

  In a fluster, she opened her eyes. Why was he there, locked up in her heart? She’d always pitied him, one of the many disabled people who lived on the woodland moor. But had she ever really known him or considered him? Certainly not until the events of the past week demonstrated his amazing strength to stand for what was right. Despite his blindness.

  And that was the real issue. Could she marry someone blind? Truly love someone so deeply scarred? Yes, she realized now that she could. Oh, but how could he provide for her and a family? For the present he could work for his father, but after Owain died, what then? Merlin could never be a tradesman on his own. And her father would never approve. Never.

  She wanted to run away and not come back. If she stayed, she’d be forced to marry Vortipor. Either way she’d lose her mother — her helper, teacher, and friend. Her whole life seemed to be crashing down around her, and these thoughts swirled in her head until she felt dizzy.

  Finally gathering her wits again, she wiped her eyes and straightened her skirt before marching out of the room. There in the great hall, the men loudly gathered around the hearth, where Trevenna handed out wheat-coriander cakes brushed with honey.

  But Vortipor was talking with his father, and his glance met hers before she was able to avert her eyes. He whispered to his father, whose smile quickly faded. His mouth became a hard line beneath his thick mustache as he clenched his fists, drew a long knife, and stabbed the wheat cake in front of him, slicing it in two.

  Natalenya did her best not to notice, but her heart beat wildly.

  Her father marched into the room dressed in his leather cloak. “Vortigern, are you ready? Mórganthu said after sunset. Come, let us see this Druid Stone again.”

  “Men of Britain.” Vortigern’s voice thundered through the hall. “We go to water our horses before sleep and to look upon this Stone once more. Gather!”

  Before they left, Vortipor rushed over and seized three honey cakes. He stuffed them into his broad mouth, and many precious pieces fell to the floor to be trampled by the men.

  The last one out the door, oddly enough, was Vortigern, who as the battle chieftan normally would have led the men from the room. Before closing the timbers, he faced her. And she trembled, for his gloomy eyes bored into her and seemed to say, Beware, Natalenya … beware!

  Owain used a poker to push the bright coals away from the sword, and then he clamped the tongs onto the blade. “We’re ready for another time at the anvil.”

  The leather-wrapped handles felt familiar in Merlin’s hands, and the heat of the sizzling sword warmed the air.

  His father positioned him so the glowing blade was over the anvil. “Ready?”

  Merlin tensed his legs, back, and arms. “Ready.”

  After hammering for a while, his father hid the blade back in the coals, and Merlin returned to the bellows.

  “Tas?” Merlin asked. “Why’d you leave Uther’s war band? That would have been exciting — to serve a prince.”

  “Dangerous, I’d say. We helped keep the northlands clear of Prithager and Eirish, and we did it well while their raiding parties were small. But they sent a large force against us.”

  Amazed he was finally hearing some stories from his father, Merlin asked, “How many?”

  His father shifted the coals. “They had a thousand to our three hundred. Hotter, Merlin … That’s better.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Ah, we were up in Guotodin, with no help nearby and our route south cut off. So we retreated northeast to the closest fortress. Atleuthun was the old king at Dinpelder, and he was a sometime ally to Uther’s father. We went there for help — stayed two days preparing for the coming foe — but in that time I fell in love.”

  “Mother?”

  “Yes. Gwevian was the king’s daughter.”

  Merlin stopped the bellows. “I never knew!”

  “It’s true. She was so beautiful. All that red hair down to her waist. You should have seen the braids she could make.” Owain paused, and Merlin marveled at his father’s peaceful, almost wistful tone.

  “But Atleuthun’s house was pagan, so I shared the knowledge of Jesu with his daughter. She not only believed; she fell in love with me even as my heart was drawn to her.”

  “Why was Uther angry about that?”

  “Slow down,” his father said. “But keep the bellows going. It was Atle who was angry, and that was the crux. Something perplexing about that man and his son, but I never put my finger on it. It wasn’t long before I was thrown in Atle’s dungeon, and Uther and the men had to leave with neither the king’s warriors to help nor food. And an enemy thrice their size approac
hing from the southwest.”

  Merlin worked the bellows mechanically, his thoughts centered only on his parents. “What happened?”

  “King Atle tried twice to kill your mother for her refusal to deny Jesu. The first time he threw her from the highest cliff of the fortress and —”

  “What?”

  His father rattled among his tools. “Yes, it’s true. To the glory of Christ, she lived, and not even a scratch marked her fair skin. She told me later she felt invisible hands protecting her.”

  Merlin thought of the angel he’d seen in his own visions. “What did Atle do?”

  “You mean what did I do? Because of the miracle, a servant snuck down and released me, telling me the tale. The woman was old and hunched over, but her heart was gentle.”

  “So you got out.”

  “I made my way to Uther’s camp, where he was girding for battle.” His father sighed. “But we couldn’t agree. I wanted him to help me save Gwevian, but he named me a fool for getting them shut out from Atle’s fortress. Instead, he wanted me to help him in the coming battle. To stand by his side.”

  “I see.”

  “Ah, I was thick even to ask him, and all of us were in trouble because of Atle’s wrath at me. At me!” His voice suddenly rose, and he hurled a tool, which clanged against the rock wall of the smithy.

  Merlin jumped.

  “And in the end I failed him. I left on the eve of battle to go to her.”

  One thing still didn’t make sense. “You said Atle tried to kill Mother again —”

  His father groaned. “Yes. But this time his magicians tried to sacrifice her to his pagan water god. He bound her and set her adrift in a leaking boat as the tide rolled out.”

  “How did God save her?”

  “This time through me. One last hammering, and I think we’ll be ready for shaping the blade with the grinding wheel.”

  The work at the anvil passed quickly, as only the blade’s tip and one troublesome spot near the guard needed light work. His father viewed the blade by the forge’s light and grunted in satisfaction. “Ready for the grind.”