Merlin's Blade

by Robert Treskillard

  Finally Vortigern laughed long and hard with his hands on his slim waist. And then, quick as an adder, he smashed the guard across the chin with his forearm and knocked him down. Leaping on him, the battle chief sunk a freshly drawn dirk into the man’s gut and up into his lungs.

  Had Vortigern gone mad? Killing a man who hadn’t even attacked him?

  The guard gasped, his hand jerking as his spear rolled into the mud.

  Vortigern remounted and rode whistling through the gate.

  When Bedwir’s horse trotted by, he glanced at the guard lying there, barely breathing and calling for help with quivering, silent lips.

  After tying up his horse, Bedwir ran back to the man at the gate. “Do you want water?” he asked, instantly regretting the words. Though what was he to say? The man was dying.

  But the guard nodded, the dust around his eyes wet with tears. Bedwir pulled out his waterskin and gave him a sip, which he choked on at first but was able to swallow.

  “I … said … he could … not come in … with horses … The hay was … for the goats … I … spoke well of Uther … but …”

  Bedwir was shocked. This guard was loyal to Uther.

  The man vomited blood, and Bedwir helped turn his head. “Die … die …” he choked.

  “I know you’re dying …”

  “No … my name’s Dyffresyn. Tell … wife … children … love ‘em, and …”

  But his words failed, and the dim light in his eyes faded like two stars eclipsed by the reaching fingers of a coming storm.

  Then someone kicked Bedwir.

  “Get up!” Vortigern yelled. “And stop dribbling on the dead.”

  As Uther pulled the now empty boat farther up the muddy shore, he could see his family, followed by Colvarth, ascending the bank of the large island. Blackbirds called from the shore, and the croaking of the frogs meant the evening was upon them.

  He thought about hiding the boat from prying eyes but surmised there was little danger and decided to lash it to a tree. Who would suspect that the High King and his family had gone to the big island in the marsh?

  Uther grabbed the tie rope and attempted to pull it out, but he found it wrapped around an anchor. Pulling the anchor out, he saw that it was none other than the rusty head of a pickaxe that had lost its handle long ago, probably cast away by a tin miner and procured by a local fisherman. Winding this twice around an apple tree, one of hundreds that covered this end of the island, he gave a tug to make sure it was secure.

  As he turned back to survey the marsh, he unstrapped the mead skin from his belt, removed the stag horn stopper, and took a quick sip. Whether he looked south beyond the broad end of the island or north beside the long shoreline, all he set his gaze upon were reeds and sedge grasses clumped amid lethargic water channels. The receding rains and the stilling of the winds had brought forth a mist that rose upon the marsh in twisting, white fingers.

  Ah, the fishing must be excellent here! Not since his youth had Uther found time to enjoy the simple pleasures of life, such as fishing. All these he’d denied himself since taking on the mantle of leadership, both as a warrior guarding the people of Britain and later as High King when his father, Aurelianus, had died — Jesu bless his spirit. An old tune his father had hummed one rare day when they did fish came to Uther, and he whistled it now.

  Looking back east past the marsh, he scanned the immediate hills, where his campaign tent stood among the warriors’ smaller tents, and a distant ridge far beyond them, where a faint line of smoke rose. This marked the camp of the druidow, no doubt, and their pagan stone circle. Soon Vortigern would carry out swift justice there, and this shortsighted rebellion would be over.

  Taking a longer swig of mead, Uther found that the drink flowed across his tongue more sweetly than what he’d become accustomed to on the trail. But as Vortigern declared, this was of premium stock.

  He replaced the stopper and slung the skin over his shoulder. Hefting the extra tent from the boat, he limped up the thick, grassy shore, where his family waited for him. Myrgwen ran and hugged his waist while Eilyne balanced on a log nearby. Igerna, smiling, sat on a large rock holding the food basket and young Arthur. The boy leaned forward from her lap, grabbed a twig, and broke it from a length of dead branch sitting at her feet.

  Uther patted Myrgwen on the head. “Where’s Colvarth?”

  “At the tower.”

  Igerna stood and reached out her left hand to him. “Shall we follow?”

  Soon they approached the ruined blocks of a small fortress, and within that, the old tower. Dark granite stones lay scattered across the ground as if a giant of old had risen from the marsh and broken them with massive hands. Moss clung like leeches to their northward faces, and Uther imagined the centuries of wind whistling across the flat marshlands that had worn smooth their other sides.

  Although Uther had passed many flower-adorned apple trees while walking up to the ruins, here their ancestors stood as dead sentinels to a distant age. Each tree bore its fate gauntly, back bent and withered, broken branches outstretched in a fruitless, mocking display.

  He found a level place hidden behind a large brush-covered stone and set their temporary lodgings up while Igerna gathered the old applewood for a fire. This gave him time to sip more of the sweet mead as well as study the tower, a marvel of engineering. Uther had seen plenty of fortresses in his time, either supervising their construction or else besieging them. The stones had been fit expertly as the tower tapered from a base of sixteen feet wide to — what Uther estimated — about eight feet wide at the top. Its height rose to nearly forty feet, and vines choked each other on their way to reach the crown like moldy skeletal arms protruding from a grave.

  The stout wooden roof had long ago fallen to ruin, and yet enough remained to show a semblance of its conical shape. Uther walked to the doorway of the tower, which remarkably stood three feet up from the ground. “Colvarth, anything of interest?”

  The bard poked his nose out from the slim stone archway, and his voice echoed. “Nothing much, my king. But come see … for yourself.”

  Uther stepped up onto the high threshold of the doorway and pulled himself through. Blinded for a moment by the swift change to near darkness, he tried to step down and lost his balance. With his bad knee he fell hard onto a rock and then headlong to the dirt.

  Colvarth rushed over. “My king! Are you all right? The floor is … higher inside, and rough.”

  Uther’s knee screamed with pain and his head spun. He rolled onto his back and looked upward, straight to the top of the tower. The top floor Merlin had spoken of had rotted away, and now nothing remained but an empty shell.

  A man appeared above him, ghostlike, emerging from nowhere and walking down an invisible stairway. He wore an embroidered sapphire robe with white-gold trim, and at his waist a jeweled belt held the scabbard of a dagger. A druid? No, this wasn’t the blade of a Briton; it was arched like those of traders he had seen from the eastern lands.

  But the oddest thing was the man’s face. Though his gray beard hung down to his waist and his eyes wrinkled with wisdom, his cheeks were smooth, his lips young, his nose unmarred, and his forehead unlined. By all accounts, he bore the marks of a youth.

  Uther pointed at the man and tried to speak, but his throat was stiff and wouldn’t utter a sound.

  Colvarth patted him on the shoulder. “A nasty … tumble … yes. Rest awhile, my king.”

  The man in Uther’s vision reached the bottom of the unseen stairway, put a finger to his lips, and, kneeling, drew the cross of Jesu in the dirt. Then he descended right into the ground as though it didn’t exist. Just before his head sank from sight, he stared straight at Uther, and his eyes held a secret and sorrowful longing.

  With that he disappeared.

  Uther’s knee suddenly felt no pain, and his tongue loosed. He jumped up, almost knocking Colvarth over. “Did you not see him?”

  “Arthur is … outside, my king.”

  “Th
e man, dressed in blue.” Uther looked up again to the top of the tower. The angled daylight filtered through the bones of the roof, and the empty window sat like an eye to the outside. Nothing else could be seen. No floor to stand on. No metal hung there to reflect sunlight to onlookers.

  Nothing. So what had he seen? The flash of light from before, this he could have imagined. But twice now he’d seen the man in blue. What of him?

  The ground! The man had descended through the ground.

  Uther swallowed a long draught from the mead skin and then felt dizzy for a moment. Soon the feeling passed, and he sank to his knees at the spot where the sign of the cross had been only moments before and dug frantically in the soft soil with his knife. “Colvarth, bring Igerna and the children. Bring them here!”

  Waking with great shivers, Garth looked up into the eyes of Caygek, who bent over him with concern on his face, his long blond beard almost touching Garth’s nose.

  The druid’s hand brushed dirt from Garth’s forehead. “Are you unharmed?”

  Garth blinked.

  “Why are you so white?” Caygek asked. “I saw you go into Mórganthu’s tent. Something there scare you?”

  Garth shook his head, then changed it to a nod.

  “You hollered. No one else paid any mind — too much talk about tonight. But those who keep their ears open get to question the thief. So … did you see Trothek?”

  Garth nodded again, this time firmly.

  Caygek’s eyes became soft. “He was my friend, and I’m sorry you had to see him that way. The arch druid killed him when the moon was under the foot of the Druid constellation, perhaps twelve days ago. Slit his throat and cut off his head before us all.”

  “Why?” Garth croaked.

  “Because Trothek opposed his plans,” Caygek answered. “It’s painful to think about, but it’s exactly what a warrior does with his enemy. Doesn’t Mórganthu gain Trothek’s wisdom by keeping his head?”

  Garth had heard of such practices but never imagined it could happen here in Bosventor. Sitting up, he pulled the coil of rope to his chest. “I’ve got to go! Mórganthu’s waitin’.”

  “Then go, but come back, and we’ll talk some more.”

  Garth stood up, shaking.

  “Garth.”

  “Yes?”

  “Beltayne is tonight, and I must warn you of what Mórganthu might do. Fifty of our number just left at his orders, and I don’t know on what mischievous errand. We have to be careful. Stick with me, and I’ll keep you safe and look after you. A few of us will be waiting at the big pine beyond the ridge. Do you know the place?”

  Garth nodded, then walked off through the woods with the heavy rope draped over his shoulder. With each step closer to Mórganthu and the stone circle, he envisioned the arch druid’s hand tightening the rope around his neck. He was nigh to blubbering when he finally arrived.

  “Stop! Stop your crying!” Mórganthu yelled.

  Garth closed his eyes, but a few more choked moans escaped his lips.

  Moments later he felt the sting of the arch druid’s hand across his cheek. “Such a slug, you cannot even bring rope without crying! And here I have a special job for you.”

  Garth swallowed. Wherever he looked, Trothek’s ghastly face floated before him.

  “Garth! Look at my personage. Did you not grow up learning to handle a boat?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “And are you not familiar with the marsh?”

  “A little … sure.”

  “Which parts, would you say?”

  “Well … close to the village, anyhow.” As he thought of the marsh and his few but wonderful times fishing there, the image of Trothek faded.

  “Are you familiar with Inis Avallow? The island with the tower?”

  CHAPTER 30

  THE PLOTS OF MEN

  Natalenya’s proposal bothered Merlin. “Are you sure you’re willing to get Allun’s mule alone?” Yes, he had asked her for the second time, but he had to be sure.

  “If you’re wondering whether I can handle it, I’ve hitched up my father’s horses many times, and I drive them myself whenever my mother and I go out alone.”

  Dybris finished putting on one of Merlin’s old tunics to replace his monk’s robe. “But this is a dangerous night to be out alone. We’ve all planned for Merlin to go with you, and he’s more than willing.”

  “I insist,” Natalenya said. “Merlin is needed more at the circle of stones than in the dusty old mill hitching up a mule.”

  What Merlin found the most agonizing was wondering whether she was still mad at him after he had fumbled her hints at marriage. What a fool he’d been. What he wouldn’t give to tell her how he really felt.

  “Fine,” Dybris said as he opened the door and stepped through. “We’d better go, then.”

  Owain joined him outside, but Merlin hesitated.

  “Here … will you wear my torc?”

  “Why?” she said, her voice softening. “It’s a gift to you from —”

  “The druidow will recognize me with it on.” Truly, though, he just wanted her to keep thinking of him. “And let me lend you this … It’s a small knife my father made for Ganieda.”

  “You think I’ll need it? I can run pretty fast, you know.”

  “Just in case.”

  Before taking the blade from him, she pressed both of her hands around his. “You’ll be careful?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  She nodded, and Merlin saw the motion by the light of the lamp. And her hands felt good — small but strong. The only hand he could properly compare them to was his younger sister’s, since he couldn’t remember his mother’s and had never held Mônda’s. And yet Natalenya’s hands weren’t like his sister’s. Ganieda’s were thin, almost frail, always wiggling and cold, but Natalenya’s hands firmly and purposefully held his, and the warmth spread up his arm until he began to sweat.

  “You’ll leave after you eat? Tas set out a mug of blueberry-leaf tea for you, as well as some oatcakes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, the tea is a bit tart, and the oatcakes are dry. You can have some smoked meat —”

  She laughed, finally taking the blade. “I’ll be fine.”

  Outside Dybris coughed, and Merlin paused awkwardly on the threshhold, then he turned, closing the door behind him. As he joined his father and the monk, he heard her drop the bar in place to secure the door.

  Merlin was glad she was going to rest and eat, for she hadn’t had a meal since morning and had grown more weary the longer they discussed their plan. But though her hands had trembled, she’d never wavered in her intent, and Merlin respected her mettle. Whatever her father was, Natalenya was of quality, something Merlin was beginning to understand.

  As the men began their journey, Merlin put a hand on his father’s shoulder so they could keep a better pace, but Owain grumbled at him. “Tell me again — why are we going to the Stone?”

  “Because we need to destroy it.”

  “This is madness,” his father said, and Merlin could imagine his scowl.

  “You agreed to the plan.”

  “But I don’t have to like it.”

  Was his father afraid of the Stone? Deep down, Merlin certainly was. Were they all fools?

  Dybris, who always seemed hopeful, joined in the conversation. “Come now, the plan is simple. Have faith, my friend.”

  Owain pushed Dybris away and walked faster. “I do this only for my wife and daughter.”

  “I know what we wish to do is not without great risk, but we do it for the villagers as well. For Prontwon’s memory, and for Garth. I didn’t mean to anger you.”

  “I’m not angry. I just don’t have much hope.”

  Is there hope? Merlin wondered.

  Dybris stopped talking, and since Owain tended to like silence, Merlin said nothing either. Soon they dropped in at the miller’s shop. Allun barely looked up when they made their request for Natalenya to borrow his mule. A large grinds
tone lay across two wobbling benches, and the miller was studiously dressing the stone using a long metal file.

  “We’re going to disguise ourselves as druidow,” Dybris explained. “Natalenya will visit in a bit to hitch the mule to Owain’s wagon and hide in the woods. Merlin, Owain, and I will sneak into the druid camp and steal the Stone. Then we’ll destroy it, and its enchantments will be gone forever.”

  Allun swung aside the thick timber boom so he could see them better. “Surely you jest,” he said, filing away and making the benches wobble. “You’re not going to meddle with that pagan Stone, are you?”

  Merlin hoped the miller wouldn’t now recant his permission to use the mule.

  “I agree,” Owain said, “it’s a foolhardy —”

  But Dybris cut him off. “We have to free the people.”

  “Well, that’d be a good deed,” Allun said. “Hardly a soul’s been by to grind since that Mórganthu showed up. Thought I’d take the posey time and get the grinders workin’ better.”

  Merlin’s father bent down and looked under the benches. “Hey,” he said, “the nails in your benches have worked themselves almost completely out. I wouldn’t do much more without hammering ‘em back in.”

  “Ah, they do that every time. I’ll hammer ‘em back in after I’m done tonight.” He stood and banged his head on the boom. “Ow! Drat that timber. I keep pushin’ it away, and it keeps swinging back.”

  “So … may Natalenya borrow your mule?” Merlin asked.

  “Sure, nothin’ to grind anyway. Plewin’s in the back field eatin’ her favorite spring blossoms. Get her anytime. Jus’ bring her back when you’re done.”

  Thanking the miller, the three left and walked uphill toward Troslam and Safrowana’s house. Merlin felt increasingly uneasy and wondered if they were being followed. Perhaps the man who had spied on them earlier at the house was still on their trail. He asked his father and Dybris to keep a lookout for anyone suspicious, but they saw no one. Then Merlin realized why he felt so uneasy, and he motioned for them to stop.