“What?” Dybris asked.
“All the villagers are gone. Listen. It’s too quiet. Do you see any smoke?”
“Except for Troslam’s house up the hill and the mill, no. And none of the crennigs have a fire lit.”
They hastened up the hill, and Owain banged on the weaver’s door. “Troslam!”
Merlin heard the sliding of wood before the door jerked open.
“Shah, Owain! You needn’t scare us.” The weaver’s voice held an anxious tone.
When Merlin shook the man’s hands an old memory flashed before Merlin — the weaver was tall with a golden beard.
Troslam turned to Dybris and with an exclaimation, fell to his knees. “Brother Dybris! I didn’t recognize you without your robe and with your face bruised. I thought —”
“What?”
“I thought you’d been taken away!”
“Taken?”
Troslam practically sputtered. “The druidow came, not more than half an hour ago, with knives and spears, and took the brothers away.”
Dybris sucked in a breath.
“They surrounded the chapel and broke the door in. Led them away, with the villagers following. Taken to that awful Stone, I’d guess.”
Merlin closed his eyes in disbelief, and Dybris grabbed onto his shoulder for support.
“Inis Avallow?” Garth asked. Mórganthu’s question seemed odd. “Yes, Ard Dre. Even I know where that is.”
“Well, my warriors do not, and I want you to lead them through the marsh. We have procured two boats from fishermen who ply their trade on its northern waters, and this works well, for we do not want you to be seen passing through the village, nor do I want you stumbling through Uther’s camp.”
Only then did Garth notice all the Eirish warriors standing around. That beast McGoss glared at him through those dark-slitted eyes of his.
“Are … you sure, Ard Dre? Can’t someone else lead ‘em?”
Mórganthu raised a hand.
Garth flinched, imagining a flashing knife. “I’ll lead ‘em! Don’t —”
Mórganthu brought his hand down and smiled warmly. “When you come back, I will let you have some of those strawberries you begged me for last night. Would you like that?”
“No! No, sir!” Garth shook his head wildly.
Mórganthu’s eyes narrowed. “And why not? They have come all the way from Brythanvy.”
“I … I … wouldn’t want to spoil me supper.”
“Yes, yes, a glorious feast tonight. I nearly forgot in my, shall we say, anticipation.”
With a druid leading them, Garth and the Eirish warriors had set off at once. At first Garth walked in the middle of the group, but unable to keep up, he soon found himself trailing behind.
McGoss joined him. “Keep yer lips tight,” he hissed. “Let on about me an’ the ard dre talkin’ secret, an’ I’ll stick ya.” He lifted his cloak, and underneath glinted a long notched dagger.
Garth swallowed and nodded. He tried to catch up to the others, but McGoss yanked him back. “Keep close.”
Northward they marched over the hills. At one point they walked by a path leading down to the right, which Garth recognized as the way to the char-man’s camp. If only he were with Merlin now, fetching coal, instead of with these foreign warriors. If only he still had his bagpipe.
McGoss poked him in the back. “No laggin’.”
Soon they turned down the hillside to the stream and forded it at a shallow spot where some old tin dredgers lay on the bank. From there they cut westward across the hills until they came to the northern reaches of the marsh. Their druid guide uncovered the two boats hidden among the reeds and then returned to camp, leaving Garth alone with the warriors.
One of them put a hand on Garth’s shoulder. “So welcome, little druid. I’m named O’Sloan, and now it’s yer turn to lead.”
“To the island?” Garth asked.
“Aye. And back. But there’s a mist rising, so ya better be a good scout.”
“Navigator.”
“Whate’er. Jus’ don’t get lost, aye?”
They split into two groups, with McEwan, McGoss, and Garth in the first boat, and the others in the second.
Garth saw why he’d been picked to lead them: these men knew nothing about boats, made clear from facing the wrong way to not knowing how to use the oars. And the huge McEwan nearly tipped over their boat and dumped Garth in the water.
“We’re kern warriors, fightin’ men, ya see,” O’Sloan called. “We know horses — but we taint taken time for silly boats.”
They arranged themselves in the dinghies, then Garth demonstrated the action of the oars to McEwan and to O’Sloan in the other boat. After a few tries O’Sloan figured it out, but the giant made Garth’s boat turn in circles.
“I’d rather paddle wit’ me hands!” McEwan declared, and Garth bit his tongue to keep his comments private until the oaf picked up the habit.
Garth directed them southward into the slow central current of the marsh. The fog had thickened considerably, but he found solace in the fact the island was nearly impossible to miss, even in the creeping darkness.
“An’ why’re we goin’ to Inis Avallow?” Garth asked.
From the back of the boat, McGoss’s eyes were like icy daggers.
“To catch a little mouse,” McEwan said, and his laughter boomed across the marsh.
“Shash-en!” someone called from the other boat.
McEwan clamped his lips shut.
“No, really, what are we doin’?” Garth asked.
“Ya mean ya don’t know?” McEwan turned his head to look at Garth and smiled, his large teeth gleaming through the mist. “We’re goin’ fer revenge on the High King.”
Still getting over the shock of Troslam’s news, Merlin considered their situation while Dybris prayed silently for the safety of the brothers.
Owain waited until the monk said his amen before speaking. “Does this change our plans at all?”
“Are you backing out?” Dybris asked.
“Never. But it’s just not as simple now.”
“We need to free the brothers as well,” Merlin said.
Safrowana appeared and grasped their hands in greeting. When she saw Merlin’s arm, she gasped. “What happened?”
“It’s not that bad —” Merlin began.
“Imelys, fill a bowl from the water bucket and bring a rag,” Safrowana called. “Yes behind the drying rack … That’s it.”
The girl brought her mother the bucket and watched Safrowana clean the wound while Merlin described the scuffle with the wolves.
“The cuts aren’t deep, like you said. But they sure gave me a fright.”
“As if there isn’t enough to be fightened about.” Imelys said.
Owain stepped over to their hearth and took a deep sniff. “Always glad to walk into a house where goat-leek soup is simmering over a slow fire.”
Only then did Merlin notice the pleasant aroma that filled the room.
“You’ll have to excuse our blacksmith,” Dybris said. “I can personally attest that this man hasn’t eaten a warm meal in quite a few days.”
At this, someone short stepped into the room from the back of the house.
“Kyallna,” Owain called. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Came ‘cause o’ the troubles last night,” she said, hobbling across to join them. “Brought the soup along. Help yourself!”
She reached up and pinched Merlin’s cheek. “If you see that chubbins Garth, tell him I’ve got some more soup. He’s welcome. Such a dear, sweet one, that boy.”
Merlin smiled at the old woman. “Thank you, Kyallna. I’ll certainly tell him about your offer if I see him.” He placed an arm around her shoulders and addressed Troslam. “With your permission, we’d like to borrow some dye.” And then he spoke at length of their plan.
“You’re welcome to any dye,” Troslam said, “but I’m afraid we’re out of blue. We just used our las
t woad leaves and madder root to make purple.”
“How long will it take to make more blue?”
“Well, we won’t get more woad till fall when the merchant comes through. We could try some bluestone, but it’d take hours to make it dark enough.”
“Purple?” Owain asked.
“Hmm.” Dybris paused, then shrugged. “Guess it’ll have to do. So what shapes do we paint?”
“Anything. Beasts, knotwork, symbols. Just leave off the crosses —”
After Owain and Dybris finished painting their arms and hands, they each painted one of Merlin’s arms, and then they all stood near the fire until the coloring dried to the touch.
“I’m glad the color darkened,” Owain said as he picked up his cloak. “Most will think it’s just blue, especially at night.”
Before they departed, Dybris raised his hands to heaven and sanctified Troslam and his family.
Blessed shalt thou be in thy crennig;
Blessed shalt thou be in God’s woodland;
Blessed shalt thy children and babans be;
Blessed shalt thy planting and harvest be;
Blessed shalt thy spinning and weaving be;
Blessed shalt thou be when thou comest in,
And blessed shalt thou be when thou goest out.
Troslam bowed. “Thank you. We’ll pray for your safety and success this night.”
The three men stepped out of the house to find an overcast gray sky frowning upon them. Merlin pulled his hood down, concealing his face in shadow. Behind he heard Troslam drop a wooden plank to bar the door.
“So, Drybris,” Owain said, “you think the druidow will be fooled by that portly blue boar you drew on your arm? His tail is so long you’d think a snake was biting his rump.”
“Hah! No worse than the moons you drew. They’re so squashed they resemble Brother Loyt’s bannocks.”
“Let’s hope they don’t look too closely,” Merlin added.
They set off down the path, and after a short distance, they came to the chapel.
“Tell me what you see, Tas,” he said.
Merlin’s father described the violent scene before them: The latch had been ripped from the wooden door, and the shattered end of a brass sickle knife had been jabbed into the center. Inside the chapel, one of the overturned benches was smeared with blood.
Dybris ran in and fell to his knees. “Let’s go,” Owain called. “Drawing crosses in the bloody dirt won’t help if Mórganthu starts killing the brothers.”
Dybris followed him outside, and without a word they walked downhill through the deserted village and turned east at the main road. Rounding the mountain, they hurried past the ruins of the distant abbey to the rushing stream and crossed the Fowaven bridge.
Owain pointed toward the hills and the smoke rising from the druid camp. “We should slip into the woods that way. You lead, Dybris, since you’ve scouted their camp.”
Dybris agreed. Merlin grasped his father’s arm as they left the path to trudge up a steep heather embankment. Beyond that, Dybris led them into a thick stand of pines. From there they turned straight north and, walking through the trees, paralleled the stream to a point below the druid camp.
As quietly as possible, they started to climb the hill, but after only a short distance, the monk’s steps faltered. “What is it?” Merlin asked his father.
“Someone’s been murdered,” Owain answered. “He’s covered in blood, and by the look on his face, he died painfully.”
Dybris let out a mournful wail and grabbed Merlin’s arm for support.
Natalenya tucked Ganieda’s knife into her belt and then tugged at the crennig door until it closed with a groan.
The black, lifeless shadows of night was gathering in the deepest parts of the woods surrounding the path. She set out, but a slight rustling from the bushes to her left brought her up short. A snake crossed right in front of her, its chisel-shaped head sliding before its slow, thick body. Natalenya froze, her stomach tightening in a knot. But it passed by without noticing her, and once it was gone she walked slowly, warily, fighting the urge to break into a sprint. She reached up and touched Merlin’s golden torc, which lay upon her neck, and found her courage once more.
Since Merlin and the others hadn’t come back, she reasoned, then Allun must have agreed to lend his mule. Although Plewin was stubborn, Merlin had assured her that he pulled anything, including wagons, with an untiring and sure-footed stride.
When she arrived at the mill, all was silent and the building appeared dead — its sad roof sagging, the high windows desolate and grim. Was this where all the villagers gathered to have their grain milled and share the latest gossip? Where had everyone gone? Where was Allun?
She scanned the field beyond the ghost-white stone wall, but the mule wasn’t there. Plewin must be inside the mill eating a trough full of grain, she mused. Merlin had said Allun fed her that way when he had extra.
Natalenya walked toward the mill, gravel crunching under her boots. Pausing at the door, she pressed her ear against the thick wood and listened, but she didn’t hear anything. Allun didn’t appear to be there. Too bad I didn’t borrow one of my family’s horses before father and mother left in the wagon, she mused. But there was nothing she could do about it now.
A cold gust of wind blew, and the door creaked on its hinges. It was open. Unlocked.
She pushed on the rough wood of the door, determined to get the mule. Merlin was counting on her. They needed the wagon to transport the Stone. To destroy it. Right.
Natalenya stepped into the mill, and the darkness swallowed her. She waited a moment to let her eyes adjust, and then, off to the right, she saw the silhouette of Plewin in her stall.
She took three steps forward but then froze in her tracks.
The door behind her closed.
Then she heard the bar fall into place.
An evil laugh echoed through the room.
CHAPTER 31
BELTAYNE
Uther slashed the knife down again and again, then threw the softened dirt out of the ever-widening hole. There in the tower, alone, he could hear his panting breaths echo off the walls.
There must be something here. The man in blue wouldn’t have disappeared below the earth at this spot if something hadn’t been buried here. Hopefully it wasn’t just the man’s bones.
Uther continued digging until, with a start, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“My … king, your queen stands here, and your … children. I have brought them.”
Uther looked up for an instant, and a wave of dizziness distorted his sight. When had Colvarth and his family climbed through the door? He nodded to his wife and took a long sip of mead, some of it sloshing off his chin and into the damp hole.
“Something here.” He pointed. “A man went into the ground.”
“You saw someone go into your hole?” Igerna asked, glancing sideways at him.
Uther blinked. Even if she thought him crazy, he had seen the man. He chopped again with his knife. Once the ground was sufficiently loose, he dropped the blade and scooped the dirt onto the growing pile at his right.
In the hole, his fingertips scratched the surface of a large rock. Ah, that will be trouble. Taking his knife again, he attempted to jab the surrounding soil, which was much harder and drier than the soil above. He strained to pull the boulder out, but the monstrous thing wouldn’t budge.
He looked up and remembered the pickaxe he’d tied up as an anchor for the boat. If he fashioned a handle for it, he might be able to break or wedge the rock out.
Uther stood, and a swirl of darkness engulfed him. His knees felt weak, and he groped for the wall of the tower, holding on to the rough stones until his sight returned. He’d experienced this before when he’d been prone too long. As expected, it soon passed. Just moved a little fast, that’s all.
“I’m going for the anchor from the boat,” he mumbled as he sat on the threshold of the doorway and swung his legs out. Maybe fre
sh air would help.
After walking down to the muddy bank, he stopped to view the rising fog and the sinking sun. If he wanted to find what the ghost man desired, it would be easier before the light failed.
He cut the pickaxe free from its rope and tied the boat directly to the tree. On his way back to the tower, he spied the dead branch lying next to the rock where Igerna had sat with Arthur earlier. Picking up the limb, he whacked it on the stone to test its strength, which didn’t disappoint. Next he compared its thickness to the hole in the rusty pickaxe and found that a little whittling would make it a perfect match.
Magnificent!
Back inside the tower, he joined his family and Colvarth, who were all sitting on a linen cloth in a corner, eating cold venison and barley bread. Taking a few nibbles of the bread his wife offered, he noticed the worry in her eyes — her brows two trembling arcs tethered tightly in the center. Ignoring this, he whittled the end of the thick branch until he could fit it in the hole of the pickaxe. Taking the branch out again, he worked a deep notch on the end with his blade. Fitting the pickaxe head on again, he chose three wedges he’d whittled off and hammered them into the gap with a rock. But his hand shook, and since Igerna was watching him like a concerned mother, he walked to the other side of the room to finish the job.
Why does my hand shake so? he wondered. Perhaps it’s only hunger. I simply need to eat more bread.
Colvarth joined him and studied the pickaxe with a curious eye. “My … king. What is the purpose of this … digging? You attack the ground as if to slay it. And now the pick?”
“You think I make a grave, eh?” Uther tucked his shaking hand behind his back.
“No, I do not.” Colvarth’s words faded, and his face contorted, eyes bulging out. His skin changed to blue and then white.
Was the world going mad? Uther closed his eyes and shook his head. When he glanced again, Colvarth’s face appeared normal. “Say this prophecy,” Uther whispered. “Whose grave is this? Who is buried here?”
“Speak not of such things!” And Colvarth turned away.
Garth’s feet were cold and wet before McEwan finally heaved their boat onto the gritty shingle. He tied the rope to a bent cypress tree that leaned out from the bank, its roots sucking at the mud and slime. Even though the island was quite large, finding the northern landing had been harder than Garth expected, what with the fog so thick. The white dampness filled his lungs, made his throat itch, and clung to him like the shreds of a ghastly cloak as he stepped ashore.
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