“McEwan, get ‘im to the boat. We’ll get the boy.”
Those behind him screamed as Uther was hoisted up and lifted through the doorway. His head hit the rock-hewn sill, and everything flashed to nothingness.
Offering a prayer for his father’s safety, Merlin pulled his hood down and picked up his bundle of sticks. He followed Dybris with a hand on the monk’s arm as they skirted through the trees to the other side of the circle of stones. But they stopped short once they stepped from the woods, and Merlin didn’t know why.
“There’s a bunch of druid wives ahead,” Dybris whispered. “They’re watching the proceedings.”
Boom! Boom! the drummers pounded.
One of the wives turned toward them. “You’re a wee bit late with those,” she called.
Dybris shrugged his shoulders, and he and Merlin both walked as naturally as they could into the open, carrying their bundles of sticks to the first wicker cage.
“Give me your bundle and then stay here a moment as I shove a path to the door,” Dybris whispered.
The monk wedged himself next to the cage door and placed the bundles down.
One of the imprisoned monks spoke angrily. “Can’t you see there’s enough?”
“Peace, Migal,” Dybris said. “I’m here to free you. Be quiet and pray.”
A soft whisper spread through the wicker cage, and Merlin could tell that hope had been rekindled among the monks. Dybris hummed as he pretended to rearrange the stick bundles and then returned to stand by Merlin’s side.
Dybris leaned over and spoke in a low voice. “The door’s small, two feet by three, and made from saplings. It’s secured with strong tendons.”
“Be ready to cut it open at any time,” Merlin said. “I’ll block if they try to stop you, but I won’t be able to hold them for long.”
“You there!” a druid called from behind. “Pay attention. Can’t you see Mórganthu’s about to wash the Knives of Sacrifice?”
Merlin nodded in the man’s direction and then whispered to Dybris, “Tell me what’s happening.” He was concerned for his father. How long could he keep up the ruse?
“The green-robed druidow have raised their sickle knives and are circling Mórganthu, who is holding the bronze water cauldron.”
Merlin heard Mórganthu begin to chant in his dark tongue, and then without warning, the arch druid let out a piercing cry, and all the druidow joined in. Merlin almost plugged his ears but stopped himself just in time. Instead, mimicking Dybris, he raised his fist and shook it.
“One of the green-robed druidow is marching to Mórganthu. Now he’s bowing … Uh-oh!”
“What?”
“Mórganthu is pulling the druid’s hood back. The man looks surprised. Mórganthu’s nodding to him, and now the druid is standing. He just sliced his sickle through the water.”
Merlin heard the man shouting:
The Sky and the Reddened Earth bear witness,
The Sun and the Thirsty Moon bear witness,
The Rocks and the Reckless Wood bear witness,
The Living and the Soon Dead bear witness!
I bring this Knife — first from Foulness,
I plunge this Knife — second through Water,
I take this Knife — third to Clarity,
I bind this Knife — fourth for Sacrifice!
To thee, Great Belornos, I bring this Knife
From Spring’s Bone unto Summer’s Blood
To make an Eternal Servant for thee
To offer to thee an Unending Life!
Merlin shuddered as Dybris continued his description. “The druid is joining his comrades, and the next druid’s approaching to repeat the ritual. He’s bowing down, and Mórganthu’s lifting the man’s hood and studying his face.”
Acid gurgled up into Merlin’s throat. “Which one is Tas? Can you tell?”
“No … They all look the same.”
Merlin held his breath and prayed once more.
Owain stood and walked forward, trying to act as much like the other druidow as he could. But he knew Mórganthu suspected. Thankfully he had the brass sickle knife ready, and he’d use it to end that murderer’s life before he’d let himself be caught.
He approached the arch druid, hood down, and knelt with every muscle tensed.
Mórganthu’s hand reached down, and just as it touched the hood, Owain sprang, slashing the sickle knife at the evil druid’s throat.
Mórganthu was faster than a rat, and his right hand caught hold of Owain’s wrist, diverting the blow so that it barely scratched his forehead. At the same time, Mórganthu’s other hand gouged at Owain’s eyes in taloned madness.
But Owain was stronger. He slung his head away from the fingernails and rammed his shoulder into Mórganthu’s stomach.
Both men sprawled to the earth.
Owain raised his knife to strike.
Stunned, Mórganthu flailed his left hand out and, to Owain’s horror, it landed upon the Stone. White lightning burst from the craggy surface, shot through Mórganthu and into Owain.
Owain felt instant torture spread through his body. His limbs stiffened in excruciating pain. Such burning! The brass knife fell from his hand in a white-hot lump. His vision faded as his beard began to smolder.
As Dybris described the fight, Merlin’s heart felt as if it would pound its way free from his body.
“There are imposters among us!” Mórganthu shouted. “Everyone must be tested!”
“Go!” Merlin urged Dybris. “Cut the door open!”
Dybris ran back to the first wicker cage and began hacking at the tendons securing the doors.
Merlin stood guard, preparing to block anyone who challenged them.
“Dear God, help me!” Dybris prayed as he hewed at the stubborn strings. “Why didn’t I have Owain sharpen this old thing?”
Shouts rang out, and Merlin turned to face the onrush. But the sun was almost gone now, and in the grayness, he didn’t see the first druid coming. A shoulder knocked into him with just enough force that he fell backward over a pile of twigs. By the time he scrambled to his feet, it was too late. The crowd of druidow had surrounded Dybris and flung open the door of the first cage. Laughing, they threw Dybris in with the other monks.
Merlin reached for his dirk, preparing for a fight, but the druidow didn’t seem to notice him. They shut the door, and new tendons were brought to knot it closed. With the door secured, they lingered around the cages, leering at the unfortunate prisoners and hurling insults at them.
Trying his best to blend in with the crowd, Merlin decided it was better to bide his time a little longer and find some way to save his father and his friends.
Brother Neot’s voice rose from within the cage as he addressed Dybris in his typically sarcastic tone. “Spectacular rescue, that.”
Mórganthu came over and stood close to the woven branches of the cage. “Oh fool, oh impudent fool,” he mocked. “One dupe of a blacksmith to sacrifice to the Stone, and now I have one more monk to burn in the Beltayne fire!”
Garth retreated to the boat and climbed to the very center of the middle seat. He’d withdrawn here, he told himself, not because the mist scared him — oh no! — but because it was warmer sitting on wood and more familiar being in a boat.
Sometimes the water splashed among the reeds near the shore, and Garth tried not to imagine blood-sucking creatures slipping into the marsh and encircling the boat.
After what seemed a very long time, stone-scraping and sliding noises echoed from the island. A dark creature lumbered toward him out of the fog.
Garth yelped, whirled around, and rowed furiously away. A few anxious moments passed, and he was just about to take a deep breath when he heard a voice rumble behind him, so close he jumped and almost dropped the oars into the water.
“If ya’re goin’ to row away, ya best untie the lash first!”
Garth turned, and McEwan laughed at him with his foot on the rope, still tied to the bent cypress. On his shoulder hung a bou
nd man — the High King. McEwan chucked Uther like a rag doll into the other boat, and the body fell roughly among the seats and extra ropes in the front.
Garth tried his best to picture Anviv’s death at Uther’s hand, but the image of Trothek’s severed head appeared instead.
Three more Eirish warriors walked out of the mist, with O’Sloan leading. His left arm bled profusely, and the blood had soaked his tunic, as well as a cloth-wrapped bundle he carried. Garth gripped the side of his boat as O’Sloan stepped in and set the heavy bundle on Garth’s lap.
“‘Ere. Take care o’ this till we return. McEwan! Grab those ropes so we can tie up the others ‘afore we leave.”
McEwan pulled out extra rope from both boats.
“So McGoss was killed?” one of them asked.
“Weren’t ya there?” McEwan boomed. “We risked our bellies, and where were ya?”
“Leave ‘im alone,” O’Sloan said. “I told ‘im to stay outside and keep watch.”
McEwan coiled the ropes. “Och, then, ‘twasn’t McGoss who died, that worthless lout. We left ‘im back to guard the ladies an’ the ol’ bard. ‘Twas Gilroy that the High King killed.”
O’Sloan groaned, holding up a bloody blade. The same one the High King had killed Anviv with. “Slit ‘im through the heart. A perilous blade, this one.”
Taking the ropes, the warriors climbed the shingle and disappeared into the fog.
“Sit and keep watch,” O’Sloan’s voice called back.
Alone, Garth looked down at the wrapped bundle in his lap. Pulling the thick, bloody cloth aside, he was startled to see little eyes staring at him, wide with fear.
“A littl’ one!” Garth shouted.
He pulled the blood-soaked cloth back farther, and the child’s dark hair emerged. The boy wriggled his right arm free and, reaching up, squeezed Garth’s nose. In his other hand, he held a small crust of barley bread, which he alternately chewed and sucked on.
“Hello to you too,” Garth said. He inspected the child and found no wound on him. The blood must have been from O’Sloan’s injured arm.
“If I know rightly, then yer Arthur, and over there’s the king.” Garth pointed, and that was the first time he noticed the man’s head wound, a dirty gash that bled down across his eye and forehead. He didn’t appear to be breathing.
Garth picked up an oar with his free hand and prodded Uther across the divide between the boats, but the man didn’t stir.
“Yer father’s dead, Arthur. That’s a bad thing. An’ I know, ‘cause I lost me tas too.”
Memories of Garth’s own childhood flooded back. Fishing with his father on the wind-rolled sea. Hauling the full nets up the beach and sorting through their daily catch. Throwing clams at his father and being chased into the waves. Selling the fish together at the village market.
At night they’d sit by the hearth, his father playing the bagpipe in the soft flicker of the fire. They’d eat oat porridge together and talk long after dark, with the starlight shining through the shutters of their small seaside crennig.
And his father would tell him stories about his mother, who had died when he was born. Garth cherished those memories the most.
Then he recalled the fatal day his father drowned. Garth had been sick and unable to go along. That morning a black gale had blown in from the west, piling the foaming waves high and white across the Kembry Sea.
His father never came home. Days later another fisherman discovered his father’s boat capsized and half sunk.
Garth teared up, and Arthur’s little hand reached up to touch his wet cheek.
“Yer all alone now, Arth. Me father’s buried in the sea, an’ yours’ll be buried on land, and you’ll ne’er see ‘im again.”
Anger rose in Garth. Why did they have to orphan young Arthur? Why did those warriors kill the High King? Sure, he’d slain the ard dre’s son — but hadn’t the ard dre killed Trothek without reason? Death. All around him. And the blood from Arthur’s wrappings smeared on Garth’s hands. What would the ard dre do to this boy?
Then, finally, it all made sense: Uther had killed Anviv, and the ard dre would kill Arthur. A son for a son. Mórganthu would put the child’s head in some barrel or stick it on a spear. It was wrong. And if Garth allowed it, the child’s blood would be on his hands.
“Thy path is twisted. Get thee gone,” a voice called from the fog of the marsh.
Whipping his gaze toward the sound, Garth saw a thin island floating toward him. Moss clung to it, and reeds grew from its prow. But it was a boat, and a man paddled it.
“The cock has crowed,” the man said as he peered at Garth with bloodshot eyes. “Take hope and go before the bear is bled!” His patchy gray hair was slimed down upon his ragged tunic, and his eyebrows had been replaced by thick scars, as if he’d been burned long ago.
This must be Muscarvel, the one all o’ them scary tales were about. He’s sure scarin’ the wits out o’ me!
The marsh man raised a rusty sword with astonishing speed and swung within inches of Garth’s nose. “I say flee with the young one like a piskyn.”
Garth bumped backward, set Arthur down at his feet, and raised an oar for protection. “Leave me alone, you!”
Arthur lost his bread crust and began crying.
Muscarvel swung again and chopped off the tip of the oar, its wet splinters flying into Garth’s face. The crazy man laughed as he leaped to shore and sliced the rope holding Garth’s boat to the cypress.
“Must away! Tombs for the noble, life to the living.” Muscarvel tossed his blade under a bush, waded into the water, and shoved Garth’s boat away.
The old man swam and pushed the boat until the fog hid the island. “Come not back. Death stalks in the shadows,” he croaked.
“All right, I’ll go! But leave me an’ me boat alone!” Garth swung his oar and cracked Muscarvel on the head.
The old man sank beneath the water and was gone.
“So which is it?” Connek laughed. “Will you toss me that torc or shall I slice your throat?”
Natalenya almost forgot to breathe as she prayed for God’s wisdom and strength. She clutched the knife Merlin had given her. Masterfully forged by Merlin’s father, the blade was really quite small, and yet it felt solid and comforting in her hand. But what good was it? Could she really fight Connek and win? Could she ward off all his blows?
She looked into Connek’s malevolent eyes and wondered if she should give up Merlin’s torc. What was Connek’s game?
“I’m going to count to five …” Connek said.
Natalenya looked around quickly to see if she could climb out one of the windows. But they were all too high, and in the darkness, she couldn’t see anything to climb on.
If any hope remained, she wouldn’t find it by protecting Merlin’s torc.
What about Allun? Was he lying in the shadows with his throat slit? And what about the mule? She should already have been on her way to the druid camp with the wagon to help transport the Stone.
“Give me the torc, hag. I’m not takin’ any chances this time, an’ I prefer to keep its gold braids clean when I cut your ripe neck open. There’s a reward out for you too. Did you know that?”
That was all Natalenya needed to hear. Without hesitating, she unclasped the heavy torc from her neck. God, I need Your help! “Where do I throw it?” she asked, stalling for time while she gauged the distance between them and the weight of the torc.
“Here. Right into my itching, happy hand.”
She hurled it right at Connek’s head, and then ran.
Connek cried out as the torc bounced off his face and fell into the darkness. “You witch! I’ll cut your fingers off when I catch you!”
If she could make him chase her in a circle, she could unbar the door and run out — but then she still needed the mule. What was she to do?
Wary footsteps padded toward her from the darkness.
She backed up, and her foot fell into the depression where the mule wa
lked in a circle to turn the top grindstone. It was enough to orient her. With a burst of speed, she ran the track to the other side of the stones. Reaching to steady herself on the mill, she was surprised to find the upper stone missing. Allun must have set it on his benches. The miller was always a busy man but had more time to talk while dressing his stones, and Natalenya sometimes chatted with him and the other ladies of the village on those occasions.
Hearing footfalls behind her, Natalenya continued around the circle until she cracked her hip into the upper millstone, rocking the supporting benches. Pain shot through her leg, and she cried out.
Behind her, mocking laughter filled the air. “You’re trapped. Turn an’ get yer due!”
Natalenya reached out to her right and felt the wall of the crennig. To the left, then. She jumped onto the bottom millstone … and ran into Allun’s workbench, covered with files and tools. Many of them fell clanging to the stone below, along with her knife.
“No way out, you rich brat!”
CHAPTER 33
AN END UNIMAGINED
Uther awoke. Besides his head feeling as if it had been bashed with a war hammer, his whole body ached, and his hands, tied behind his back, were numb and swollen.
He opened his eyes and found he could see out of only one, as drying blood had smeared across the other, gluing it shut. He tried focusing, but the world around wouldn’t hold still. Finally he realized he lay in the bottom of a boat, and the rocking he felt was nothing more than gentle waves under the hull. A slight breeze blew and thinned the fog somewhat, but even then the final gasps of daylight couldn’t pierce the gloom.
“Stay thine hand, O Boar of the Britons. Thou art safe from my biting jaws,” spoke an unfamiliar voice.
The stranger bent down and peered into Uther’s good eye. “Thou needest not strike thy boggy servant in the pate. I mean no harm to thee or thy kin.”
Water dripped from the man’s grimed forehead, and the smell of the swamp rolled off him. “Bah,” he shouted in Uther’s face, making him jerk. “The rotten trees ha’ taken thy torc, they have.”
“What?” Uther groaned, realizing his neck ached and his legs were twisted across the sharp edge of a thwart.
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