The warrior unsheathed his own blade and raised it to jab Merlin through the chest. His dripping face was red with fury, and his black hair wild.
Merlin recognized him — it was the same man he’d knocked from the horse.
“Die, druid-murderer of the king!” he yelled.
The sword stabbed forward, but then faltered. Colvarth, who had been laying between Caygek and Merlin, pulled hard on the man’s foot. The warrior wavered and plummeted — the blade’s tip still falling toward Merlin.
Merlin rolled to his right, and the blade sliced the skin of his left arm. He sat up, spun, and jammed his elbow into the fallen warrior’s face. “Vortigern is lying,” Merlin yelled. “We’re saving Arthur.”
But the man kept struggling, and so Merlin, Caygek, and the tall fisherman wrestled the warrior and threw him over the side. He dropped with a splash, leaving his sword behind.
Still, a spear hurtled over Merlin’s head and ripped a hole in the sail. More arrows fell, but the boat left the island — and the shouting warriors — far behind.
For the first time in two days, Merlin sighed in relief and looked at his surroundings. The boat that had saved them was very different from the boats built for Bosventor’s marsh.
Unlike the flat-bottomed, squat, or leather-sided coracles Merlin was used to, this boat was big. From its thick keel to its raised prow, seven men could lay down — if they didn’t mind the pile of fish that had been netted and thrown into the center on top of the stone ballast. The ship was twelve feet wide, and its hull was made of two wooden skins — an outer chinked with pitch and wood shavings, and an inner, both of which had been nailed to the thick ribs made of curved oak. The single mast was placed part way to the front of the ship, and its old sail stood twenty feet high.
But on a second look, Merlin was surprised how old, worn, and cracked the decking was, to the point some of the the nails were missing. This boat was originally built to be seaworthy, but now its timbers creaked, and the accumulation of water in the bottom worried him.
The tall fisherman they’d bargained with saw Merlin’s face and bellowed, “What? Don’t like my boat, uhh? You think we sink and become little pyskow — little fishies, uhh?”
Merlin flinched.
“I tell you, this boat was my grandfather’s, and it’s as solid as the day he inherited it from my great-great uncle. So you want to swim instead?” Over his solid frame was wrapped a blue and brown plaid, and his balding head and chin were fringed with grayish-orange hair. His nose was hooked, maybe from having been broken, and his skin was tanned by years on the open sea.
His dark eyes studied Merlin.
“Thanks for taking us on board,” Merlin said, still wondering if the boat would hold together for their journey.
Natalenya, with Arthur in her arms once again, wiped blood from Colvarth’s face using a rag and some water from a cask.
“No more,” he said, wincing. “That stings.”
The fisherman examined the damaged sail. “You have nice friends on Dintaga, uhh? Our fee just went up another three silver.” He pulled a large needle and twine from a wooden box at the side, climbed up, and began sewing the tear to strengthen the cloth and prevent it from ripping further.
“I’ll pay you fifteen,” Colvarth said as he held out the silver coins. “Five for each of you. For risking your lives to save us.” Colvarth then introduced the traveling party, explaining their plight only as much as was needed, leaving out the fact Arthur was the son of the High King.
“Sure, an’ your piping was true,” the youngest fisherman of the three said to Garth. He had a full head of brown hair, thrashing in the wind, and he looked like a younger version of the tall fisherman. “You were in trouble — but not the kind of trouble we like to deal with.”
“This is my son, Henktor,” the tall fisherman said. “Hard worker, him — makes me proud. Crothak, however” — he thumbed at the heavy-set man tending the rudder — “is a lazy dog who fiddles with his nets.”
A broad smile, with a few tooth gaps, spread over Crothak’s face. “Don’t mind Inktor. If I am a lazy dog, then he’s a barking one who scares all the fish away.”
The three fishermen laughed.
Merlin and the others gathered together at the middle of the deck, where the boat was steadiest. The sail stood forward from this point, and they were in no danger from the boom. Natalenya passed out some barley bread, cheese, and dried meat.
“May I have more?” Garth asked. “Me tummy’s awful empty after these last two days ridin’ hard an’ such.”
Natalenya gave him a double portion, and he smiled. When she finished her own food, she sang a song in Latin, which Merlin only understood a portion of. But she began to cough after a few verses, and stopped singing.
Inktor stepped up to the group and furrowed his brow. “No Roman talk on my ship, uhh?” he said.
“You don’t like the Romans?” Natalenya asked, coughing again. Her eyes narrowed. “They used to patrol these waters and protect the likes of you. Aren’t you afraid of sea raiders?”
Merlin remembered that her father, the Magister of Bosventor, had been descended from Romans stationed on this very coast. He put a hand on her arm.
“Sea raiders?” Inktor said, jutting his chin out. “I can outsail any of the Eirish or Scoti. But you land-tillers should worry about the Prithager.”
Natalenya smirked at him. “Really now … Picti?”
“I said don’t speak Latin. That’s how I got hurt — curses on the Romans, making us like slaves in their army.”
“What happened?” Merlin asked.
“Forty years ago I fought under Servyt up on the wall before the last remnant of the Romans left. My patrol, we were ambushed, and the Prithager sliced me up to find out how much the soldiers had dwindled.” He lowered his plaid and showed them his back.
Merlin sucked in his breath. He knew his own back had been scarred from being whipped, but this man had nearly been flayed alive.
“Would have died if Crothak’s brother and his men hadn’t saved me. I say worry about the painted ones. The sea raiders won’t come inland, but the Prithager will. With nothing to stop them, a horde could swarm down from the north, right over the silly, broken wall that the Romans built. Bloody devils.”
“Me father an’ I were fishermen,” Garth said. “Did you ever meet Gorgyr of Porthloc?”
“Can’t say I have. Why aren’t you with him, uhh? Fathers can always use a stout lad.”
“He’s dead … a storm.”
“An ill fate, that’un.” Inktor said. “Happens to the best. Anyway, we’re headed for Baegower, where Crothak’s uncle lives. We’ve got a long journey, uhh? So no more Latin.” He pulled up his plaid and stomped off to tend the sail with his son.
They all rested as best they could. Arthur tried to curl up in Natalenya’s cloak, but her coughing made him cry, so the boy finally settled down with Garth. It was painful for Merlin to hear Natalenya, who coughed badly until falling into a wheezing sleep.
Merlin’s slumber was poor as well, what with the boat rolling and the occasional spray of water over the side. And his dreams were filled with the spectre of a ship chasing them. As fast as the western wind lifted their sail and pushed them along, the pursuing boat still gained. Soon it came within hailing distance, and at its prow stood Vortigern with a bloody blade in his hand.
Bedwir stood near the shore holding a borrowed spear, cursing his swollen nose and wishing his clothes were dry.
Before him, Vortigern, Vortipor, and a few select others prepared two sailing boats. It had taken nearly an hour of riding down the coast to get to the nearest fishing village, and then they had to negotiate the borrowing of the boats. When the fishermen refused, Vortigern had commanded that their nets be shredded — and only then did they relent.
Bedwir wrung the bottom of his pant leg out again and remembered the scuffle onboard the ship with the fugitives. If only he hadn’t struggled, perhaps he could h
ave learned more. What had Merlin said before they threw him overboard? That Vortigern was lying and that they themselves were trying to save Arthur?
Bedwir looked warily at Vortigern. Sure, Bedwir had followed him since Uther had put the battle chieftain in command that fateful night in Bosventor. Bedwir had even trusted Vortigern, in a way. But every time something important happened, Vortigern would do something odd.
The worst was that Vortigern had not picked Bedwir to go along with the main party. Of the forty or so warriors present, only half could fit on the boats, and Bedwir was deemed unworthy to come along.
What if Merlin was right — that Vortigern had lied to them? What if the fugitives were trying to save Arthur? Was Vortigern more interested in his own kingship than his nephew’s? The only way to find out would be to go along in the boats.
And if Vortigern wasn’t loyal to Arthur, then the child was in great danger. But what of the druid who had helped dump Bedwir into the water? Oh, the madness of it all. He’d just have to find a way to go along.
“What a lousy, liquid lot,” the warrior said next to him. His name was Penkoref, Bedwir remembered, and he liked to stay up late drinking with the other warriors.
“What’s lousy is getting thumped, losing your sword, and being thrown in the sea,” Bedwir said. “What’s your complaint?”
“I get seasick, that’s wot,” Penkoref said. “All I ask for is a fire and ale, a dry place where I can curl up, and Vorty-growl sez I’m goin’ fishing. Well, I’ll be sicker’n a squid, I sez, but he don’ care, I gotta go.”
Bedwir had found his chance, but knew he’d have to take hold of it with both hands. Turning on Penkoref, he shoved the man down to the ground with a snarl. “Son of a disloyal weasel, I’ll not have you speak against Arthur!”
The man blinked up at him. “Wot? I said nething o’ the kind —”
“I’ll trounce any man here who isn’t willing to sacrifice all for Arthur.” Bedwir shook his spear at the other men around him, and they backed off. “Get up, Penkoref. I challenge you for the right to save Arthur.”
“A duel! A duel,” the men shouted.
Penkoref stared at Bedwir, and their eyes locked.
Bedwir winked.
A slight smile spread on Penkoref’s face as he picked himself up off the ground. “You do, eh? Well, I challenge back. I’m ez loyal to Arth’ ez any warrior hereaboots.”
“A duel!” the men shouted, and someone threw Penkoref a spear.
“The winner goes after Arthur, and the loser stays back,” Bedwir shouted.
The warriors began chanting, “Winner for Arthur. Winner for Arthur!”
Bedwir crouched, leveling his spear.
Penkoref did the same, and the two charged each other.
Bedwir turned his spear to the left, dodged right, and jabbed it into the ground in front of Penkoref’s running legs. And for once in this dreadful day, it wasn’t Bedwir who went down.
Penkoref sprawled to the dirt.
Bedwir brought his point to the man’s chin. “Yield.”
“I’ll only yield if ye’ll acknowledge me honor,” Penkoref said, and then he winked at Bedwir. “That I’m ez loyal to Arthur ez any.”
Bedwir pulled Penkoref up. “I’ll acknowledge your honor, but not your skill.”
Just then Vortigern burst into the clearing. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“Bedwir for Arthur,” the men shouted. “Bedwir’s taking Penkoref’s place on the boat.”
“What?” Vortigern said, shaking his head.
And so the men shouting louder, “Bedwir for Arthur!” and they picked him up, carried him to the shore, and placed him triumphantly in a boat.
Penkoref bowed his head before Vortigern, looking very sorry.
Bedwir watched as Vortigern backhanded the defeated man, and then punched him in the gut. Penkoref fell back, sucking air. “Weakling,” Vortigern said, and stomped off to the boats — and Bedwir.
“I don’t want you,” Vortigern shouted. “Get out.”
But all the men shouted, “Bedwir for Arthur … Bedwir for Arthur!”
Vortigern’s lips turned sour, and he turned on the men. “Get in the boats, you lazy louts.”
Then he turned back to Bedwir. “I’ve got my eye on you,” he said, his hand on the hilt of his blade. “Any trouble and your fish guts will join the ballast.”
The men who had been picked filed into the boats, taking care to keep their cloaks from touching the filthy deck, and then they shoved off.
The owner of each boat had been forced, along with a helper, to navigate. The sails went up and the two ships were away.
Per his typical bad luck, Bedwir ended up in Vortigern’s boat.
“Where are we going?” Vortipor asked his father as they set the lines and sailed out of the small cove.
Vortigern shook his head. “Eeh … Kembry. We’re just going to Kembry.”
“But where? The coastline’s forty leagues long here.”
“I’ll worry about where after we land. Sure, the hens slipped the net, but we’ll get ‘em.”
Ganieda tried to put the orb back into her bag, but her grandfather grunted.
“We have watched for hours, yes, but we are not done, my daughter’s daughter,” he said, his voice shaking with excitement. “We have learned the secret that Merlin and Arthur will land at Baegower — but where is our servant, Vortigern, going? How will he find his way?”
“We could tell him ourselves,” Ganieda said, as if she knew how to do such a thing. Had the voice told her how? That low whisper she heard in the back of her head? The voice had begun speaking to her in her dreams over the last two weeks ever since she saw the Stone in all its magnificence — but now she only heard it whenever she held the orb or the fang.
Did the voice come from the orb? The longer she looked into it, the more she felt that it looked at her. But that was silly. It was just a ball, a ball with power. A ball that gave her power.
But the voice knew about the orb. Sighed, even wept about its secrets.
“How? How can we tell Vortigern where to go?” Grandfather asked. “I see him at the prow of his ship, but he is not here in our tent to glean our knowledge.”
“I can talk to him. The voice has told me so.”
Her grandfather sat back. “You? You have heard the Voice? I, too, heard it when I would touch the Druid Stone, our Stone of Abundance, which Merlin has intruded with Uther’s blade. Since then, I no longer hear it.”
“But I hear it. And other voices, who are in pain,” Ganieda said, as her hand holding the orb shook. “I hear them crying in the dark …”
“Vengeance, yes, yes. The Druid Stone too seeks vengeance for the offense committed against it. Do it. Tell Vortigern where to go — tell Vortigern to kill Merlin …”
Ganieda looked into the orb and saw the warrior Vortigern, his chin uplifted and his beard blowing in the wind.
The orb grew in her hand, until it became heavy, so heavy. It expanded until she could hold it no more and it rolled off from her hand. Soon it was larger than Ganieda, and it split and opened up like a maw with great teeth. She felt a tug on her heart to lean forward and look at it, but she tripped and fell.
Ganieda screamed, her chest frozen and her arms outstretched to push the evil teeth away. They clamped down, and a great tongue swept her down its slimy throat.
The world went black.
A dank light appeared, and Vortigern loomed suddenly above her. Ganieda could breathe now. She tasted the salt, smelled the foaming waves, and felt the breeze in her hair. The now-bright world rose and fell with the flowing boat, and she stood before Vortigern, whose eyes grew wide and whose jaw trembled. She pointed beyond the prow, and said to him, “Baegower. They land at the village of Baegower.”
She wanted to tell Vortigern to kill Merlin, to kill Arthur — but could not bring herself to say it. Why did she … hesitate? Did not her mother command it? Did not the Voice require it? Did not Grandfath
er seek it?
Death hunted her, hunted her family — her father buried in the cairn, her dead mother — and now her brother. Did she really want him to die?
Despite the curses of her mother, Merlin had rarely been unkind to Ganieda. He had even brought her gifts now and then — a boat folded out of a bad parchment from the Abbey, or a honey-scented flower. He would hold her hand when she was scared. Caress her hair as if, just maybe, she meant something to him.
She drew in a breath, and Vortigern faded … falling to his knees and dropping his spear … faded. The fresh air was sucked away, and the rolling of the boat steadied. Only the shade of her grandfather’s tent remained, the bones tied to its ceiling cackling in the wind.
“I have told him,” she said.
Grandfather coughed in glee.
CHAPTER 7
UTHER’S MYSTERY
Merlin awoke to someone nudging him. His bed swayed, and his gut wished to empty itself.
Colvarth’s face appeared, too bright for Merlin’s tired eyes, and the old man nudged him again. “Awake, my Merlin. You and I must speak in private while the others sleep.”
Sitting up, Merlin rubbed his eyes, and they felt gritty. “How close are we?” It was still day, but the sun had begun its descent in the west. Perhaps six hours had passed during their journey across the Kembry Sea.
“If I judge correctly, we will sight land soon. I have something to show you … and we must have a plan.”
Merlin followed him to the prow of the boat where they could be alone, and there, with their backs turned to the fishermen, Colvarth pulled a dull, tin metal box from his leather bag. It was about as long as Merlin’s hand, and slightly wider. For height, it was no more than the length of his index finger.
“This was found by Uther before he died,” Colvarth said. “But I know not its contents. Will you help me open it?”
Merlin touched it, and felt a strange tingling in his palms. He let go, and then touched it again. This time, the feeling was gone. Strange. He held it up. The box weighed very little, but something clacked inside when he turned it. Inscribed shapes formed complicated patterns across its sides, and on the back lay the cross of Jesu between two odd-looking trees.
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