Vortigern stalked over to the priest. “Do you have any horses for sale?”
The priest’s eyes brightened up, and he put his finger to his mouth. “Shah … don’t say it too loudly, my lordly lodgings, winely souls. They might hear the other horses hiding in the pines.”
Vortigern directed one of the warriors to slip inside and check the premises while he talked to the priest. “How many horses do you have for sale?”
“Ahh, my Londinium, blest friend of my fortress, juss for your sake, mindy-mind, I will lower the price to eighty silvi-quarts o’ wine. Fer the whole lot o’ em.”
Vortigern grabbed him by the frock and pulled him out the window. Somehow the amphora didn’t spill, and the priest took a big swig before he acknowledged Vortigern again.
“Mayhap some regurgitants? My wine is sorrowfully not fer you, but I haf malty ale yer eggs-gallantsy might like.” He stuck out his free hand and started shaking the bag of coins hanging from Vortigern’s belt.
Vortigern slapped the priest across the face, and he fell to the earth. Once the warrior returned, shaking his head, Vortigern turned back to the priest. “Show us the horses, and no more prattling.”
The priest made a long face, closed his eyes, and hiccupped.
“Vortipor! Get your sea-stinking legs over here and help him stand.”
Vortipor stepped through the crowd, stood the priest up, and slung the man’s arm over his own shoulder.
But the priest could hardly stand, so Bedwir shifted his spear to his other hand, stepped up, and took his other arm.
“That’s-a-way …” The priest pointed toward the woods, and then reached around Bedwir’s head and grabbed his nose. The priest’s fingernails were dirty, and his breath stunk of sour wine.
They made their way down a narrow path until they arrived at a clearing where eight horses chewed the grass. Vortigern took his torch around and inspected them.
The priest let go and tried to walk, but after a few wobbly steps he grabbed Bedwir’s hair and hung on. “Thith fine speck-ilady haf great hefty legs which’re never strong. But pick any horse’s nose you like — they’re all filled with the same quality stuff.”
Coming back to the priest, Vortigern snorted, and then yelled, “You call these horses, you donkey of a priest?”
Mercifully, the priest let go of Bedwir’s hair — but then grabbed his spear and hung on. “Wellky … nowen you push the tail switch-way, my goofing friend, I do sorta resemble them. Yes … those horsies over in’a the pines are mine too, after all. I’m so drafty.”
“Ehh?” Vortigern said just as a faint neighing sound floated from the trees to the left. Two warriors were sent to investigate, and came back with six horses, all fine and high-stepping. Vortigern portioned them out, taking a large black mare for himself.
Vortipor left to mount his horse, and Bedwir was stuck with the priest hanging on and hugging him. The other warriors quickly jostled for the sad-looking mounts, no one wanting to foot it after Vortigern.
“Which way did they go?” Vortigern asked the priest.
The priest looked up at him, a bit slack-jawed. “Bogeys be in the valley. Don’th go there, I sez, but they did. They followed the stream, that-a-way. Now pay eighty silvi-keys fer me horsies.” He held his hands out and made a long face with one eye closed.
Vortigern clouted the priest on the head with the pommel of his blade, and the priest collapsed.
Bedwir had to drop his spear and grab him to stop the fall.
Vortigern rode off with the mounted warriors, and the others ran off on foot carrying the torches.
Bedwir was left alone holding the unconscious priest. The forest was dim, but enough moonlight slipped through the canopy that he could see one old nag of a horse no one had wanted. The horse’s spine was so curved that her belly lay halfway to the ground. The horse pulled up some grass, lifted her head, and studied him.
Bedwir looked down the trail to where the warriors had gone. He looked at the horse. Setting the priest down in a nice patch of moss, he dropped a coin into his hand. Retrieving his spear, he untied the horse’s rein and pulled himself up. If she could go faster than he could run — that was all he cared about.
He whacked the horse, and away she went, a little unsteady, maybe, but faster than he expected. So what if his feet almost touched the ground? Who cared if he looked silly? Out past the priest’s house and down into a shaded valley where a stream gurgled in the darkness, he followed the others. Soon he was passing the stragglers, who jeered at him. The main host was next, and he ignored their hoots and heckling. He left them all behind — but was still far to the rear of Vortigern and the other mounted warriors.
Alone, he followed the stream northward with the moon at his back. One time his horse strayed too near the bank and his right thigh was gouged deeply on a gorse bush. He cursed, and, after directing the horse closer to the cliff, he held his ripped breeches against the wound to stem the blood.
Fog was everywhere now, and Bedwir wished he sat higher on his horse.
Somewhere nearby, an owl’s chortling call bounded throughout the gorge, echoing into twenty owls, which all seemed ready to dig their claws into his back. Why hadn’t he grabbed a torch from one of the others? His heart beat faster, and he hefted his spear to feel its balance.
His horse neighed in terror, and then reared up — if you could call it that.
Bedwir hung on to the reins. The horse, after righting itself, ran off at a gallop down the valley. Ahead, he saw the dark forms of Vortigern and his mounted warriors standing still as statues behind a large rock.
Bedwir reined his horse to a stop at the far end. Down the ravine, a campfire sputtered ghostlike through the fog. It was lit next to a humped, grassy mound surrounded by standing stones. And in the far distance beyond that one lone fire, Bedwir saw ten fires burning in a line across the valley from cliff to cliff — blocking their way north.
Vortigern spat. “What devilry is this?”
Ganieda moaned herself awake, fluttered her eyes open, and found she was in complete darkness. One moment she had been in Grandpa’s tent, dunking the orb in a water bucket … and then what?
She remembered. The steam had poured forth from the sizzling orb.
It had filled the tent, and its smell had made her dizzy, like her head was a feather floating up and blown by the wind. She had fallen asleep, and now she was here. But where was here? She sat on her knees, with her hands pressed on a cold and rocky floor. The air felt chill and damp — not like Grandpa’s tent. Had he moved his tent onto a granite slab while she slept, and it was now a moonless night? She crawled forward, her knees pressing into sharp gravel, and the palms of her hands scraping the rough stone. She reached … … reached … to find anything to give her a clue as to where she was.
She found something at last. It was long with rounded edges, like the slim hilt of a dagger, but rough and dry. She pulled at it, and it cracked loose. She felt it now with both hands and could tell it wasn’t the handle of a blade. She reached forward with her free hand and felt something else … round like a ball. She probed further, her mind trying to remember when she had last seen an object shaped thus. Holes … rough edges … round bumps that were … teeth.
Teeth? It was a human skull. And that meant her other hand held a … a bone. Her lips contorted for a scream, but she held it in and flung the bones away. She wiped her hands on her shift, sat back, and cried. Where was Grandpa?
“He is not here …” came a voice.
It echoed around her.
“But I am …” it said.
Ganieda pulled her feet under her skirt and felt for her bag. Her fingers wrapped around the fang. “Who’re you?”
“What you possess cannot protect you from me, for they are my gift to you —”
In that instant, a face appeared in the air, and a man stepped forth. He held no torch, but his dark robe shimmered a pale blue like the most beautiful sky she’d ever seen. His face was handsome,
and somehow it reminded her of her father’s, with the cheeks angled just so, the nose shaped thus, and with a brown and curly beard. But his eyes. Covered by heavy eyebrows, they were dark, and she couldn’t see their color. She looked and looked, but only a shadow lay there, so deep that she felt she could tumble in and be lost.
He smiled. “Beautiful one, do not be afraid. I have a quest for you … and I will send you forth from here to do my bidding.”
She wanted to run both to him and away from him at the same time, and this perplexed her. “What do you want?” she said, combing her hair with her hands.
He studied her and considered a moment. “I want you: your service and your heart. Your soul and your love … only for me, pretty one.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Why?” She stood now and glared at him, still hoping to catch a glimpse of the color of his eyes.
“I will give you many things. Love in your lack. Comfort in your suffering. Power in your anger. Beauty in your flesh. All things that the world can give … and yet more.”
“Give me back my mammu …”
He paused and studied her tears. “Take forth your orb. Do not be confused, dear child — yes, you tried to douse it in the water, but I have put it back for you.”
She opened her bag, looked inside, and found he told the truth. She held the orb forth, the man said a strange word, and it came to roaring, glowing life, pulsing in her palm. There, within the orb, she saw her mother. Mammu lay sleeping by the spring where she’d died, only her flesh was hale. Her lips smiled and her raven hair had the glorious luster of life. Her dress was new and pretty.
“You see, my very own child, that your mother is there, and you may see her. Only bind yourself to me and it will always be so.”
Ganieda’s heart beat faster. “May I go to her?” Above all things she wanted to lay there with her beautiful mother. To be hugged and loved. To play and dance among the flowers that grew by her side. To sing with her again. To —
“Only at the end of many delightful years of service will I grant this to you. At that time, if you have been faithful, you will receive your mother’s reward — and be with her forever.”
Ganieda peeled her gaze from the orb and looked at the strange man, hope nearly bursting her pattering heart. “Tell me … tell me what to do.”
“Nothing but what you already want to do. You must be my and your grandfather’s messenger this night.”
“What message shall I carry?”
“Only this: go to Ealtain and Scafta, the leaders of my Pictish warriors. I have led them to this valley. You must tell them to destroy our sworn enemies.”
CHAPTER 10
SNARES AND SECRETS
In disbelief Merlin looked at the line of campfires in the distance. It had not been more than an hour since they had made their own fire and set up camp near the burial mound when Garth came rushing to them from his lookout.
“Someone’s lightin’ a fire. Down the valley!” He was breathless and his cheeks were flushed. And then he marched over and stirred the pot of soup Colvarth had made. “Is the bracken broth ready?”
Merlin grabbed Garth’s arm and pulled him away. “What do you mean there’s a fire?”
Garth pointed, and then he, Merlin, and Caygek set off to see what was happening. By the time they stepped beyond the edge of the mound, there were five burning. Soon it doubled. The light from the flames cast an eerie glow through the fog, and the shadows of many men walked among them.
Garth tugged Merlin’s sleeve. “Who are they?”
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Back to the sea?” The last word was spoken a little too happily.
“No. Just out of the valley.”
Back at the camp, Merlin hastily explained to Colvarth what they’d seen. The old man’s eyes went wide and he almost jumped up, but instead held his place by the fire so as not to disturb Arthur, who lay asleep in his arms.
Merlin threw their bags back onto their horses.
Garth started kicking dirt on the fire, but Merlin stopped him. “Leave it. If we keep it burning, it’ll hide our departure.” Garth nodded, and threw an armful of cut gorse branches onto the fire, which crackled to life.
The horses were ready, and Merlin was just about to pick up Natalenya when Colvarth stood, astonishment on his face. Arthur awoke and looked around, blinking his eyes.
“Look, my Merlin. We are trapped!”
He wasn’t pointing north toward the ten fires — where Merlin expected — but south. Just a moment before there had been an open, fog-cloaked path of escape for them, but now about three hundred feet away a lone fire had been lit. A torch was taken from it to another, and that fire sprang to life. Within a short while there were fifteen fires to the south, and the way out of the ravine was completely blocked in both directions.
Colvarth’s hands shook as he held Arthur close. “Oh, God,” he prayed. “Let us know where safety lies.”
Little Arthur reached out and pointed to the fires, his small eyes squinting. Merlin himself was in shock. There was a force of men at both ends of the valley.
Caygek joined them and drew his blade.
Garth was practically hopping.
The sides of the valley were steep, and their dark edge jabbed upward against the night sky. Merlin took the bags down again from the horses and handed his to Garth. Kneeling, he picked up Natalenya, her arms limp over his shoulders. Her face was still pale, but the fire had given her some warmth. She weighed enough that the task ahead wouldn’t be easy. And what of Colvarth? “We’ll climb. We have to try.”
“The horses?” Garth asked.
“Leave them picketed.”
After gathering most of their belongings, Merlin led them westward to the nearest cliff, only a stone’s throw from their fire. The sheer limestone crumbled off in Merlin’s hand. “There has to be a path up,” he said, and searched northward.
Pines and oaks grew on the sides, and using their branches Merlin could scale up a few feet, but it was too dangerous with Natalenya and he had to drop back down.
He continued along the bottom of the cliff, searching for a path up, a ledge, anything, but it was all the same. After the search proved fruitless, he rushed them across the stream, avoiding the gorse bushes, and sought a way up the opposite cliff.
But there was no way up. “We only have one choice,” he said finally. “We can’t get out of the valley, and there is only one place we can defend.”
Garth looked at him, his eyes reflecting the white of the fog. “Where?”
“The mound. With an entrance that narrow, only two men could squeeze through at a time, giving us a chance. It’s even possible they won’t dare search for us inside.”
Colvarth started to stutter. “B-but, you propose entering the pagan burial mound?”
Merlin answered by carrying Natalenya back to the stream and crossing back. The fog swirled around him as he forced his way through the grumbling water.
“I will not do it.” Colvarth ran after, grabbed him by his cloak, and pulled him around. “A grave should not be disturbed, much less the graves of the ancient pagans who have been buried in the name of their gods. Once I spoke in praise of these gods — but I will not seek protection from them.”
Merlin pulled away and slogged up the opposite bank. “Then stay outside and tell Vortigern where to find us.”
“You think it is Vortigern? Hah!”
“Who else would it be?”
“But … but he could not have followed us.” With one hand Colvarth wrung out his cloak, which had slunk into the water in his rush.
Merlin turned and looked him eye to eye. “Stranger things have happened in the last week. If it’s not Vortigern, maybe we’ll wish it was.”
Their horses nickered as Merlin approached. He drew his dagger, cut their reins, and sent them off into the pallid gloom. If they planned to hide in the mound, they needed to make it look like they had l
eft. He took a torch from one of the packs, lit it using the fire, and gave it to Garth. He then kicked the moist dirt over their campfire.
Merlin finally approached the burial mound, its distended belly pressing down and threatening to strangle the throat of the low stone doorway.
A muffled scream echoed from inside.
Quickly, he closed his eyes and turned his right ear toward the sound to verify that it had come from the mound. His hearing, once his sharpest sense, had dulled somewhat since his eyesight had been restored, and he didn’t know if he could trust it anymore.
The scream warped around the standing stones and faded away.
Merlin looked at the dark maw of the mound. Had the sound come from there? Surely not. There was nothing in there but the bones of the dead. They had worshiped pagan gods, yes, but the one true God still reigned.
Even in a place like that?
Was he making the right decision? The others gathered behind him, Colvarth’s cheeks puffing in and out under his wrinkled brow. A cloud covered the frown of the moon, and the valley grew dark.
Caygek strode forward, ducked, and entered the mound. “Ah, the bravery of Christians,” he said, his mocking voice echoing from the darkness.
Galloping horses could be heard approaching from the south. It was now or never. Merlin followed reluctantly, and he had to crawl on his knees to get through the small doorway without hurting Natalenya. She moaned and shifted her head on his shoulder. The air was cold and smelled of dead worms, lifeless mushrooms, and bat droppings.
Thankfully, Garth was right at his heels carrying the torch. The stacked limestone walls lit up, revealing to Merlin’s left a grotesque, ancient painting of wolves that stood on two legs. They were clawed with needle-like teeth protruding from curling lips. Severed limbs of warriors lay hacked at their feet. One of their victims had red ochre scratched across his face.
Merlin’s own facial scars suddenly hurt as flashes of memory came back to him: The wolves circling around Ganieda. He had run to her, kicking and yelling. The wolves backed away. But a dark one pounced, ripping into his arm. He was pinned to the ground, and then the long, broken nails of the wolves scratched him. Their teeth ripped his flesh — until his father had finally come and scattered the pack. Merlin’s eyesight had been ruined, and his face scarred.
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