And Ganieda had never been touched. Had the wolves been her friends even at that young age? Was she somehow responsible?
He shook his head and tried not to think about his sister. He focused on the rocky floor before him, and the roof of the tunnel finally raised high and broad enough for him to stand.
Behind him, Colvarth rushed inside. “Quick, farther back … before they see the torch!” He held wide his black cloak to block the light.
They ran — and after about twenty feet farther, a four-way intersection appeared with sloped tunnels. Caygek beckoned them to the right. They turned, and soon the tunnel ended in an arched chamber: a tomb, low and foul smelling.
Colvarth gathered them into a circle — Caygek a pace away — and prayed:
O Father with thy mighty shield — protect us now.
O Spirit with thy brilliant wings — gather us now.
O Jesu with thy zealous whip — guard us now.
To the Threeness — we call in hope.
To the Threeness — we turn for help.
To the Threeness — we send our prayer.
May thy strongest wood protect us.
May thy sharpest iron fight for us.
May thy vast, strong hands conceal us.
O God of the night — see for us.
O God of the day — forgive us.
O God of the dusk — rescue us.
Merlin breathed deeply of Colvarth’s prayer, but the air was still unclean, and the torch smoked. He suddenly felt weak. Natalenya had grown heavy, and he fell to his knees and set her down. It was then Merlin noticed that Garth had brought the pot of soup along. The boy sat down and poured some of the bracken broth into his bowl and began sipping it with his eyes closed.
“How can you be thinking of soup right now?” Merlin asked.
“No sense leaving it behind. Smell it.” Garth held out his bowl until it lay just under Merlin’s nose.
The salty smell of the broth surprised him in its richness and notes of garlic, leeks, and fiddle head ferns. And this dredged up memories of the simple things of life: the winter nights with his family sitting around their hearth sharing bread and stew, the days with his father chopping wood for their fire, chatting with villagers as they waited for something to be forged.
He reached for his pack to find his bowl. He wanted to get it out and fill it with hot soup from the pot and remember these things. But then he spied above his pack — painted in red ochre on the tunnel wall — a dragon. His hand fumbled at his bag, and he forgot the bowl. Forgot the soup. The beast’s mouth spewed forth noxious breath, and its claws held a dark stone. A stone?
Merlin’s head filled with memories of the last time he’d seen the Stone. It had been in the smithy, and the blade — the blade he and Uther had shared — jutted from its craggy surface where he’d hammered it in. He last glimpsed the accursed rock while pulling his father out, with the flames devouring the roof of the smithy. Merlin’s simple things would never come back; they had all turned to ashes. All that remained for him was the face of his father. He had known it while young and had never imagined that one day his own vision would be gone. After that, he knew his father’s face only in shadow and by the touch of his hands. Then, as Merlin grew older, and their relationship became more distant, not even that connection remained.
After God had restored Merlin’s vision, he had only moments with his dying father — and the image of that man’s face now burned in Merlin’s mind. The dark beard that hid the strong jaw. The slightly curved-up nose. His bushy eyebrows. The burn across his right cheek. The eyes that had seen too much sorrow. The eyes that had seen his own love — Merlin’s mother — drown, or so it he had thought.
Natalenya stirred a little, and in her sleep spoke some words inaudibly. Merlin felt her forehead and was distressed that the warmth imparted by the fire had faded so quickly. The clamminess of the tunnel was creeping into her flesh, and Merlin knew they shouldn’t stay long.
Caygek glopped down his share of the soup, braided his long blond hair, and then hefted his sword again. “I’m going for a look out.”
A deep tiredness in Merlin’s bones kept him rooted to the floor, his hand on Natalenya’s forehead. He knew he should follow, but he wanted to sleep and forget about their danger.
“Are you coming?” Caygek asked. “It will take two to guard the door. Or should Garth take your place? I’ve been training him, you know.”
Merlin forced himself up and drew his own blade. “I’m ready.”
They walked back to the junction of tunnels, and just as they were turning left into the passage that opened to the valley, voices came from the other direction — from deeper in the mound. The sound echoed from the dark — from farther in.
The blood in Merlin’s face drained, his spine tingled, and his feet felt suddenly numb.
Caygek halted, and they both looked at each other in the distant torchlight.
Merlin motioned toward the entrance. “You guard the door … I-I’ll investigate … farther in.”
Caygek’s brow was knotted. “We should go … together.”
“Someone has to guard the door. It was my choice to enter the mound — I’ll handle it.” The truth was that he didn’t want to go alone, but the danger of leaving the tunnel entrance unguarded was too great. He wished, above anything else, to get the others and run like a rabbit from a badger’s nest. But with Vortigern possibly outside, there was nowhere to go.
Nowhere but deeper into the burial mound to make sure they were safe here.
Caygek nodded and slipped off to guard the entrance.
Merlin turned to the utter darkness, blade drawn and heart racing.
Vortigern pointed to the line of fires in the distance and cursed until even Bedwir blushed. “Who in the name of Taranis is that?” was the only repeatable thing he said, and even that called on the name of a pagan god.
Vortipor, his horse next to his father, said, “What are we up against?”
Vortigern turned in his saddle. “Fire for fire. Everyone, gather branches and wood. I want fires all across the valley.”
Raising his hand, Vortipor backed his mount up. “Father, isn’t secrecy best … considering our goal?”
“We have less warriors than we did in Kernow,” Vortigern said, “but we’re not weaklings who skulk in the dark. This may be just a trick by Colvarth.”
Vortigern lifted his foot and kicked Bedwir in the side, shoving him precariously over.
Bedwir tried to catch himself, but the leather reins had rotted and they tore. He toppled to the ground — not too far down. But then his horse stepped on his right shin, and he yelled in pain.
Vortigern laughed. “Gather wood, you spineless, horse-faced louse.”
Bedwir stood, using his spear as a crutch, but his leg throbbed sharply. Between the horse stepping on him and the thorn jabs from earlier, his leg was in bad shape. While most of the warriors chopped branches from the dry gorse, Bedwir headed in the other direction and gathered deadwood from among the roots of the trees. He carried six armfuls back, and they quickly formed up their fires across the valley. One of the men lit the center fire, and from there it was transferred to the others.
Only then did Bedwir get a chance to breathe. He nursed his leg while leaning against his horse and studied the one lone fire in the middle of the valley. What he saw concerned him. There were figures moving around it, a torch was taken away, and then the main fire was snuffed out. Only the flicker of the torch remained, and then it too was swallowed by the death shroud that filled the valley.
Where had they gone? And did that single fire represent those who had taken Arthur hostage? Who were the men that had lit the other fires way down the valley? And what if Arthur was about to be slain? Who would help him?
Bedwir looked to Vortigern.
The man leaned against his horse and adjusted a large golden ring adorning his finger. He then took out a bag of smoked meat and sliced off a long lump and began chewing it.
Never once did he even look down the valley. Did the man not care what happened to Arthur? Until now, Vortigern had seemed to pursue Arthur with a zeal unmatched by anyone else in their warband. Why was he waiting now?
Vortipor’s thin frame slid over from beyond the nearest bonfire and approached his father. His meager beard was wet with dew, and he looked worried. “How long do we wait?” he asked.
“Till daylight, when we can see what devilry is afoot.” Vortigern sliced off more meat and began chewing.
“A scout could answer our questions.”
“Nah. I’ll not chance it in the dark. If Colvarth has raised some warriors, then we’re probably outnumbered. If he hasn’t, then Arthur’s not going anywhere, now is he? I have waited too long for this moment to lose it in the dark.”
Sticking his chin out, Vortipor said, “And what of Natalenya?”
“There is the torc of a king to think about here — and you still want the girl, eh?”
“The kingship isn’t my concern. The girl. All I want is the girl.”
Bedwir wanted to limp over and grab Vortipor by the tunic and shake him. He wanted to shout, “Arthur will wear his father’s torc!” But he held back in the shadow behind his horse and watched the two — as bile burned in his throat.
Vortigern shook his head, dewdrops flinging from his long moustache. He glanced around as if to make sure they were alone, and then lowered his voice.
Bedwir strained his ears to snatch the words from the mist.
“Are you the great-grandson of Vitalinus, High King of the Britons?”
Vortipor said nothing, but the firelight glinted off his eyes like daggers.
“Then forget Natalenya. Rebuild with me the feasting hall at Glevum, thrown down by that cursed Aurelianus. In a few hours, we will secure the High Kingship for ourselves.”
Vortigern put his arm around his son and walked him away into the darkness, whispering.
Bedwir heard no more. He was about to shout and denounce Vortigern before his fellow warriors, but something gave him pause. How many were secretly loyal to Vortigern? After all, those who crossed the channel had been hand-selected by the battle chief. Perhaps all of them.
Fire in his veins and a spear in his hand, he leapt onto his sorry horse and kicked it into a gallop toward the dark center of the valley. He had to warn those who held Arthur — wherever they were.
A yell went up from the warband as he left them behind. Soon, other horses galloped in chase. He turned to see Vortigern in the lead, along with Vortipor and two others.
Bedwir kicked his horse harder, and she increased her galumphing to a speed that surprised even him. But it wasn’t enough. Vortigern was gaining on him — fast.
Bedwir hefted his spear, shook it, and felt the vibration of the heavy tip. He might only get one chance. The mist bent away from his horse’s legs as they cut through the valley. The cool, water-laden air flew past his cheeks and soaked into his skin. Droplets formed on his brows and threatened to drip into his eyes. He wiped his forehead and saw the dark mound rise out of the fog, much larger than he had thought it to be. From here, the standing stones looked like the teeth of some giant serpent whose open jaw was swallowing the mound from below.
He galloped past the nearest, and saw nothing but the smoking remains of a fire. Colvarth, Merlin, and Arthur were gone — but where? There was no time to investigate, for Vortigern was riding fast upon him, his sword aloft and a deadly pallor to his face.
Bedwir scamped his horse forward, across the stream and into the open — and stopped in alarm. Down the valley rushed hundreds of men holding torches. Their fierce and feral screams echoed through the gorge, and their short spears jabbed past their shields as they ran. In front of them rode a huge man in a wicker chariot. The blue paint on his body shone in the torchlight, and he bore a spear with feathers flying from the haft behind the bronze point.
They were Picti — Prithager from the north. Bedwir’s fingers froze on the reins, and he had to fight his own hands to get his horse wheeled around — only to see Vortigern and his warband riding down on him.
CHAPTER 11
THE FATALITY
Ganieda took a deep breath as she stole one last glance at the man, whom she now knew was the Voice. He faded until only the spectral light of his robe remained, and then that too vanished.
Although left in complete darkness, somehow her eyes could see. It was almost as if her own skin, hair, and clothing cast a glow upon the floor before her.
The instructions were simple, and after she obeyed, then she could see her mother again. All Ganieda had to do was walk straight through the tunnel until it opened upon a valley. There she must speak with the two leaders of the Picts and tell them to kill Merlin and all who were with him.
Kill Merlin?
Grandfather wanted that.
But Ganieda had decided not to and had defied her grandfather. Why had she changed her mind again so quickly? The words of the Voice echoed through her remembrance.
“Why me?” she had asked.
“Because you are destined for greatness,” he had said, kneeling down and holding her hands. “I have chosen you until my two other servants are free.”
She had looked at him, cocking an eyebrow. There was a scar on his forehead, almost hidden by his hood. Its meandering, furrowed line ran into his hair — as if his skull had been savagely broken once, but now it was healed.
“You must bring the Pax Druida back to my land. The time of the Romans is over, and they served me well … for a time. But now I am doing a new work, and many enemies stand in my way. You must help me drive out the Christians — who stain my soil with their diseased feet and invade my people’s minds with their jaundiced teachings.”
“Who are you?” Ganieda had asked, afraid that the man’s long fingernails would dig into her flesh if he didn’t like the question.
“I?” And then he had laughed as if she’d probed some place of hidden delight. The sound echoed through him like he was a hollow tree struck by lightning, old and rotten.
“That is a secret,” he had said, “a mystery that you will one day unravel. But know this — that I have been the very Lord of the Britons for time beyond your ability to count, and I will allow no other to take my place.”
Once again the Voice had shown her the image of her mother sleeping peacefully. Only now she lay under a tree bearing strange, elongated red fruits. Ganieda longed to eat of the fruits and sleep in her mother’s embrace. She was so beautiful that Ganieda could almost smell her dark tresses. Safety. Love. Abundance. All these Ganieda wanted, but they were just out of reach.
She shook her head, and the remembrance fled. The dark tunnel lay before her, and she took a step, determined to have her mother back even if it meant Merlin’s death.
Merlin took a few steps and then stopped, hearing the echo of his own boots on the rock-scrabbled floor. Ahead of him, the bowels of the tomb sucked away all light, and though he wished for their only torch, he would not leave Colvarth and the others in darkness. Besides, the blindness was not unfamiliar. He turned his head to the side and listened, trying to discern what — or who — lay ahead. At first there was only silence, but then he heard something move. A footstep perhaps.
He sniffed the air, and the faint stink of some sort of animal — perhaps a wolf — made the back of his throat crawl. Walking forward again, he waved his blade back and forth to ward off any hidden menace. Something echoed ahead of him, and he stopped to listen. Almost like someone had caught their breath.
And then he saw her. The form of a woman with glowing skin floated from the shadows. Her black clothing drooped from her figure in great swathes, and it too burned with a pale light. Her face reminded him of Môndargana, his stepmother, yet it was not her. Attractive, like Mônda, sure — yet dread filled him when he beheld her. Merlin’s strength drained from his body. He fought to raise his blade to strike the witch, but his arm lay fast at his side.
She saw him, and her eyes
lit with a smoldering fire. The corners of her lips turned upward in a snarl, and she let out a scream that pierced the air.
Merlin’s heart stopped beating for a moment, and his chest tightened as if a pair of massive blacksmith tongs squeezed him. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. His legs felt weak, and he fell to his knees, all the while staring at her face as she said his name. His name. She knew it.
“Merlin …”
But when she said it, her figure shrunk for an instant, and then grew again to her former size. And that brief glimpse was all Merlin needed, for he knew her now. Her distinctive scream. The face. His name. She was Ganieda, his young sister, grown to maturity by some evil art.
She couldn’t be …
Merlin had asked Troslam and Safrowana, a couple in his village, to care for his sister back in Bosventor. Troslam, with his golden beard and ready smile, had promised him he would seek Ganieda out and bring her into his home. Had he failed? How could Gana be here in Kembry? And why did she scare him like … a witch?
He shook his head, mumbling, “No-o-o-o.” But he saw that it was true.
She raised her hand to strike him, and her fingers held a long, radiant spike — curved and sharp.
He tried to shield the blow with his sword, but his hand would not obey him. His blade clattered to the ground.
Her blow fell, scratching him across his right cheek and nose. Green lightning, like flames in a copper furnace, jumped from her hand and jabbed deep into him. He yelled, but there was no sound.
She twirled around him, brandishing her white dagger and flinging scornful laughs from her lips.
Blood began to drip down his face and nose, and he finally took a breath. Gathering all his strength, he covered his eyes to protect them from her next blow.
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