Without a blade — through water we swim,
Without a blade — to daylight we fly,
Without a blade — no need for sacrifice!
To thee, Fair Esas, I bring my life
From Spring’s Beauty unto Summer’s Bounty,
To give an Elated Servant for thee,
To offer to thee my Unblemished Life!
“Thus we have corrected our old errors. We are always perfecting our truth. You know, truth against the world.”
“Do you know why Christians say human sacrifice is wrong?”
“I’ve never thought about it.”
“God requires the blood of all who fail to obey his laws. Yet he created us and loves us like children.” Merlin paused here and thought about his sister: so frail, so confused, and so ensnared. “So God sacrificed himself for us, so our blood doesn’t need to be shed. Not even the blood of animals —”
A clanging of steel from outside caught Merlin’s attention, and he and Caygek crept closer to the mouth of the tunnel. Three men with spears stood in the circle of stones, fighting a warrior on horseback. It was Vortigern, swinging like a madman — his strokes fell true, and soon two of them lay dead.
Colvarth’s voice echoed from deep within the tunnel, soothing Arthur’s cries. The words of scripture floated to Merlin:
Only to thee, my King, have I pledged my fealty. Neither let wicked men strippeth nor mocketh me.
Hear, O Lord, my earnest plea, and in thy righteous anger send out thy bright warriors to rescue me.
Give unto thy seneschal the command to open thy tall gates, O Lord, that I may enter in and find refuge.
Cut off the clutching hand of the wicked, for they graspeth for my blood.
Merlin noticed the third man was huge, with a bare chest and massive arms. His hair was greased back, and he had no beard. Blue whorls had been painted on his torso, and he hefted a long bronze-tipped spear.
“Picts!” Caygek said.
The man crouched, jabbing toward Vortigern to keep him and his horse back.
Nevertheless, Vortigern charged at him.
The Pict backed up and leveled his spear at Vortigern’s throat.
Vortigern raised his shield to block it, his horse thundering forward, blade held high.
Colvarth’s voice called out again, and now Merlin recognized it as one of the Psalms:
For all my hope, High King of heaven, is in thee.
Yea, even as a babe fresh from thy hidden palm, verily even then my lungs sang forth thy praises.
And though I now pronounce to mine enemies thy judgments and thy splendorous majesty, yet even then thou protectest me.
But soon I will be old, and they will cast nets for my feeble feet.
Vortigern rode down hard upon the Pict and ducked at the last second.
The Pict’s spear point missed.
Vortigern swung his blade.
The Pict reversed his spear, blocked the sword, and rammed the butt into Vortigern’s side, nearly unhorsing him.
Vortigern howled as he rushed past, then turned and charged again. This time the spear hit square upon his shield, piercing it. He howled in pain, backed up his horse, and chopped at the shaft until the Pict wrenched it out.
The Pict dove closer in with the spear, trying to jam it into Vortigern’s face. Four more Picti joined him from behind, all whooping, holding their shields up and brandishing short spears.
Colvarth spoke again, this time quieter, and Merlin barely discerned the words:
For they speaketh lies, and their words pierceth my heart, saying, “God hath forsaken him — thus we shall make him a slave.”
O my King! Set thy standard above me and place thy shining blades around me!
Give a pox unto mine enemies, and throw their corpses into a pit!
But give me hope forevermore, for it lies faint within my breast, and I cannot see the fullness of thy strength.
Vortigern grimaced and reared his horse up and to the side, blocking the spear with his blade. Blood now spattered his ringmail under his shield arm, and he rode off into the fog blowing his horn.
Caygek shook his head, a smile on his face. “They’re retreating.”
“Only Vortigern,” Merlin said, and he looked with dread on the Pictish war leader who soon gathered hundreds of torch-bearing men near the edge of the stone circle.
Colvarth’s words once more echoed down the tunnel:
Open my mouth, Lord of the Feast, and place therein fat words, fare and sumptuous, of thy righteous acts.
String my harp, Sovereign King, so that I may sing of thy mighty deeds to the very ends of the earth.
His voice trailed off, for Arthur’s cries had turned to nothing but sniffles. Merlin hoped now that their position would remain unknown — but his optimism was ill founded, for he had momentarily forgotten Ganieda.
She now stepped into the stone circle. Though small of stature, the light from her dark cloak was menacing, and the fog churned around her like wolven wraiths. The Picts, astonished at her presence, fell back until only two Picts remained: the war leader who had battled Vortigern, and one other, with a large knot of hair perched upon his head.
The war leader threatened Ganieda with his spear. “Thusa back’ive, she-witch!” he growled. Merlin understood the man’s speech, though barely. The words felt twisted, and they were spoken with a strange, guttural accent.
The other man, with the pile of hair, took a long stick with bells and shook it at her, calling out a throaty chant.
Ganieda did not flinch. Instead, she raised her arms. In her left hand shone a burning ball of purple flame. In the other, the white dagger with a sickly, greenish glow.
Merlin touched the stinging wound on his nose; the blood had just begun to scab over.
Caygek placed a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “What’s she doing? Is she giving us up?”
Merlin sighed. He couldn’t believe it either, but it was true.
“Then we have to kill her.”
“I’ve already done what I can,” Merlin said. “Run out now, and they’ll know for sure that we’re here.”
“If I had a bow, I’d —”
She raised her voice, and in a language Merlin did not understand she proclaimed something to them. Then she turned, and pointed at the mouth of the tunnel where they hid.
Merlin’s heart began to beat wildly.
The Picts roared at her words and looked toward the entrance to the tomb.
But she screamed, and they all shut their mouths. She said something more, and then to emphasize her point, she took her dagger and pretended to slit the throat of the war leader. He snarled and backed up.
And then she disappeared, dissolving downward into the fog.
The Picts, stunned at first, searched the ground where she had been. Satisfied she was gone, they finally turned to face the mound and walked slowly toward Merlin and Caygek’s hiding place, the light from their torches floating through the fog.
If Troslam could have complained out loud without giving himself away, he would have. Why had he ever promised Merlin that he’d look after Ganieda? So here he was, holding a spear and hiding behind a thick bush not twenty paces from Mórganthu’s tent.
He had been looking for the girl ever since Merlin left, and had almost given up when his wife reproved him for failing to see if she was staying with the old arch druid. To be honest, Troslam had been avoiding the area, not wanting to deal with the druids gathered there. Now, as he approached, he could hear the voice of a young girl arguing with Mórganthu inside the tent.
Troslam ducked down and snuck over to a leafy oak. From there he dove next to a bush much closer to the tent.
Was that movement behind him? Or was it just the wind in the leaves?
He stiffened, sensing something approaching softly — secretly.
Troslam spun, his spear ready.
Something dark and furry leapt at him, baring its teeth and snarling. A wolf!
Troslam�
�s heart vaulted inside his chest and his hands stiffened on his spear.
The wolf’s sharp claws were on his arms now, its head turning sideways as it went for his throat.
Troslam twisted the spear upward, tucked his chin, and arched his back to get away.
But the beast’s full weight slammed him down as the fangs clamped on to his bearded chin.
Troslam screamed and jabbed the spear at the beast.
The wolf tried to rip below his beard, and then yelped, jerking and writhing in pain.
“Get off!” Troslam yelled, rolling and slamming his elbow into the wolf’s head.
The beast fell to the side, snarling.
The tip of the spear had jabbed into the wolf’s belly, but not far.
Troslam tried to stab it in deeper as he pulled himself up, but the wolf flipped over, found its feet again, and ran off into the woods, whimpering.
CHAPTER 13
CHILDREN OF THE SALMON
With hundreds of warriors bearing down on their hiding place, Merlin knew this was the end. Imitating Caygek, he put his back to the opposite wall of the tunnel and tried to meld into the shadows. He drew his sword and held it before his eyes one last time. This had been his father’s treasure, and now he would die with it. The braided iron of the guard curved outward from two small, yellow gems that shone at the center. The leather-covered hilt felt thick and strong in his hands, and the dim sheen of the blade reflected the fresh cuts that lay across his face.
He took a deep breath, and sent a prayer heavenward — ahead along same the path that his soul would take to the Almighty.
The first of the Picts arrived in the fog outside the tunnel — faces pale as the walking dead under their dark, greased hair. Their bodies likewise, with the blue of the frozen north swirled upon their limbs like wind over a barren plain of hoarfrost.
Their spears were short, else he and Caygek would be easy pickings in the confines of the tunnel. Spurred by the shouts of their leader, two of them advanced through the low doorway. Thankfully, the darkness made them abandon their shields and take up torches to illuminate the room.
Caygek whistled, and he and Merlin leapt out. The warrior on the right stood before them, his dry and cracked lips agape as Merlin swung his blade.
The warrior recovered his sense just in time, and used his torch to block the blow, but sparks flew into the man’s eyes as Merlin thrust his blade through the man’s chest. The Pict screamed and fell back. Another warrior took his place, stepping on the fallen man’s bloody chest.
Merlin was only vaguely aware of Caygek, who was a very whirlwind of braids and blade. He had already dispatched two Picts, and was fighting a third.
The Pict in front of Merlin jabbed his spear at Merlin’s throat.
Merlin spun to the right, grabbed the haft with his free hand, and struck the man through the belly. The man’s form fell back, howling, toward the entrance of the tunnel, nearly blocking it — until a massive arm reached in, grabbed the man by his hair, and dragged him back out.
The torches hissed amongst the dying, lighting up the stone ceiling. In this waving, crimson glow, the massive leader — who had felled Vortigern — stooped into the tunnel. His long, bronze spear was clutched in his hands, and its tip and feathers were stained with Vortigern’s blood. Dark were his eyes, with a lumped forehead. His nose had once been shattered by a sword, for it lay cloven across the bridge, with a deep scar.
He roared like a frenzied bear and rushed at Merlin.
Throwing himself to the rock wall, Merlin used his blade to parry the blow, but the man kept coming and smashed a fist across the Merlin’s jaw.
Everything turned white: The stones of the ceiling, the Pict’s snarling face, the walls, and Caygek’s face, open-mouthed. Even the warrior’s dark hair had gone pale, though it was now smeared — blurry. The tunnel tilted, bent, flew from Merlin, and everything disappeared in the whiteness.
It was fog. And he could touch it, hold it, shape it, breathe it deeply into his lungs, and yet he could not feel anything about it except its heaviness. The fog thinned, slipping from his fingers like sand. Merlin stood upon the shore of a lake. It was night, but no stars burned in the sky. Clouds hung upon the edge of the horizon, and lightning flung from their lofty thrones down to the earth.
Music. A lilting tune flitted through the air. Drums rolled in the deepest glens of the lake. The waters roiled, splashing up. Ten feet from the shore, a hand broke the surface. An arm rose. Shimmering. Sleek and silver. Red hair, finer than fired gold, parted the waves, and the oval face of a woman ascended underneath those beautiful tresses. She floated now upon the water, and a glow of coppered-silver shone from her wrap. Above her collar lay a gilt torc with inlaid stones, white and dazzling.
It was Merlin’s mother, Gwevian, smiling at him. “Do not fear,” she said.
Merlin’s tongue was loosed now, and he spoke. “I’m never afraid in your presence, Mother.” He wanted to hold her — to remember and live again his young childhood, now lost in shadow.
“I speak not o’ me, or of here, but o’ what has befallen ya … and what shall soon take place. Do not fear, but arise and go forth ta where ya are taken.”
“What shall I do? Where am I going?”
“The only instruction tha’ I have received for ya is this: Depart. Go where ya are led, and God Most High will provide and support ya. Once there ya must perform, by faith, the tasks set before ya.”
The water boiled again, and his mother began to sink. Tears fell from her eyes as she slid back into the waves.
Merlin ran out into the water, and his boots filled with liquid, cold beyond his imagining. He paused. “No! Don’t leave me again.” But she was gone.
He rushed forward, deeper, and soon he was swimming. But the water was cold — so cold. His breaths came quick and fast, and the chill numbed his thoughts of everything but his mother. “Come back,” he yelled, flailing at the water that separated them.
From the mist, his mother’s voice called out again. “Depart, Merlin … ya must go …”
He sank into the freezing water, and his sight failed. There in the murk, music flooded back, the high notes calling him to the waking warmth of the world, and the low notes giving him strength.
It was a harp playing. The music floated above him — now around him — a beautiful melody plucked from heaven that filled his soul. He opened his eyes, and a man in a black cloak stood above, straddling him. Merlin lay on the ground, and the light of many torches filled the room. But it wasn’t a room, it was the tunnel, and Colvarth held the Harp of Britain in his hands. A song, deep and rumbling, flowed from his old but tender lips. He sang, and the words were thus:
Over an lhand, from mhount and ghlen
Chame we peiple, across am fhen.
Where is an king, O where is he?
Tha’ fhights for you, tha’ fhights for me?
Chame we to Tull, to Twilloch-Scwane
To shee his light, our fleish and bain!
To mhake a king, a king to thrain
To shwear our aith, air hill and plain.
Upon am mhound, upon an shtone
Bhled he his blood, our hiearts to own
Crithan-Tuath! Crithanas-Mor!
Mhade we a pact, in diays of yhore.
Member’ive, sons, member’ive, men:
Yiur king, yiur oath, yiur fealty ken!
Take’ive yiur shpears! Take’ive yiur bhows!
And come’ive now, to Duntarv Ros.
During the course of this song, Merlin’s senses sharpened, and he became aware of the massive Pictish warrior standing before Colvarth, ready to spear him — right through his harp strings. But the man hesitated. He cocked his head, rolled his lips, and blinked his eyes. Soon, he stepped back, listening, and the other warriors did likewise.
The fighting stopped. Caygek, blood spattered on his arms and breathing heavy, stepped next to Colvarth as the song ended.
The Pictish leader shook his spear
at Colvarth. “A bhaird … who are yiu tha’ know an song o’ our peiple?”
Merlin pulled himself to a sitting position. His jaw was swollen and his head felt like a melon.
Colvarth continued to pluck his harp slowly — but his right eye blinked as he spoke to the man. “O Child of the Blue Salmon — hear me. I did not know your sovereign of many years ago, yet more than once have I visited Alba, met your people, and learned your songs. I bid you peace in the name of Prith-Tyritha, whom you call Crithan-Tuath.”
“Are southeirn doigs, and na friends o’ Chrithane! She-witch shaid make yiu thraill, so gut yiu unless agree’ive be thraill.” The man sucked a wound on his hand, and the redness smeared his bristle-bound lips.
Merlin did not understand this last demand, but the man’s flinty eyes told him he was serious.
Colvarth nodded slowly. “A pardon, Ealtain, Mighty Chieftain of the Prithager, we must all speak together to determine our answer. We will either fight, and no doubt you will gut us, or we will agree — but give us time to for counsel.”
“Give I yiu till burnig my torch ris nothing. Then spear or thraillring — you choos’ive.” His warriors removed their dead comrades, and then he stepped outside. But before disappearing into the night, he forced the handle of his burning torch into the moist soil. He leaned over, snarled at them, and then left — his heavy footsteps echoing into the night.
“What did he say?” Merlin asked as Colvarth helped him stand.
“He will either kill us, or make us slaves. We must decide before his torch goes out.”
Oh, Natalenya! She held the fears of all the world in her dark eyes as Merlin returned, jangled as he was from the blow by the Pictish leader’s fist. He longed to go to her, to comfort her and be comforted in their last hour. But he knew he couldn’t break his personal oath to distance himself from her. Even now he needed to keep her free from a man as disfigured as himself.
Garth, holding Arthur, asked a lots of questions, and Colvarth explained as best he could.
“We are trapped, but have been granted the strange choice of our escape. Either through choosing to fight, and thus the sure light of heaven, or else the dark path of slavery and thralldom — a captive without hope of being free. In the first, our hopes of granting the High Kingship to young Arthur will fail, but yet we will die belonging to and defending our land — men of freedom, able to hold our heads high at the feasting hall of our Father. And yet in the second, though surely filled with sorrow, even death, there is yet a small hope that our oath of fealty to Britain and the High Kingship shall be fulfilled.”
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