Merlin's Shadow

by Robert Treskillard

  Caygek spoke first. “To me, I will submit to no man, and be no man’s slave. My father once was a slave to the Romans building their roads. He escaped, yes, and then fought against them until they killed him. I’ve heard his tales, and I say we fight.”

  Garth took hold of the corner of Colvarth’s cloak. “I don’t want to die. But I don’t want to be a slave neither. Less’n they make me fish for ‘em, I s’pose. Do the Prithager make soup?”

  “Oh yes, but not the kind you’d like to eat.”

  “What’s in it, sir, if’n I can ask?”

  “Don’t.”

  “Cabbage? I don’t like cabbage much. Me father always said —”

  “Shush.”

  Merlin wanted to speak but didn’t know what to say. Being caught and made a slave was something that had haunted his mind from childhood because he had heard too many stories of raiders taking away young men and women. The people simply disappeared, never to be seen again. And Merlin had no hope that this chieftain of the Picts would treat them well. Thus he felt that Caygek was right — they should fight.

  But what had his mother said — it seemed only moments before? Her words echoed through his soul: “Do not fear, but arise and go forth to where you are taken.”

  Taken? Did God want them to hold on to hope and trust Him? Merlin felt like he was leaning over an open pit, about to fall into its black and stenching depths — and God wanted him to jump? To become a slave — maybe for the rest of his life? How would that help Arthur? How would that help anyone?

  But if they fought the Picts, what then? Two warriors, a boy, and an old man against hundreds? Impossible odds, and they would all be killed. But maybe not … What of Arthur? Natalenya? No, they would take her, and … they would probably take Arthur as well. He would grow up as a Pictish warrior, fighting against Britain.

  If they were taken as slaves, then someone would need to protect them, if possible. The only way to do that would be to become a slave himself.

  So that was it. “Depart. Go where you are led,” his mother’d said. But where was God? Where was His protection? Merlin slammed his fist on the stonework, bit his lip, and closed his eyes as tears threatened their way out. Merlin would just have to trust, but it was hard … so hard.

  The debate had gone on without him, but now Colvarth saw him and silenced the others. “Though we all have strong feelings in this matter … as we must … I take the right as eldest here to place this grim decision in Merlin’s hands. I am old, and whether I depart now or delay my death shortly through toil, it will not matter so much for me. But I trust that Merlin, who loves each one of you” — here he looked to Natalenya — “will make the best decision for all of us.”

  Caygek snorted at this, and Merlin looked hard at the druid. Blood had flecked Caygek’s cheeks, and he flared his nostrils. They stared at each other, eye to eye, until Merlin finally turned away to look to the torch dug into the ground at the mouth of the tunnel. The bottom had cindered, sputtering down to its last few flames. Their time was almost up.

  Taking a deep breath, Merlin’s words came out thick, due to his swollen jaw. “Caygek, you are wrong. Fighting ends all hope we have of fulfilling our oath and raising Arthur to be the next High King. We will not fight them, but will seek our freedom as soon as we may.”

  Colvarth slowly nodded — while Garth and Natalenya’s eyes glistened in the dark.

  Caygek swore. “Son of a fool! I’ve made no such oath. I will be free or die.”

  Merlin grabbed the man’s tunic and pulled him close. “Then you endanger all of us. You’ve tagged along this far, and now you will abide by our decision.”

  Caygek bellowed and clouted the injured side of Merlin’s jaw.

  The pain shocked him, and he let go of the man’s tunic. His vision blurred for a moment, and the next thing he knew, Caygek had drawn his sword and the death tip prodded Merlin’s chest. He held his breath.

  “Who gave you leadership?” Caygek sneered. “Those that are fastest make the decisions, I say.”

  A loud thump came from behind Caygek, and he dropped to the ground.

  Colvarth stood behind him, holding a hefty stone. “No, my difficult druid … you are wrong. Those that stay awake make the decisions.”

  Merlin breathed again. “Thank you, Colvarth.”

  Now for the hardest thing he had ever done in his life — facing the Picts and the long death of slavery, for himself and those he held most dear.

  Ganieda awoke in the most creamy warmth she’d ever known. One moment she’d been shivering before the Pictish leaders, and now she was … where? She turned on her side and felt with her hands the fur of an animal skin wrapped around her. The smell of oats baking made her stomach growl … and she opened her eyes.

  Grandfather leaned over some bannocks, which lay on a flat rock nigh the embers of their fire, and poked them with his jagged fingernail. The orange light flickered on his forehead, lighting up the inside of his eyes in the near-darkness of the tent.

  “Ah, my daughter’s daughter — you awake at last. I tried to use the orb while you slept, but could not make it show me what I desired. Thus I despaired of learning what happened to our enemies until morning, yet now I have your attention once again. I hope this time you will be more … obedient.”

  Never taking his eyes off of her, he drew forth the brass sickle blade from his belt with his one good hand and sliced a bannock in half, flicking a crumb into the coals. It flared up for a moment and then died. “There will be consequences if you betray me again.”

  Ganieda shivered, despite the warmth of the fur blanket.

  “Would you like a bannock? The oats are old but still have some life.”

  “No.”

  Outside the tent, a yelp was heard, a scream of some animal, and then loud whimpering.

  Grandfather caught his breath.

  Growling mixed with a whine, and then faded, loping into the distance. It was Tellyk; Ganieda knew it. Something was wrong. She had just stood when the ties to the flap began to rip, the shining steel of a spear point slicing them through. Blood lay on the tip.

  Grandfather jumped. The brass blade shook in his hand.

  The door of the tent flipped back and a spear pushed through, followed by the huge shadow of a man.

  Grandfather backed up. “Who … who are you? What do you want?”

  The man said nothing, but stepped forward and slammed the butt end of his spear into Grandfather’s head.

  Ganieda screamed as he crumpled to the ground.

  The man turned toward her.

  She reached for her bag, tied near her hip. Her fang. She would cut him! But the strings … they were too tight to open quickly.

  The man stood over her, his cheeks puffing above his thick, golden beard. She stared at him, wondering if she knew him, but darkness filled the tent as he blocked the light from the hearth. Without a word, he bent down, grabbed her, and picked her up.

  The ground fell away. She screamed again and tried to scratch him with her fingernails. But he lifted her farther into the air, swung her upside down, threw her over his shoulder, and then walked off into the coolness of the night.

  “Let me go!” she screamed, but he would not.

  She tried to reach for her bag — her fang that would slit him — but it lay on the other side of his shoulder near his neck, and his hand lay upon it, holding her waist.

  In the distance, the camp of the remaining druidow stirred, and a few of them lit torches and began shouting out her grandfather’s name, asking if all was well.

  She pounded her captor with flailing fists, even tried pulling his hair, but he all but ignored her as he sprinted down the dim alleys of the deep and ever-shadowed forest.

  PART TWO

  FOOL’S LOSS

  SHARP AS TALONS, THE CAPTORS CUTTING; BLACK AND BLACKER, THE FANG DEATH SPREADING; GLOP AS GLUTTON, THE EATER EATING; DROWSE AS DREAMER, THE SLEEPER SLEEPING; FORTRESS ON HILL, WARE THE WICKED GUISE.

&
nbsp; CHAPTER 14

  TAKEN NORTH

  Vortigern swore as he wrapped a cloth rag around his bleeding arm. The spear had cut deep, but he’d been hurt worse before and lived to slice the heads off of his enemies. The problem here was that there were just too many wretched heads.

  The mist had thinned, and he spurred his horse forward to get a better view through the large clump of trees. In the distance, the torches of the Picts parted, allowing Vortigern to see the entrance to the burial mound. Some figures stepped forth, holding their hands aloft. Vortigern squinted, but couldn’t make out who the fools were in the dark.

  “Ehh … Vortipor, is that them?”

  Vortigern’s son covered his eyes to block the moonlight. “It’s them, sure. One’s holding Arthur.” And then his voice faltered. “I even … even see Natalenya.”

  Vortigern loosed the reins of his horse. “We can leave, then. I couldn’t have wished a better end for Arthur. No blood on my hands, and we’ll never see him again.”

  “Leave?”

  “We have lots to do. Gorlas is raising men for us, and we have the Saxenow to fight.”

  Vortipor grabbed the leather brace of his father’s good arm. “We can’t just leave!”

  Like an owl to the kill, and just as silent, Vortigern slipped out a short sword and held it at his son’s throat. “There’s a new High King to swear fealty to, if you haven’t noticed. Choose the girl, and your eyes will never see your great-grandfather’s torc on my neck. I swear it.”

  His son hesitated.

  Vortigern’s anger rose. A squanderer for a son, he was. Always chasing the beauties — and his head so loose it was just waiting to fall off. He twisted the blade, but not enough to cut.

  His son sucked in his breath and flared his nostrils.

  Perhaps there was a better tact, Vortigern mused. He withdrew his sword.

  “Imagine old Glevum rebuilt … and you sitting around the feasting fire in the great hall. You sit upon a pile of skins after a great victory, and a boar, roasted and sweet, lies before you. Its haunch is in your teeth, with the fat dripping down your beard. A thousand warriors raise their bowls of ale and shout your name. ‘Vortipor … Vortipor the Great!’ they call. The kingly torc of our family line lies upon your neck, bright and shining, and the bards sing your praise.”

  His son’s eyes went glassy. “And I’m married, right?”

  Vortigern repressed a snicker. “To anyone you want. They’ll all be yours once I’m gone, but I need your help now.” He pointed toward the Picti. “Over there is only death. Come on.” He turned his mount and rode away. The other warriors followed, but Vortigern’s son stayed behind.

  Curse him. The stupid fool.

  But before Vortigern had spurred his horse out of the valley and down toward the sea and their waiting boats, his son rode at his side again. Vortigern smiled. All his long years of patient suffering under Uther were over. It was time to gather his warriors to Glevum and declare himself the High King.

  Just as the torch went out, Merlin led them out of the mound and gave themselves up to the Picts. Of course Caygek had to be trussed with a rope from Garth’s pack and pulled out against his will — cursing Merlin all the way.

  Ealtain, the chief of the Picts, presided over the slave taking. For his first act he approached Merlin and reached his right hand toward Merlin’s bloodied face and scars. His huge fingers stunk of sweat, leather, and the bitter woad they used for war paint. Merlin flinched, and in response the chieftain backhanded him across the face and wrenched the torc from his neck. The falcon beaks on the ends of the torc scratched his skin.

  Merlin staggered, fresh blood coursing down from the facial wounds Ganieda had given him. And when the pain eased and he could see again, Ealtain had placed the gold torc upon his own neck, tossing his dirty, old, bronze one to the dirt, where a nearby warrior scooped it up.

  Next, Ealtain called out for a broad, dark-haired man to step from the ranks, presenting Merlin and the others to him as if they were a gift.

  But someone else pushed his way through, shouting. This man was even taller than Ealtain, though not as thick, and he shoved the dark-haired warrior back with the haft of his spear. His orange-red locks were coiled into sullied braids, and his nose was long. His eyes, unblinking, were dark green, and they dared the dark-haired man to defy him.

  Shouting erupted among the warriors, but Ealtain roared until they quieted. Turning to the red-haired intruder, Ealtain snarled, his lip upturned in contempt, and bid the two to fight.

  The dark-haired warrior picked up a spear and stepped forward, jabbing.

  Red-hair flinched back, knocking the blow aside with his spear.

  All the warriors gave them a wide berth. Merlin motioned for their band to back away too, but they only managed a few steps before the spear points of the warriors stopped them.

  Red-hair, who had the longer reach, countered with a quick strike to the head of his opponent. The man ducked and struck out with his shaft, thunking red-hair in the ribs. Red-hair answered with a vicious kick to the man’s stomach — then, while the man was momentarily stunned, red-hair cracked him across the back of the head.

  Dark-hair slumped to the ground, falling across his spear.

  Red-hair laid his foot on the man’s neck and let out a quavering victory yell, the feathers on his spear vibrating in the midnight breeze.

  Behind him, Ealtain charged forward, his teeth bared, and slammed his shoulder into red-hair’s side, knocking him flat. Ealtain’s own spear now hovered over the man’s eyes.

  “Keepa an thrails by right-ah — but if thwarta mo again, fight’idh yiu, and then eat-idh yiur liver — like yiur fatheri.”

  By this, the Pictish chief had given Merlin and the other’s as slaves to red-hair, whose name was Necton — but Ealtain was not pleased that his choice had been frustrated. Indeed, he drew a thin, bloody line across Necton’s chest, and spit on his face before backing away.

  Necton rose, eyes unblinking, watching Ealtain. He wiped the spit from his face with a handful of grass and then approached his new slaves with a grim smile on his lips.

  “Ealtain must have killed Necton’s father,” Colvarth whispered to Merlin. “There’s bad blood between those two.”

  “Could that help us … or hurt us?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Necton stripped them of all their weapons, food, and belongings, even their boots and cloaks. Only their basic clothes remained.

  When Necton came to Colvarth, he stole the white-gold torc from his neck and placed it upon his own. Colvarth’s torc ends were formed with the heads of moor cats, each with a sparkling white eye, and this pleased Necton.

  To Merlin’s surprise, Colvarth didn’t seem to care about the loss of his torc. “I am old,” he told Merlin later, “and cannot take my torc with me to God’s kingdom. Such things are understood only when one realizes this island is not our true home.”

  For Merlin it was harder, though. His own torc had been given to him by Muscarvel, that marsh-dwelling, prophetic madman with a rusty blade. A kingly gift the torc had been too. Merlin had worn it as a sign of God’s promise to him of his role in protecting the new High King. To see it on Ealtain’s neck was almost insufferable, but Merlin held his tongue.

  Merlin also realized how frail Colvarth was. The bulk of his cloak had always hidden his thin frame, but now he stood before them, aged and taking deep breaths from the chill night air.

  One thing did grieve the bard though … for he moaned when Necton stole the tin box containing the strange bowl Merlin could see but Colvarth could not. Thankfully, the Pict just tossed it into a bag and didn’t examine its contents.

  “We must get it back,” Colvarth whispered to Merlin, “for this is a mystery of the Christ and should not fall into other’s hands.”

  Merlin nodded, but this wasn’t his present concern: Necton was studying Natalenya. Merlin’s throat burned hot, for this was something he hadn’t considered properly. He
had decided to deliver her to her mother’s kin. Even though he was alive — which meant there was a chance he could protect her — how could he really prevent Necton from making her his wife? He should have never allowed her to come along. Never.

  Thankfully, Necton turned and sorted through the rest of the party’s belongings, and these he distributed to the men under him. A difficult time for Merlin was when his father’s personal longsword was taken by Necton. All his Pictish warriors marveled over the blade’s workmanship and eyed Necton with wonder as he strapped it on.

  When Necton unrolled the tapestry of Vitalinus from Colvarth’s bag, he dropped it and jumped back. He yelled for the other leader with the bulky hair. “Scafta, come’ive here!”

  Scafta … Merlin worried as he thought about him. Where Ealtain was brutal, Scafta slithered. The man’s hair was long, matted into coils, and balled up into a great mound over his head. It was held there by two great combs made from the shoulder blades of a deer. And to protect this mass he had a strangely patterned hood held up by a framework of curved branches. Though his face had been shaven, his eyebrows grew so densely they merged into one long line, and his bony cheeks and thick lips added to the fearsome visage. His boots had a network of metal spikes tied onto them, and he wore a necklace of bones, bags, and scraggly feathers.

  In his hand he held a long stick carved with human images. At its base and top hung cleverly crafted bells amidst human hair tacked on by their thin strips of scalp. When Scafta had first seen Merlin, he had pressed this stick in his face and shaken it, whooping a dance of victory. It had smelled foul, and Merlin had turned his nose away, only to invite a beating from the man.