Merlin's Shadow

by Robert Treskillard

  Mórganthu gulped the air in, hoping he had not been seen. If that man caught him hiding here, he would be beaten again, and then how would he fare? More precisely, what would happen to the worthy cause of all the druidow? Ah, to be younger, with two stout hands, and be able to defend oneself with sword or club. Mórganthu would have to be spry, even sneaky, to accomplish his goal, what with his right hand cut off by the scheming of that Merlin — curse his body to burn over the fires of a thousand solstices.

  Ah, but that weaver was the true thief. Stealing into Mórganthu’s tent and taking his granddaughter away. Such a gangrenous worm as that would curse the day he crossed the arch druid, his gods, and their blessed followers!

  Hah, and did that weaver forthrightly think he could get away with such insolence? Did he imagine Mórganthu was so ignorant as to not know him, his name, and all the names of his family? Troslam, Safrowana, and Imelys they were, for Mórganthu knew the names of everyone in the village as well as their business and history. It was his duty to know everything, and he had paid good money for the information from Connek and a few others when he had first come back to the stone circle.

  Mórganthu steadied himself against the cold rock wall that surrounded Troslam’s pasture. Thankfully no one lived on this land adjoining the weaver’s, making it the ideal spot for him to spy from. He had discovered an old kiln built into the far back corner of the wall, and the stones were a bit loose there. He inched his eye downward toward a hole which allowed him to spy on the back of the crennig. The weaver’s house was silent, and Mórganthu watched until dusk fell upon the mountainside like the shadow of a vulture.

  The time had come to sneak into the pasture, so he tried pulling the stones out from the kiln, but found it too difficult with only one hand. Perhaps he could kick them out, but that would make far too much noise, so he abandoned the idea.

  Ahh, maybe he could slip over the wall if he could find something to help him climb. Sneaking into the doorway of the old, abandoned crennig next door, he sorted through the rubbish, broken furniture, smashed pots, and rat-eaten old clothes until he found an old bench and barrel. Taking these one at a time, he set them upon each other next to the rock wall and slipped over, the clever fox that he was. Getting out again might be harder, but he would see to that once he located Ganieda — and her fang — and verified that both were safe.

  Pattering feet were heard inside the house, and Mórganthu slunk over to the shuttered window where the sound had come from. Peeking inside he saw … yes … Ganieda laying upon a bed, crying. These devils who worshiped a foreign god had hurt her, and druidic anger rose in Mórganthu’s chest. He started to form her name on his lips to call her quietly over to the window when a woman walked into the room, thumping her feet across the floor. The witch.

  But he saw it before he ducked down below the window. There, on the sill in between the shutters, lay the fang! He had almost missed it there in the dust, but it glimmered, long and white in the glow of the moon. He reached out his hand to pull open the outer shutter, and —

  The woman turned around and faced the window.

  Mórganthu bent down and slunk against the wall of the house. Had she seen him? Had she heard him?

  “I thought it was a beautiful night … but there’s a foul stink on the wind,” she said. And then she pulled the shutters tight. Something clicked.

  Mórganthu bit his cheek, for she had locked them, and he would not be able to take back the fang without making a great deal of noise. But she must not have seen the fang, for the sound of her footsteps brisked away from the window, and he heard her talking quietly to Ganieda.

  Daring a little, he lifted his head and peeked through the now narrower slit that remained at the bottom of the shutters — and he jerked back, for now four people had gathered around Ganieda. Mórganthu looked again: the mother, that cursed Safrowana, was still there, but now she had been joined by her daughter, Imelys — and two other girls. Two? Who were these? Some local urchins, no doubt … but no! Their garments were too fine — too fine for such as this somnolent, filthy village.

  He squinted, and started to gasp before he stopped himself. They were Uther’s daughters — alive! Mórganthu’s Eirish warriors had lied to him, yes, lied about their deaths. Just like Arthur, claiming the girls were killed at Inis Avallow as Mórganthu had demanded. Yet here the girls were, right within his grasp. He raised his eyebrows and wiggled his jaw, imagining all the wonderful possibilities this new truth offered him.

  Yet he was torn. He wanted to free Ganieda and get the fang, but now he needed to think. If he freed her now, then the weavers would know their secret had been found out and this glorious opportunity would be wasted.

  Ganieda could wait … And the fang could wait. Just a little. Maybe Ganieda might use it to free herself. He needed time to think.

  Backing away from the window and ducking around the left side of the house, he found the gate and slipped quietly out to the road. But he was on the wrong side of the house for going back to the stone circle and his tent, and didn’t want to walk directly in front. So he snuck across the road, past a huge boulder, behind a bush, and worked his way across.

  A hand came from behind a tree, grabbed on to Mórganthu’s tunic, and jerked him sideways. “Got you at last,” the man said, his voice hissing.

  Mórganthu tried to push against his grip, but couldn’t break free. He found his feet and used his nails to gash at the man’s face instead. For his efforts, the man hammered Mórganthu in the stomach, and he fell to the ground like a dry leaf.

  “I should have skewered you the first time I saw you,” the man said.

  Mórganthu lay in the dirt, gasping. He looked up to see who it was, but the moon, like a halo behind the man’s head, veiled his face in darkness. A long white tunic lay upon the man, stained with soot, dirt, and blood. The bottom hem was wet, and stunk of fish.

  The man spit on Mórganthu. “What a liar. You promised gold, and where is it?” He dropped and pinned Mórganthu’s good arm with a knee. Then he jerked a Roman-forged gladius from his belt and stuck it under Mórganthu’s nose. Froth fell from his teeth, and his thin lips quivered. “The Stone doesn’t call me anymore … doesn’t make gold for me anymore …”

  It was Tregeagle, the village Magister, the once-fearsome overseer of the village and father to that wretched girl, Natalenya.

  “You duplicitous imp,” he yelled. “Have the stone make gold or I’ll cut your nose off.”

  “I cannot. The Stone is hurt … The blade … the blade prevents it.”

  “Then pull it out, curse you. Use your druid arts.”

  “I cannot. I have tried.”

  “Then give me your gold. You must have a hoard of it stashed away … buried … hidden.”

  “I have none.” He wished he did, but the Stone had been injured before he’d thought to make his own coins into gold.

  “I don’t believe you.” Tregeagle pressed the gladius into Mórganthu’s nose, and blood snaked down from the wound.

  Mórganthu lowered his voice so no one would hear. “Wait … wait …”

  “Why? Your ability to smell means nothing to me.” He grabbed Mórganthu’s hair and pressed the gladius harder against the bridge of his nose.

  Mórganthu sucked his breath in. Only a bit more pressure and his nose would be sliced off. He squirmed, but there was no getting away. At least not without giving something up. An idea came to Mórganthu — how to free himself from the beastly Magister’s blade as well as exact vengeance upon Uther’s daughters.

  “I can get you gold … let me speak!” Mórganthu voiced, barely a whisper.

  Tregeagle’s lips bunched up, but the gladius didn’t move.

  “Vortigern will pay you gold for the information I will give you.”

  “Vortigern?”

  “Yes … Take your sword away, and I will tell you.”

  The gladius moved away an inch, but Tregeagle still had Mórganthu’s arm pinned and held his hai
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  “Uther’s daughters … are in the weaver’s house … hiding there. Vortigern will pay you dearly for this information.”

  “Why?”

  “He wants all the heirs of Uther dead.” And Mórganthu wanted them dead too, but didn’t say it. Revenge upon that man’s entire house because Uther had murdered Mórganthu’s son and caused his daughter’s death.

  Tregeagle drooled on Mórganthu’s neck. “You know this? He will pay gold?”

  “Happily … happily, O Magister. All the gold you can wish for.”

  Tregeagle fell back, freeing Mórganthu. He dropped his sword clanking upon a rock. “Gold … I shall have gold again …”

  Mórganthu pushed himself up and held his arm, which was stiff and painful. He would neither forget Tregeagle’s infractions, nor forgive, for Mórganthu never let any trespass go. “Take your warriors and capture Uther’s girls … and keep them until Vortigern comes.”

  “No, but I will send Erbin to fetch Vortigern.”

  “Troslam might take them somewhere else and hide them … No, you must capture them!”

  “And then have to feed them? Are you mad? Let Troslam give those leeches his crumbs, I say. You’ll keep watch, now, won’t you?”

  “I?”

  “Yes, you and your druidow,” Tregeagle said, picking up his gladius again. “And if the girls get away, you’ll pay with your nose … and then I’ll kill you for being the clumsy imp you are.”

  Mórganthu rubbed at the cut on his nose and backed away, nodding.

  CHAPTER 19

  PLOD AND PLOT

  The slaves’ trek north took over a month. The Picts raided, pillaged, and burnt their way home, encountering no group of British warriors large enough to stop them. Over two hundred other slaves had been taken during the course of their sojourn, and they trailed behind Merlin with clanking chains, moaning and huffing.

  Natalenya fared the worst of them all. She started out each day walking strong, but then when the sun became hot, she would weaken. By the end, she would be helped along by Colvarth and Caygek until she would faint. That was when Merlin would bear her in his arms, for no one else of sufficient strength would carry her for fear of catching the sickness of bloated scabs that covered her arms and legs. Thankfully, the chains attaching him to Garth and Bedwir were long enough to allow him to do this penance.

  And with each step, each raw stride upon Merlin’s aching legs and bloodied feet, he carried her. Up hills and down valleys. Through streams, and under the dark canopy of forsaken forests. Past raided villages where the old women cried over their dead. Each day when he picked her up, his back would begin to ache. Soon it would throb. And long before the end of the day’s march, it would scream, and Merlin wanted to scream with it. Instead, he would weep in regret — of his decisions, of his foolishness, and of the suffering he had caused. Yes, and he would lament his misplaced trust in God who had neither healed Natalenya nor delivered them — until the tears ran dry and there were no more left to wet his growing beard and her dirty dress.

  The only grace — if horrible, awful grace it could be called — was that Natalenya began to weigh less. This made Merlin’s impossible task easier, and she became less painful to bear. But he feared for her, deeply, and would have gladly shared his own food with her if she would do more than nibble at her rations. And the wasting disease took hold not only upon her flesh, but also upon her mind and soul, and she despaired of life.

  Near the beginning of the journey, Necton made two attempts to kill Natalenya, not wishing a diseased slave to travel with them. Each time, by some grace, Merlin was alerted in time to gather everyone around her and prevent him. Over the next few days, when Necton saw that no one else had caught the disease, especially Merlin, he relented and left her alone. His malevolent stare, however, hinted that he wished her to die and disappear.

  Colvarth tried his best to help her, but no matter what chance herb he found while marching, none could halt the spreading boils or draw out their dread pus. The old man would shake his head, close his eyes, and pray, but there was little else he could do.

  Bedwir also fell under Colvarth’s care, and to Merlin’s amazement, the man slowly healed of his wounds. By the end of their journey, he began to look again like one of Uther’s warriors: stern, determined, and deadly. If only he had a blade. Though obviously grieved at their predicament, the man had an inner joy at finding Arthur — and Merlin resented this. Finding Arthur as a slave? There was little hope in that. Very little, as far as Merlin could see.

  And Arthur himself would hold on to Garth’s neck through the long marches. Always quiet, always watching, he seemed to somehow understand their danger and did not add to the burden by crying without warrant. During rests he would crawl about, laugh, play with Colvarth’s beard, pull himself up on Merlin’s knees, and even take a few faltering steps.

  Garth held up the best of them all, and though he complained bitterly about his lost bagpipe and the lack and quality of their food, he somehow thrived. To Merlin’s amazement, he grew taller, and though thinner, it allowed his strength to show through the more. What did concern Merlin, however, was his long, whispering talks with Caygek, and his willingness to serve Necton — even when the man was cruel. Garth even tried to learn the Pictish language. Was he seeking better rations, which he rarely got, or was he hoping to somehow get his bagpipe back? Or worse, was he just avoiding Merlin and his sullen, scarred face?

  Caygek, ahh … now he was a puzzle. If Merlin had been made of straw, then Caygek would have set him ablaze. Yet, the two-faced lout that he was, the druid would let Colvarth lean upon him as needed during their long marches — yes, Colvarth, the man whom all druidow hated because he had left their ranks and taken the Harp of Britain with him. Ah, they itched for his natural death and the day they could rightfully reclaim the harp. So why did Caygek help him? Merlin would have thought that Colvarth’s swift death would have pleased Caygek more than anything in that man’s miserable, sour life.

  Peredur helped Colvarth as well on the rough journey, and more than once remarked how the old man was like the grandfather he’d never had. During the journey, Merlin gleaned some details from the young man’s life … growing up in Kembry, his father having gout, his older brothers fighting the Saxenow. Him not being allowed to fight because of his small stature. And now he was a slave, and unlikely to ever see his family again — if any of them even lived after the Pictish raid. And it angered him to see their family’s horses being used as pack animals. “Those horses were imported, bred, and trained for war. And the Picts don’t even know!”

  Colvarth tried to keep their spirits up during the march by leading them in prayer and worship, especially on every Lord’s Day, but Merlin found it hard to focus on God with the slave collar pressing upon his shoulders. Raw wounds had formed, and as much as he tried to shift the iron band around, the sores never seemed to heal.

  They marched northward over seventy leagues and finally passed the first wall built by the Romans — of stone stacked to the height of three spans and on top wide enough for two men to walk abreast. Such a foolish emperor to think he could keep the Picts out of Britain. Keep them from swooping down and taking slaves. At least this first wall, the Vallum Aelium built by Hadrian, was mostly intact despite it being abandoned many decades earlier. But what good did it do without warriors to guard it? None — and the Picts took Merlin and the other slaves through one of the many broken-down gates with neither hindrance nor challenge.

  But they were not yet in Pictish lands, for the vast, trackless Kelithon Forest still lay between them and the second Roman wall — the point of no return. Merlin asked Colvarth who ruled the land between the two walls.

  The bard blinked before answering, his wrinkle-lined eyes sunken now after so much exertion. “This is Guotodin land, and King Atle rules here. He has been a sometime friend to Uther’s house — and sometime enemy.”

  “Atle?” Merlin asked. “You mean he’s still alive?�
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  “Alive? Oh, I would not be surprised. And that is more strange than you can know.”

  “He was old when my father visited there, but why is that strange? You are old yourself.”

  Colvarth sighed. “And shortly to die.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But it is true. And here is the peculiar part: The tales when I was a youth told that even then Atle was very old.”

  Merlin shook his head. “Huh.”

  “And years later I consulted with his advisers over a dispute with

  the druidow. I beheld him myself then, and he seemed even younger than I, which makes little sense to me even now.”

  “But my mother was —”

  “Yes, I am familiar with the story of your father … with your story.” Colvarth looked at Merlin, his eyes alight. “You are Atle’s grandson, and that may be worth something to us.”

  “But he doesn’t even know I’m alive. I can’t prove the relation. And my father and mother ran from that man’s wrath. What makes you think —”

  “Yet I am filled with hopefulness, for you resemble him in some ways.”

  Merlin pondered that thought for awhile, but dismissed it as folly. Why would Atle care about his fate? The man had tried to kill Merlin’s mother, his own beloved daughter, when she became a Christian. Unless Atle had changed, and drastically, then he might hate Merlin all the more.

  From that point on the terrain grew more rugged and the trees thickened. Merlin’s job carrying Natalenya became harder. And her strength flagged — so that now Merlin had to carry her more often. As she lay in his arms unconscious through those arduous hours, he hoped she wouldn’t remember that it was he who carried her, for he wanted to set her free from her promise to him, foolish him who had enslaved them, scarred and ugly him who did not deserve her love.

  And as he plodded the ridgeways with Natalenya hanging limp in his arms, forded streams at shallow spots, and slogged through the tree-thick vales, all became a mashed pottage of pity, sadness, and anger — with a finger of madness stirring at the edges. Chains. Moans. Clinking. Aching. Slipping. Bleeding. Scabbing. Collapsing. Death. Dying. Desperation. These woods — this Kelithon Forest — became to him, and always would be, the forest of his penance, and the forest of his inner screams.