Finally, with deep exhaustion beyond anything Merlin had ever felt, they arrived at the second wall, the long-abandoned Vallum Antoninus, a broken and menacing barrier of turf and rocks whose scattered bones marked the entrance into Pictish lands. Merlin had heard of this ruined wall — and the living death its passage represented — but had never imagined he himself would one day cross it.
And gratefully, after only a few more leagues, they reached the tribe’s lands, the entrance of which was marked by a line of large, stone monuments decorated with decaying skulls of men and horses.
The village lay on the western shore of the largest lake Merlin had ever seen, its reaches stretching beyond his sight to the north. And beyond the village lay a high mountain range skirted by gray and brown-topped foothills with colossal, moss-bound pines.
The village itself was larger than Bosventor — perhaps three hundred domed huts made completely of stone, including the roofs. And the Picts had their own fortress built into the side of a glen not far away, and in the glen there flowed a stream that emptied into the lake. The surrounding farmland had not yet been tilled, as spring came later in the north.
“We are all blessed,” Colvarth said to Merlin after they arrived.
“Blessed?” Merlin said, hardly comprehending the word. He set Natalenya down on the grass and fell on his side, sucking in air.
“Yes, the land of the Picts goes another seventy leagues north …”
“We’d still be walking for a long while, sure. I’m glad too.”
“You would still be walking, yes. But I … I would soon die.”
And it was true, the old man had spent himself on the journey. Merlin rested a hand on Colvarth’s shoulder and felt what little was left on his bones.
A celebration ensued for the warriors, victorious over their soft, southern enemies and rich with slaves and plunder. They feasted long into the night while the slaves’ camp lay quiet like a corpse. Only one guard was posted, for no one, including Merlin, had the strength to flee.
But a thought bothered Merlin as he fell asleep in a drafty stone hut that had been given them: The village appeared to own no previous slaves. If the Picts captured slaves every year, what had become of them?
The next day, about midmorning, Necton came, took Arthur from them, and painted new designs of blue paint upon the young boy’s chest. His wife, whom they later knew as Gormla, was standing to the side of the crowd, and he gave the child into her arms. Arthur cried as they carried him away. Merlin wanted to stop him, but there was nothing he could do. Not yet.
The warriors assembled all the slaves, and Ealtain addressed them. “Anns Tauchen-Twilloch be village-i, and airson bless’ive yiu ris our gle ghodis, and ris our peiple. Reborn is now an land, and be’ive yiu our offering ris it.”
Ealtain droned on, but Merlin ignored him. What did it matter? At least he understood the part about where they were — the village of Tauchen-Twilloch — and as far beyond the end of the known world as Merlin could imagine.
Garth stepped next to Colvarth. “I’m startin’ to understan’ their speech … Did he say they’re goin’ to sacrifice us?”
“No … at least not yet.” Colvarth answered. “It means we will be the ones working their land, their offering to it.”
Garth shared the translation with a slave next to him, and so the word spread.
And Merlin soon learned what Ealtain meant: Breaking up the soil with ard and hoe, even if their backs nearly broke. Digging out thousands of rocks until their knees were numb. Planting the crops of barley, oats, wheat, beans, and turnips, even in the pouring rain. Weeding until their fingers bled. Hauling water on aching shoulders whenever the summer wind raked the top of the land with its dry talons.
Merlin wanted to close his eyes and wish it all away, but couldn’t. Slowly, he became numb. Numb to the work. Numb to the beatings when he didn’t go fast enough. Numb to the deaths. Numb to everything except Natalenya. Merlin worried for her. With her sickness, no one wanted her working in the fields, and so she was relegated to a mold-and-slime-encrusted rock hut far away from the others. This was the “hut of the dead,” he had been told, and here she rested and, if it was possible, improved a little.
And some of the other slaves did give their very life blood, for they were whipped if they didn’t work hard enough, and some men died at the hands of a merciless Pict and his ripping, choking rope. Necton himself was harsh to his slaves, especially to Merlin.
“Lazy doig, yiu!” Necton yelled at him one summer day as he clouted Merlin on the back for the third time with the haft of his spear.
Merlin had done nothing but stop to let Garth and Bedwir catch their breaths while the three were carrying water. Now Merlin had paid for it with a bruised back and a welt on his neck.
“Thusa work-ha harder yiu, or make-idh yui an Scafta thrail, and then yiu’ll pay-sa.”
Merlin cringed at this threat to make him Scafta’s slave, for Necton meant it, knowing full well Scafta longed to beat Merlin into submission and remove completely any threat from someone the people considered a rival bard.
For if he ever became Scafta’s slave, he wouldn’t last long, as the witch doctor was brutal. One poor slave found out the hard way by misplacing his wooden comb. When he found it again, it was helping hold up Scafta’s voluminous hair. The man, indignant of having lost everything else, could not stand this final outrage. He snuck up behind Scafta and pulled it out. Scafta whipped around, grabbed the man’s wrist, pinned him to the ground, and slew him.
Merlin had to find a way for them to escape — and soon.
His first break came when Bedwir found an iron-plated wooden hammer left behind beside their oat field when some workers had finished repairing a cart axel. Merlin hid it underneath a rock just behind a tree. And so he began to plan.
But was Natalenya too sick? She had improved a little, yes, but enough to survive such a journey? They had to try, even if going slowly was the only way.
As summer’s frenzy rusted away to fall’s exhaustion, no opportunity to escape presented itself. At lest the weeding became less, so Garth and Colvarth were given the job of helping prepare food for the slaves, as well as the Picts. To do this more effectively, they were chained only to each other, and even had the privilege of handling some old knives to cut up the food under the watchful eyes of one of the Pictish guards.
One day Merlin was carrying a heaping basket of oats to a storage hut, and he passed Garth stirring a pot of old, weevil-infested beans over a fire. The boy said to the Colvarth, “It’s all wrong.” A few tears had rolled down his cheek, and he wiped them off.
Colvarth arched a dirty eyebrow. “The soup will taste better than it looks.”
“Not the soup,” Garth said, dropping in some long fetticus weeds pulled from the wheat fields. “This slavin’ an all o’ Scafta’s killin’ … an their pagan worship. It’s all wrong. I saw a lot with the druidow, an’ I’m sick of that witch doctor even more than I was o’ the ard dre.”
Scafta walked by with Garth’s bagpipe under his arm, as he often did in the evenings. He turned a wicked eye at Garth, fuffed up the bagpipe with air, and began playing. To Merlin it sounded like Scafta was squeezing a sick rat to death. The boy played much, much better.
Garth clenched his jaw.
“There is something we might do,” Colvarth whispered, “besides pray and hope.”
“What?” Garth asked as he leaned forward to hear the reply.
A warrior yelled at Merlin to get moving, and so he never heard Colvarth’s answer.
It had only been two days since Mórganthu’s pact with Tregeagle, but he was already fretting the decision. He ground his teeth while walking back and forth outside his tent. Around his tent. To the stone circle. Around the stone circle. To the southwest to gloat over Uther’s cairn. Oh, how he wanted Ganieda. How he wanted the fang — desperately. But if he made any move to take either back, then Uther’s girls might flee and hide. If so, then Tregeagle and
his warriors would try to exact the gold debt upon Mórganthu and his precious nose.
Surely he could just leave and Tregeagle would never find him. But he couldn’t abandon his daughter’s daughter to these worshipers of a foreign god, never, so he had to stay. And not only that, but he wanted to see for himself this honey-dipped retribution upon Uther’s children.
But the fang? Was there any way to get the fang? No. Even going back to see if the shutter was unlocked was too chancy. And Ganieda could use it to defend herself, if needed.
He would have to wait until Vortigern came, and then make sure the oaf knew that his granddaughter was also in the house and she was not to be touched. There must be no confusion.
If only he had more than four of his druidow to help. The rest had dug the Honor Pit, set their dead brothers’s bodies in it, and left. So only two could be called upon to take turns watching Troslam’s house. Mórganthu vowed to make them vigilant, for these remaining scums of Uther would not escape before vengeance had been exacted.
And the orb, aha, the orb would help him keep watch. Since Ganieda had used it so effortlessly to see places far away, even visit them, could Mórganthu learn its secrets too? If so, then he could scrutinize those around Ganieda to make sure she was being treated well. And he could also quite possibly see and observe other things happening in Britain, Erin, and even across the sea. With the orb he could devote his time to learning the secrets of the world, expanding the knowledge of the druidow, and thereby increasing their power.
He ran back to his tent and took out the orb from the deep barrel where it had been hid. It felt somewhat soft to the touch, which was strange since he could see into one side of it like it was made of glass. He fingered the fibers coming out the other end, and they had stiffened over the last many days. Some of them had even broke off. What was this thing? He held it up before his eyes, and commanded it to show him where Merlin was. Mórganthu wanted to gloat over that meddler’s squirming slavery.
Tendrils of a black smoke swirled inside and then lit up with a dim, purple radiance. Soon the image cleared, and he spied Merlin, a stubbly beard on his smudged, sweating face. The man trekked north with a slave collar pinned around his neck, and his skin bled under its heavy grip. He’d even been chained to other slaves. And though Mórganthu could clearly see all of Merlin’s suffering — and the suffering of that wretched Garth and the wicked Colvarth — Mórganthu became so incensed that the scoundrel lived that he wanted to smash the orb against a rock. But he dared not, for with the orb he could see many things.
And so as the leaves turned from summer’s green to autumn’s brown, he spent his time absorbed with more important visions, such as that traitorous Vortigern. There he sat, with a majestic torc around his neck as he began his reign as High King of the Britons. Thousands of warriors lauded him, each one bowing before him and kissing his boot. The flat-nosed Vortipor stood beside him, only half interested in the proceedings. The hall around the new High King was being rebuilt, and Vortigern smiled like a buffoon at the masons and carpenters busy at work. Ah, but he would come to Bosventor soon, like a dog to its vomit, and kill Uther’s daughters on Mórganthu’s behalf. What a nice thing for him to do. Mórganthu didn’t have to lift a finger. Only watch. And wait.
CHAPTER 20
SAMHAIN
Weeks passed with Merlin waiting for the moon to go from full, to half, to a cold crescent, to nothing but a hoary sliver — and the time to act had arrived. With the nights getting fridgid, they couldn’t wait another month, guards or no guards.
So early the next morning, before the warriors drove them from the stone huts to work, Merlin rolled over to Colvarth, woke him, and told him of the secret mallet and of his plan.
The bard’s face flushed in the thin light filtering through the door, and he motioned Merlin closer. “It is all I could hope for, but it will be difficult.”
Merlin tensed his neck, thinking of the risk. “I know.”
“You do not. Tonight, when the moon is dark, the Picts will celebrate their pagan harvest feast of Samhain. Have you not known why they work us to the bone to finish the harvest?”
“Perhaps they will be careless.”
“Perhaps not. To them, it is a night when the otherworld bleeds through to our own to work its mischeif. They will celebrate, certainly, but they will be afraid, and more than likely post more guards around the village.”
“They’re that afraid?”
“They fear the otherworld. And because of that, many fear you.”
“Still?”
“Scafta is afraid.”
“He hates me, sure —”
“Lately, he has been observing you more. The last few days I have often seen him standing in the woods, studying you. Watching from the shadows.”
Just then, a darkness fell over the door.
Merlin sucked in his breath and bit his lip.
“Thusa get-a up yiu!”
It was just one of the guards, come to wake them up.
That day the Picts worked the slaves many extra hours to finish cutting and threshing the wheat crop. Necton took particular interest in driving Merlin to the breaking point and brought a whip to keep him moving. It didn’t matter if Merlin’s left calf had cramped up, that his blistered hands wept their pus onto the wheat, or that his right elbow throbbed in pain — he had to keep loading the wooden carts with sheaves until they could hold no more, or else endure additional scars added to his back.
Merlin was thankful Bedwir was chained beside him and did his best to help, despite his right foot having been injured on a thorn the week before.
The slaves then pulled each cart over to a large, flat rock where Caygek, Peredur, and many others threshed the sheaves. From there they sifted the grain into hundreds of baskets and clay pots for storage inside a row of stone crennigs. The Picts hoped that these grains would last the village through the long, snow-deep winter.
Merlin cast a heavy bundle of sheaves onto the nearest cart and then turned to pick up another when he saw Colvarth and Garth, chained together, walk toward the woods with a guard at their heels.
Merlin’s tongue felt thick and dry, but he called out anyway, “Where’re you going?”
Garth waved. “A hunter got a deer, an’ we’re s’posed to skin it an’ roast it.”
“Did you sharpen your knives this time?” Merlin called.
“Yesterday’s boar taught me. ‘Always sharp yer knives’ is me new motto!”
Hopefully, the boy had learned a different lesson as well and wouldn’t get another bashing. Earlier in the day a Pictish cook had punched Garth in the eye for tasting the roasted boar’s crispy skin so he could “make sure it’d been salted right.”
Merlin shook his head at the boy. What a trial it must be for Garth to cook up big pots of grouse and oat porridge soup … without being able to taste one spoonful. To bake baskets and baskets of steaming barley rolls … without being able to eat one crumb. To boil and mash great tubs of honeyed sloe and rowan berries … without being able to even dip his thumb in. To fillet heaps of pike and smoke them … without being able to nibble the smallest morsel.
Thinking about it made Merlin hungry too, for he and the other slaves would get their same, worthless fare: moldy bread, and if they were lucky, some old, dry meat only fit for a dog. He was glad Garth could get away from the cooking for a bit — at least he wouldn’t be tempted.
But lack of food meant nothing to Merlin. He just wanted their escape to succeed.
And the other slaves? They just wanted to survive to the feast, for Scafta’s lust for blood made him hunt among them for any infractions worth a beating. And he found such a violation in a bare-chested, older slave who he caught sleeping under a pile of sheaves.
“I … I was jus’ … checkin for bugs!” the man said as two warriors stood him up and shoved him toward Scafta.
The others backed up, and a circle was quickly formed. Necton stood nearby, and he secretly scowled at Ealtai
n when the chieftain stepped over to see what was going on.
Scafta crouched, ready to spring, one hand balled in a fist, and the other holding his shaman stick.
The slave backed up, but a warrior shoved him forward once again.
Scafta struck, lunging to the man’s left and cracking him over the head.
But the slave fought back. He shook his head and picked up a wooden hay fork. He held it up and jabbed it forward.
Scafta turned to the side, and as swift as a fox he slid off a secret cap on top of his shaman stick and swung the stick toward the slave. An iron-tipped, crude dart flew out and punctured the slave deeply in the chest.
The man staggarred back, dropping the pitchfork. He looked down at the dart and screamed. His hand drifted up unsteadily, took hold of it, pulled it out, and then his face turned white.
He fell to his knees then, just in time for Scafta to kick the slave twice in the gut with his spiked boots. Blood poured out as the slave collapsed, moaning.
Scafta retrieved the dart, put it back in his stick, and then strutted near Merlin with that enormous shrub of hair massed upon his head, all the while picking at his teeth as if he’d just eaten Merlin’s liver.
Clenching his fists, Merlin wanted to rip each one of Scafta’s ribs out, and he would have if it hadn’t meant certain death at the hands of the Pictish warriors, who looked at Scafta with awe on their faces. Even Necton, who stood nearby, had a look of shock. And Ealtain, the man who derived a portion of his authority from the witch doctor, walked away from the fight with a fearful, backward glance. Who could stand up to such a one? All Merlin could do was glare back until Scafta tired of his gloating, turned on his heel, and left.
The slave died that hour: shaking, vomiting, and mumbling about strange colors.
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