Later that day, Merlin, Bedwir, and a number of other slaves were given the task of dragging logs to a clearing in the middle of the village where the Samhain fire would be lit. All around, the Picts worked on masks made from the dried, thick hides of large turnips: ghoulish, horned, sooted black, and grinning. They planned to wear these while dancing, and so smeared ashes on their bodies to make them as white as ghosts. Their practiced chants reminded Merlin of a cross between the guttural howls of wolves and the warning cacaphony of crows.
And whenever Merlin looked into the face of a fellow slave, there was a tightness about the eyes. They were afraid, all of them, for their usefulness would soon come to an end. Only one hundred and fifty or so remained of the original two hundred slaves; some had given in to disease, some had been killed, some just suddenly died from overwork. None had escaped. What would the Picts do with them when the work was done?
And so Merlin wrestled with his desire to free all of the slaves, and not just his own little band — but decided it was too risky. His oath had been to Arthur, and to that he would be true — even if he was a fool to try even that. Could Arthur really come to the throne of his father? Could the island be ruled by justice, and every slave set free?
Deep down, Merlin doubted, for the months of suffering and the sickening stupidity of his decisions had grown a callus so thick that he could hardly feel his soul breathe anymore. The only dim hope he had was to escape. But would they all just be dragged back before morning? If so, would Necton give Merlin over to Scafta so the witch doctor could exact his ultimate revenge?
In the midst of his wood hauling, Merlin spotted Arthur playing outside Necton’s hut under Gormla’s watchful eye. He wanted to go over and hug the boy, talk to him, and tell him it would be over soon — but he couldn’t arouse suspicions. He needed to wait until tonight. And there was work to do, so he and Bedwir stacked the wood for the fire to the height of a man and then some.
Dusk fell, and all the slaves were sent to their end of the village, along with five guards set as watch. Most of the slaves retired to their stone huts for the night, but Merlin gathered his band together and had them light their own small fire about ten paces from the edge of the Picts’ feast. All, that is, except Natalenya, whom Merlin would warn of their plan in a short while.
Thankfully, the six of them were chained in pairs now, and not three together: Caygek with Peredur, Colvarth with Garth, and Merlin with Bedwir. This would make it easier to attack the guards, if they could somehow get them down to three.
“This night is special for the Picts,” Colvarth explained to Peredur, who had been brought up ignorant of the old ways, “because for them it marks the death of the season of light, and the birth of the season of darkness.”
A man stepped up to them, the firelight making shadows play on his face. It was Necton, and he held a hammer in his hand. He pointed to Garth and had him kneel as he unbent the pin holding the boy’s slave collar to Colvarth.
He grabbed the boy by the tunic and began dragging him toward the feast.
Merlin jumped to his feet and began to follow, motioning for Bedwir to join him — until Colvarth grabbed their chain and stopped them.
“Do not interfere,” he said. “I have witnessed this celebration once before, and I think the boy is safe.”
“You think?”
“I cannot be certain.”
“Then I —”
Colvarth yanked the chain. “If I am wrong, there is nothing you can do. There are too many warriors.”
“But I —”
“If something must be done, then wait and pray, and I will tell you when.”
Merlin sat down again and tried to take a deep breath, but his heart sped up instead as he watched the proceedings before him.
Necton took Garth and made him kneel before Scafta, who rubbed his hands together in glee, and then strapped to the boy’s back a wooden saddle from which hung, on his left and right, two large bronze circles emblazoned with the image of the sun. The saddle had a wooden statue shaped like a rider that held a large drinking horn.
“This is the Sun Horn,” Colvarth explained, “and it holds a special admixture of ale and … other things.”
The horn itself had been taken from some massive beast, and Merlin could only fathom how dangerous hunting it must have been. Its drinking edge had been circled in gold, and golden wires spiraled down along the horn’s sides to the sharp tip.
After Garth was positioned and given instructions, he pawed forward on all fours, pretending to be a horse — a very careful horse — and delivered to them their ale. The Picts’ voices rose in uproarious laughter at this spectacle, and Merlin thought Garth would turn red from embarrassment, but for some reason, he did not. He held still on all fours, first before Ealtain, then before three other leading warriors whom Merlin did not know, then before Necton, each one lifting the horn from its socket, drinking a long draught, and then replacing it.
Last, Garth waddled the horn before Scafta, who lifted it high and babbled on before the crowd about the sun’s death and how they would celebrate that night to assure its warm return. Then he drained the horn before placing it back in its socket in the wooden saddle.
General merriment ensued, with the Picts passing around bowls of ale, along with baskets of little biscuits shaped like the sun, and these they ate with relish. Garth was released from his saddle, and he ran back to Merlin and the others, picking up along the way two biscuits that had been dropped.
Merlin realized he’d been holding his breath, and knew why when he saw Garth’s face.
It was white. “Scafta said he’d cut my throat if I spilled the ale.”
Merlin turned angrily to Colvarth. “Did you know this?”
Colvarth sighed. “I suspected, but I did not know for certain. At the Samhain feast I witnessed many years ago, the young boy did not spill the ale either.”
“You risked —”
“No, I trusted in God … You are the one who would have risked.”
Merlin crossed his arms. “Well, we’re all going to risk it tonight. Is that understood?”
Everyone nodded, including a still-pale Garth, who ate one of the biscuits. After finishing it, he handed the other to Merlin. “It’s sweet, but I’m not hungry anymore,” he said, wiping the crumbs from his mouth.
Merlin then explained as quietly as he could the full plan — and finished just before Necton returned to fix Garth’s slave collars on again.
After this was finished, Merlin made his exit, taking Bedwir along, to visit Natalenya. And he brought with him the biscuit to give as a gift.
As they approached her hut, a pang of guilt swept over him because he only visited her once every few days or so, not wanting to keep her heart entangled. Colvarth continually reprimanded him for this, and made sure to visit her twice a day. Even though this made the burden lighter for Merlin, it was not enough to ease his conscience.
Looking inside her hut, he saw her kneeling next to a flickering fire of bramblewood. Why wasn’t she resting? She needed to gather her strength, especially if they were to escape in the middle of the night. As he ducked under the low doorway, leaving Bedwir outside, he prepared to scold her — but then he heard her whispering in prayer. He shut his mouth and stood there while she finished.
Even in her sickness, with her cheeks sunken and her body so frail, she was beautiful. When he was blind, he had tried to imagine what she looked like, but never thought he would see her one day … nor hear her say that she loved him. From her sweetly curved eyebrows pressed across her closed, caring eyes, past the tip of her impertinent nose over those tender lips moving quietly in prayer, down to her small, pretty chin — he loved her.
After a short while, she sat up, saw him and then faced away. “You’re here.”
“We’re leaving tonight. All of us.”
“Not me.”
“Yes. All of us. We’re going to take Arthur and head south.”
“I don’t kn
ow if I have the strength,” she said, a hint of a tremble to her voice.
“I brought you something.”
“I don’t need it.”
“It’s sweet … it might give you strength.” He held the biscuit out.
“Eat it yourself.”
“It’ll help.”
“That’s not what I need.”
Merlin looked down. “What do you want, then? I’ll see if I can get it.”
She turned then, and her reply was cold. “I want some beef, braised and roasted in carrot gravy and served in a silver chalice. A warm blanket and a fine dress. Servants to wait upon my every wish. A comb for clean hair and oil for my unblemished skin.”
Merlin felt his soul begin to rip apart.
She sat in silence. When he glanced up, there were tears streaming down her face.
“I’m sorry,” was all he could say.
“No, you’re not.”
“I am,” he choked out. “You’ve lost all those things, and I can’t promise them. We might not make it tonight.”
She bared her teeth. “I don’t want those things, and what I do want you won’t give me.”
He broke the biscuit in his hand, not knowing what to say. He wanted to whip it against the wall, but he cradled it in his trembling palm instead. “Let me know what it is … I’ll give it.”
“You.”
CHAPTER 21
ESCAPE
Back in his hut, Merlin’s muscles ached to the point that he had trouble resting. His calf hurt in particular. Not that a bed in the dirt with a rumpled-up ragged tunic for a pillow helped any. Most of all, his heart hurt … for Natalenya. What was he to do? She needed him, but he had vowed to free her from her promise.
So he got up and sat in the shadow of the hut’s doorway, the others snoring around him, and watched for the Picts to settle down for the night. But his wait stretched on because they danced for hours like spinning phantoms with their ash ethereal bodies and black masks. And they chanted, screamed, and beat the ground with spears while Scafta pranced around the Samhain bonfire like a demon-horse, calling on their gods for protection and for the death of enemies.
By the time the villagers retired and slunk off into the darkness, the stars had whirled far from where they had appeared at sunset, and though it worried Merlin that dawn wasn’t far off, he breathed a sigh of relief when the five guards turned in and only two took their place.
And these two, who were all that prevented their escape, spent some time rekindling the fire that Merlin had lit earlier and settled down on the large rocks that surrounded the fire. This was exactly what Merlin had hoped for, and he had positioned the fire so that the guards would have their back to Merlin’s hut.
It was time.
He alerted Colvarth and the snoring, snuffle-mouthed Garth so they could keep watch. He then woke Caygek, Peredur, and Bedwir, and they stripped off all their extra, ragged clothing and snaked them through the chains as best they could to keep them from clinking.
Merlin directed them to leave the hut in absolute silence. Once outside, he and Bedwir stretched their chain taut between them to remove all chance of noise, and Peredur and Caygek did the same. They then approached the guards with muted footsteps. Slowly. Crouching. Pausing. Walking.
Ahead, one of the guards finished chewing on a chunk of meat and threw the bone behind him. It landed a few paces from Merlin with a dull thud — giving him an idea. He bent down, picked up two rocks with his free hand, and then directed them forward.
When they got to within lunging distance of the guards, Merlin threw the two stones over their heads and into the darkness. The guards grabbed their spears, and, blinded by the campfire, stood to peer toward the sound.
Merlin made eye contact with Bedwir, Caygek, and then Peredur. Nodding twice, they lunged forward. Merlin and Bedwir wrapped their chain around the nearest guard’s neck and throttled him so tightly that only a muffled gasp came out. Caygek and Peredur did the same with their guard, and soon, both were dead.
Not wanting to see the man’s face, Merlin closed his eyes as he let the body fall to the ground. And even though he picked up the spears and started to rush back to get the others and escape, Caygek halted him.
Carefully, the druid and Peredur sat the bodies upright by leaning them against the large rocks to make them look as natural as possible. Then Caygek took some other rocks and used them to brace up their heads.
As a final touch, he threw a few more logs on the fire, and then they stole off into the darkness to get Garth and the bard, who had both been watching with wide eyes. From there, it was a short walk to Natalenya’s hut, where she was waiting with a small bundle of cloth.
“Leave it,” Merlin said.
She shook her head. “It’s for Arthur. We might need to change him still.”
Merlin led them out to the field, and to the tree where the hammer lay hidden. He had no trouble finding it in the dark, for the trunk was much thicker than its companions. The hammer was still there, and its heft felt like a promise of freedom in Merlin’s hands. From there, he led theme into the woods a good distance, and with as little noise as possible, he unbent the pin that kept Caygek and Peredur’s collars chained together, and then the pin that held him and Bedwir’s.
Natalenya, of all them, did not have a slave collar because no one cared whether she lived or died, whether she stayed or went.
Turning to Garth, he was surprised to find the boy already free and his slave collar laying on the ground. “It never fit anyway,” he said with a mischevious grin.
But to free Colvarth, he still had to unbend the pin, and he did so with Garth’s help. And just as Merlin lifted the slave collar off of the bard’s shoulders, the man let out a stifled screech.
“Shah!” Bedwir said.
“But my harp! In my excitement, I forgot my harp!”
Merlin thought for a moment before answering. “We’ll have to leave it. We have no choice.”
“You do not understand … it is the very Harp of Britain!”
“Arthur’s more important!”
“But I —”
Merlin waved him to silence. Now for the most dangerous part of their escape: sneaking into the village, finding Necton’s hut, and stealing Arthur back. All without being discovered.
Merlin tilted his spear down and knelt behind a bush at the very edge of the village. Garth joined him, with Bedwir staying in the shadows just in case something went wrong.
Now where had he seen Arthur playing? He tried to remember the shape of Necton’s hut … was it slightly oblong compared to the others? No! It was taller to accommodate the man’s height. So he looked out over the village, but everything looked different at night. Many of the doorways were covered by a large flap of leather, but some were not, and the nearest one’s black interior gaped at him like the frowning mouth of a giant, eyeless skull.
Merlin held his breath. All it would take was one hound to start baying and they were dead. He pointed around one side of the nearest hut, crept out with Garth, and then began walking quietly, yet as normal as he could, trying to pose as one of the villagers.
Garth tumbled over a tripod holding two chains attached to a spit, but Merlin caught him. The spit still had a roasted bird on it, half eaten already, and it swayed dangerously toward the bars. Garth grabbed it, steadied it, and pulled off a wing.
“No,” Merlin whispered.
Garth shook his head and held the wing behind his back.
Merlin huffed but chose to ignore it. Up ahead was Necton’s hut, a little to the left. He led Garth around to approach it from the side. Now for the trickiest thing he had ever done. If it was only one man inside, he might rush in, spear him, and hope for the best — but with Necton and his wife both there, surely someone would yell and they’d be caught.
No … Merlin had to sneak inside and steal Arthur without them knowing.
Just then, behind Garth, the leather flap of a hut’s door was pushed aside.
&nb
sp; A little boy stepped out, and, ignoring them in his bleary-eyed state, ran over to a rock and relieved himself. The child was older than Arthur, but not by much if you counted his size.
Garth tapped Merlin on the shoulder.
“What?”
“Watch …”
Garth walked over to the boy and offered him the wing, holding the roasted meat right under the boy’s nose and whispering something in Pictish. The boy took the wing, a confused look on his face as he nibbled at the greasy skin. Garth then took the boy’s other hand and walked him toward Necton’s hut. He opened the hut’s flap as quietly as he could, and stepped inside with the boy.
Merlin crouched down in the shadow of the hut. This wasn’t how he’d planned it — Merlin was supposed to go inside while Garth kept watch. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he felt his arms pulse with fire. In contrast, the spear felt cold in his hands. Time, measured in heartbeats, throbbed painfully slow.
A noise. Scuffing feet. Garth appeared before him holding a sleeping Arthur, who wore nothing but a deerskin loin cloth. He was sucking his thumb as he snuggled into Garth’s tunic.
Merlin dared a breath.
They fled, yet Merlin’s legs felt made of mud. Finally to the woods, where Bedwir joined them as they made a hasty and silent retreat to where the others hid. Merlin told the story, and everyone hugged Garth, including Natalenya.
Southward Merlin led them, following the lake shore until they neared the edge of the tribe’s lands, marked by a line of large, stone monuments adorned with mocking skulls.
But something pricked Merlin’s ears, tuned as they were by his years of blindness. He halted the party next to some bushes and they ducked down.
Ahead, a shadow stepped out from one of the stones and moved stealthily toward them.
Merlin tensed.
Footfalls. A whistling call. Murmurs. Shouting.
He looked between the branches and spied ash-grimed warriors running toward them.
While having his four druidow take turns obeying Tregeagle’s demands to keep watch on the weaver’s home, Mórganthu passed his time spying, calling up scenes through the orb. Among many other things, he examined the state of Erin, his homeland, including its king, named Ailill Molt, that ruffian of a Christian with hair growing out of his ears. He stood among the king’s monkish counselors, who traipsed about in their rotten robes. Mórganthu wished for the fang then, that he might cause as much pain to the king as possible, for the memory burned in Mórganthu’s mind of the killing of the Brotherhood of True Seers, and of their heads upon poles. After Pádraig had given over the church to be ruled by that simpleton of a singer, Benignus, the king had declared war upon the druidow who would not convert. Mórganthu yearned for both men’s death upon the stone at the hill of Tara, so that the isle might be given a new birth.
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