He also saw the Saxenow hordes pulling their boats up on the shores of Britain. Mórganthu thought deeply about these strangers for many weeks. How might they be used to further his purposes in Britain? No, they did not honor the druidow, but neither did they worship the Christian god. Many a night Mórganthu sought to study the leader of these beasts, a young man named Hengist, with a horse-hide cloak falling across his sinewy arms. He was deadly with a blade, and there were none his equal among the many skirmishes with the Britons. Vortigern, the new High King, surely had a mess, for while the Saxenow camp grew larger, Vortigern’s grew smaller as some of the men stole back to their homes after hearing the news of Uther’s death.
Mórganthu prayed to the spirits of the nine sacred woods that this wouldn’t slow Vortigern’s arrival in Bosventor.
Inis Môn, the druidow’s blessed isle off the northwest coast of Kembry, was one of Mórganthu’s favorite spots to view. Its brown shores rose up to green grassy hills and the burned trees surrounding the broken stone circles — all desecrated by the Romans. How he wished to replant its sacred groves and renew its sacrifices conducted there from beyond remembrance. The Stone had given him a vision of the renewal of the sacred isle, but so far, it had amounted to nothing. How could the Stone have been wrong?
He spied out the druidow in distant lands. Yes, these were the places he remembered from his journeys as a youth. His father took him and his older brother to visit Brithanvy, Gaul, and Kallicia for a time. But these places brought him no peace, for he saw these druidow suffering as well in poverty and neglect. The Christians were everywhere, rotting the golden apple of his comrades’ world like insatiable worms.
And, of course, he looked in upon Ganieda and the wicked Uther girls to make sure they were still present in the weaver’s house.
But it was tedious, for they stayed indoors:
Cooking soup, roasting fowl, and baking bread.
Spinning yarn, dunking them into dyes, and learning to weave.
Playing games with colored shells, hopping up and down — giggling — all the things little girls do that Mórganthu could not comprehend.
But despite these outward things, he could tell Ganieda was lonely and unhappy. She often sat in her room weeping and demanding that her curious visitors leave her alone. Four times did Mórganthu see her hit and scream at one of the other girls, and each time she had to be restrained by the mother.
But worst of all were the times when a monk would come and ply his witchery upon Ganieda. Mórganthu recognized him as Dybris, the monk he had caught trying to free the other monks on the night of Beltayne, the night the druidow would have risen to power if not for Merlin and that impudent, parchment drooling, bilious fool. And this man had the stupidity to lead the family in worship of their strange god, and Ganieda had to sit through it! And what bothered Mórganthu the most was that his granddaughter actually seemed to be considering this god, for she would sit raptly as the foolish brown-headed monk droned on from his scroll.
Mórganthu’s temples throbbed, and his bowels ached to view such profanity. He wanted to sickle out the man’s liver and feed it to Ganieda’s wolf, wherever the fanged thing was hiding.
And that insipid, sluggish Vortigern couldn’t come soon enough to end this mockery.
Among all the people, places, and things Mórganthu requested to see, the orb would sometimes show him things unbidden. The most prominent of all was a white-bearded king, old beyond most men’s reckoning. He sat upon a wooden throne inlaid with sapphires and held in his hand a rod carved with the severed heads of boars, deer, wolves, and hawks — and at the very top, the head of a dragon, its pearl-like eyes shining back at Mórganthu through the orb.
The king had a pock-marked, age-spotted nose and dry lips that were pinched in a scowl. He wore a dusty robe of badger fur over a thin, red tunic made of a strange, shiny cloth embroidered with bone-white thread. At the man’s feet, upon a dais covered with gold, sat a misshapen lump of a woman in a shabby, jester-like outfit. Her nose was crooked, and she drooled from broken teeth. Her back was horribly bent and twisted, and it was a marvel she could walk and fetch the king’s dainties of cheese, fruits, and succulent meats from a large feasting table. Many warriors lounged around, lifting high their silver bowls.
One of these warriors stood and addressed the king — a young man of particular note because, to Mórganthu’s shock, he resembled Merlin — except for the scars, of course. He had dark, wavy hair over a handsome nose and a strong jaw. He wore a tunic similar to the old king’s, but his had been dyed black on his left half and red on the right. And he was also strong, like Merlin, easily able to wield the shining blade that hung from his waist. This blade was broader than most British blades, with a shorter handle, and it reminded Mórganthu of a sword he’d seen in the far north — a Lochlan blade brought from a distant land across the northeastern sea.
“Loth,” the king said, tapping his curled fingernail on his rod to get the youth’s attention, “the ninth year es upon us … and I begin to feel etts weight.” His accent was definitely Lochlan, Mórganthu thought.
“But where will we get the child?” the young man asked.
The king looked at him, perplexed. “Have none been orphaned in de village?”
“None, father … none of the young ones, I should say.”
“Plenty children are available en de vorld, and so one vill come to us … dey always have. But I vill study de matter afresh, and if none are found, ve can always give a child de … proper qualities. Fetch my charts and books.”
“Yes, father.” The young man bowed and then exited the feasting hall.
And as the image faded, Mórganthu received one more view of the old king, and could see the resemblance … father and son, yes, it was true.
And so the months passed for Mórganthu, lost in thought, deep in spying. Waiting for Vortigern. Waiting.
CHAPTER 22
REVENGE
Run!” Merlin called, but it was too late. Fifteen warriors surrounded them, all with spears leveled, and Scafta among them.
“I told you they’d set a guard,” Colvarth said.
“So many.” Merlin instinctively dropped his spear. Their was no other choice. Arthur must live, and they must live to free him.
Bedwir hesitated, but then followed Merlin’s example.
Scafta snatched up the two spears and stepped up to them, mouth open in awful triumph. His breath smelled like rotten fish, and he pointed both spears at Merlin’s chest.
“Thusa back-ive ris am village!” the man screamed. “Now!”
They were marched single file all the way back to the center of the village, where the heaped and dying embers of the great bonfire still burned. When the dead guards were discovered, a great cry rose up among the warriors, and soon all the village was roused.
Necton, at the discovery of Arthur having been taken from his hut, was furious, but controlled his anger and gave Arthur back to his wife, who sobbed into the child’s bare chest.
Ealtain swung his massive fists, struck Caygek down and then Bedwir. Finally, stopping before Merlin, his chest heaved in and out and his lower lip knotted in fury. The veins on his arms throbbed, and he held up a hand to smash Merlin.
Scafta clicked his tongue, and Ealtain jerked his head around. Scafta stepped over, his massive ball of hair looking more scraggly than normal, and whispered in the chieftain’s ear.
Ealtain smiled and shouted for everyone to back up.
Merlin backed up too, but Ealtain grabbed his tunic and pulled him to the center.
“Given-sa ris Scafta Merlin is, air escape, that airson killed-ar might be. Thusa say-idh yiu air him yiur curses!”
Merlin didn’t understand this exactly, but could tell it was serious by the whiteness and shock that came over Colvarth’s face.
Scafta stepped into the ring holding a spear. But not just any spear: a jagged, wicked-looking thing with a collar of what looked like human hair tied on just beyond the
black tip. The shaft was stained with blood and gore, as if it had already been used that night to gut someone. That was when Merlin noticed a sharp iron hook on the other end.
Merlin was weaponless.
Ealtain sneered and then stepped to the edge of the ring of yelling, angry Picts.
Garth peeked out behind Ealtain’s elbow with his eyes squinted and his jaw set. Natalenya stood behind him, her white fingers gripping the boy’s shoulder.
Scafta advanced, the spear end jabbing toward Merlin’s throat.
Merlin backed up, but there wasn’t far to go before he’d —
Something hit his ankles hard, and his legs flew out from underneath him. He fell to the hard-packed dirt, and his head spun. A three-foot log lay under his feet that someone had rolled out to trip him.
The crowd erupted in laughter, as Scafta jabbed the ground repeatedly just inches from Merlin’s arms, chest, and head.
Merlin sat up, dazed, then quickly got to his feet. Where had Scafta gone?
The back of Merlin’s tunic ripped, and Scafta laughed as he waved the cloth he had cut like a flag of triumph.
Merlin jumped away and spun, only to find the iron hook around his right ankle.
Scafta pulled.
The world turned sideways as Merlin fell again, this time hard on his shoulder.
Scafta flipped to the spear end and stabbed it downward.
Merlin rolled, feeling the dirt crumble on his cheeks and hearing the crunch of the spear only inches from his side. Kicking Scafta’s leg, he yelled, rolled again, and stood to a crouch.
The Picts cheered Scafta on, now even louder.
Merlin snarled.
Scafta backed away, a wicked grin on his face. Letting go of the spear with his right hand, he reached to his scraggly set of necklaces and yanked off a small, leather bag.
With the spear off kilter, Merlin leapt and threw a punch right at Scafta’s fleshy nose.
But the witch doctor backed up and threw the contents of the bag in Merlin’s face.
It was dust — blinding, choking dust. Merlin’s swing missed, and he almost fell. His eyes stung, and he tried wiping the dust off his face with his sleeve, but it was no use. He tried to open his eyes to see where that brutal man stood, but he only saw smears of light, shadow, and his own bitter, blinding tears.
Merlin heard a footfall, and he turned toward it, but then he heard another from behind, and he spun in that direction. Where was Scafta? Laughter swirled around him as he groped and swung toward every sound.
Merlin tensed his body to be skewered, for Scafta would gut him at any moment. He wanted to raise his hands, give up, and end it. End it all. They would all die. He had failed them. There was nothing he could do to defend himself.
Or could he? A calm fell over him, faint at first, but then stronger — a sureness, a confidence, a normalcy — even in his temporary blindness. Seven years he had been blind. He had fought Rondroc blind. He had fought Connek blind. He had fought the giant warrior blind. He had fought Mórganthu blind. He had driven the sword into the Stone — again, blind.
He closed his stinging eyes, ignored their pain as best he could, and focused. He crouched. He yelled at Scafta with all his breath, venting his anger, and trying to scare him. A hush fell over the Picts. Time slowed. He listened with every skill he had ever learned, turning his head back and forth to locate any sound of Scafta.
A scuffing. Beside him. To his right. One pace away. A brief chuckle of derision. Scafta was righthanded, wasn’t he? The spear, with its hook on the end, couldn’t be turned as quickly. Scafta wouldn’t suspect —
Merlin lunged, reaching for the spear … and touched the wood with his right hand.
Scafta jerked it up … directly into Merlin’s left hand. He grabbed it.
Scafta tried to gore him with the hook, and the sharp tip jabbed into Merlin’s belt and cut into his hip — but it was caught there, allowing Merlin to seize the shaft with his right hand as well. He yanked the hook free from his belt, stopping it from cutting any deeper.
The two fought for mastery over the spear and rammed heads twice. The awful smell of Scafta’s ratted hair almost made Merlin retch.
Making a small trench in the soft ground with his bare feet, he shoved as hard as he could. Scafta stepped back, and fell, pulling Merlin with him. As he dropped forward, Merlin’s shin hit the log that had been rolled out earlier — Scafta had tripped over it, and was momentarily stunned.
Merlin pushed the spear down with all his weight, and he shoved it onto Scafta’s bare neck. The witch doctor gurgled in anger, and even tried to spit on Merlin, but he wouldn’t let go.
Merlin heard something near Scafta’s head, and then the witch doctor began screaming as if Merlin was killing him.
“Hold him still,” came a voice. A boy’s voice. It was Garth!
Scafta kept screaming and began to buck wildly. Merlin had a hard time holding him.
“Almost done!”
Scafta’s strength increased, and the man lifted the spear off of his neck. Merlin kneed him, and the spear dropped back down, yet Scafta screamed all the more.
What was the boy doing? Merlin’s vision was clearing, but not enough to see. He heard a strange noise, like ripping wool.
“Done!” Garth yelled, and Merlin heard him jump up. “Let him go!”
Scafta went limp, yet Merlin could tell he hadn’t passed out.
Merlin dropped back to his haunches and stood, taking the spear with him in case Scafta attacked. His full sight had began to return, and he wiped his eyes again. Scafta still lay on the ground, but something about him looked odd. Merlin turned to Garth, who stood above the witch doctor — holding the man’s huge knot of hair!
“ ‘Always sharp yer knives’ is me new motto!” Garth said as he brandished a long cooking knife in the other hand, which, Merlin surmised, he must have hidden in his waistband. Colvarth, standing behind Garth, was pursing his lips in a silent whistle and he tried to look innoncent of the matter.
A shorn Scafta rose up, looked at the crowd of astonished Picts, and ran away yelling. It was awful, like a rabid lynx shrieking to escape a vat of boiling water. He pulled at his short, scraggly hair, shaking his head, and jerking his arms up and down as he ran off into the woods.
Ealtain pounced into the ring, brandishing his own spear, which was longer than Merlin’s. His lip twitched as he yelled a battle cry.
Merlin had just enough time to deflect the thrust and step to the side.
Ealtain swung, and Merlin ducked.
Merlin countered by jabbing the hook end at Ealtain’s leg, but the big man grabbed Merlin’s spear and yanked it out of his hands.
So quick, and Merlin was defenseless again. He prepared himself for the inevitable.
But Ealtain screamed and stuck his chest out as a spear point came ripping through his gut. Blood rushed down his legs, and he fell to his knees. He looked down at the spear and tried to turn to face his killer, but the shaft of the spear prevented it, and he fell.
Necton stood behind him, his teeth clenched and his head shaking while he pulled the spear from the dying man.
Merlin backed up and Colvarth pulled him close, whispering, “The Picts have a saying: ‘Fallen the bard — fallen shall the chieftain be.’ Necton has now slain his father’s killer. And you and Garth have made it possible.”
“Necton! Necton mac Erip!” the people shouted as one, hailing their new chieftain, who had just taken Merlin’s old torc from Ealtain’s neck and put it on his own, so that now he wore two torcs.
Suddenly, a skirling was heard from the right, and there, upon a small hill beside the lake, all alone, stood Garth playing a happy tune on his bagpipe. And he wore, balanced upon his head, the bulbous hair of Scafta.
Merlin almost laughed.
The people gathered around Garth — slave and Pict alike — and the boy played until they were all present and staring at him — this strange being in their midst.
After a b
ig mouthful of air, he addressed the people — and not in the language of Kernow and Kembry — but in a halting sort of Pictish, which when translated, went something like this:
“Good people of Tauchen-Twilloch, hear me! With the help of my God, this day I have sent away your witch doctor in shame — expelled your priest in disgrace.”
The people looked on him in awe. Even Necton had his mouth open.
“No more do you need to sacrifice your animals and dance to the Sun. It shines upon you strong and bright even now, and my God promises that its cycles of warmth and cold will not fail you, or your crops, or your children’s children for as long as your village may last.”
It looked like he wanted to say more, but couldn’t think of anything else. So he put his blowpipe to his mouth and started playing again.
The people looked at him, smiles on their faces, and the Pictish women started chanting “Mungo! Mungo! Mungo!” And the others joined in, picked him up, carried him to Scafta’s hut, and bade him enter and live there.
It was a wonder to behold, for everyone was overjoyed to see Scafta go, and though they didn’t know what exactly to do with Garth, they honored him for his feat. “Mungo! Mungo!” they shouted, and the Pictish grandmothers pinched his cheeks, thinner though they had become, until he blushed.
Merlin stepped up to Colvarth and asked him what the word meant.
Merlin's Shadow Page 21
