“It means ‘dear sweet one.’ I think that’s his name now, at least among the Picts.”
With a bit of ceremony, Garth threw Scafta’s hair into the burning Samhain embers, and its odor filled the village. “I thought it smelled bad before,” he said, holding his nose. Soon, though, the wind blew the stink away, and everyone felt relief — Pict and slave alike.
CHAPTER 23
THE BITTER TREK
With Scafta gone, the elderly began asking Garth for help healing their sicknesses. The mothers had him bless their children. The shepherds sought his advice for how to care for their cattle. But mostly he liked to help the fishermen, showing them what he knew from growing up on the Kembry Sea.
In all this, Merlin shook his head in amazement, seeing Garth not just as an orphan who’d lived at an abbey and now was a slave — but as a sort of missionary among these people. He prayed over them and taught them what he knew from scriptures he’d memorized. He even instructed a group of the younger Picts to sing a few psalms.
Of course, there were benefits to all this; the most important to Garth was that his cheeks were rarely absent a morsel or two offered from the Picts’ hearths. But he also helped the slaves, imploring their masters to let those who were injured to rest. And in all this he had freedom to move as he willed without his slave collar.
And Merlin began to see a different side to the Picts. They could be generous, even loving. They laughed and played games. The people sang and danced, celebrated and mourned together. None of their own people starved. The wives cared for their young, provided for their families, and kept their homes warm and clean. The fathers watched over their children, taught them how to survive, provided food to eat, and built their homes strong and tight.
Every Pict worked hard, from the oldest to the youngest. Despite having slaves to work the fields, there was plenty for the Picts to do: hunting, fishing, smoking meat, pelt-making for boots and cloaks, spinning wool with rock and reel, weaving, repairing shelters to house their animals, stowing their boats for the winter, blacksmithing, making baskets, furniture building, creating useful things out of antlers and horns. And that was besides the crafts and artistic things they created: bead-making, pottery, embroidered hats, along with silver and gold-smithing.
Sure, they were pagan, but hadn’t the people of Bosventor been pagan just a generation or two ago? Could these people change as well, Merlin wondered, and turn away from superstition?
But it was hard to accept these things, and he didn’t swallow them easily, for he and the others had been made slaves again. Garth was revered, sure, and Scafta was gone, along with Ealtain’s tyranny. But that didn’t change their future prospects.
In this way another cycle of the moon passed, the nights grew cold, and then the hammer fell, confirming all of Merlin’s suspicions.
Despite what Garth had done, they were all to be sold to Pictish tribes farther up in the highlands. Those tribes couldn’t raid as easily as Necton’s, who lived on the border, and they would pay gold, silver, gems, and other precious things, including cattle, for the chance to own slaves who would work their land.
Apparently, this was the pattern: The border tribes would raid and find new slaves, work them, and then trade them north before winter. In this way, the slaves found themselves farther and farther from home, working until they died — and the pattern would repeat itself.
Garth did everything he could to stop it, but the Picts were unbending. The slaves were thought of as cattle, and they wouldn’t even consider losing their profit from selling them. When pressed too hard, Necton even slashed Garth on the forehead and threatened to put his slave collar back on, tighter, if he wouldn’t stop in his demands.
Merlin’s spirits fell. Not only was freedom impossible with an ever watchful and strengthened guard, but they would be separated from Arthur. As the weather turned drab, and the day of their departure approached, Merlin descended into a deep sadness.
Colvarth tried to talk to him, but Merlin ignored him, preferring instead to stare into the burnt remains of yesterday’s fire and the ashes that had become his life.
Finally, the bard kicked him. “Awake, thou son of a mushroom!”
Merlin jumped up and grabbed Colvarth by the shoulders. He wanted to shake him, but stopped himself when he saw the man was smiling.
“What?” Merlin said. “Out with it.”
“There is hope.”
“Hah.”
“There is always hope. Garth has, with my help, negotiated where we will be sold.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“But —”
Merlin yelled. “I said I don’t want to hear it.”
“You don’t, hmmm? Then hear a word from Isaiah mab Amoz:
O boar-headed one with a rebel heart,
Remember well the ancient scripture:
That I am God, and there is none like me,
That I am God, and none may change my course,
For I hold thy death, and also thy birth,
The furthest past, and all unfinished deeds.
Trust in me — my joy cannot be thwarted:
From far away I summoned a mighty hawk,
A man of strength to fulfill my purpose.”
Colvarth hesitated, and when Merlin chose not to look up, he walked away.
The next day the journey began for Necton’s slaves. He took an escort of ten spear-wielding Picts, and, curiously, his wife Gormla came along on horseback, carrying Arthur in her arms.
Natalenya was provided for, thanks to Garth, who had borrowed a donkey from a Pictish grandmother, with the condition that an old blanket lay between Natalenya and the beast, something she was more than willing to do. Riding was still a trial, however, for the boils on her legs hurt terribly, and by the end of each day’s march, she could barely hang on to the donkey’s neck.
Necton brought two other donkeys for carrying food, a tent, and the plunder from his raiding that he wished to sell. To make the journey faster, each slave was chained to the same partner they’d been with during their labors: Caygek with Peredur — and Merlin with Bedwir.
When they left, all the people gathered to see Garth off, and the people shouted, “Mungo! Mungo! Mungo!” as he passed, and he received more kisses and pinches that morning than Merlin thought the boy could bear. Garth had been given the choice of staying or going, and though he chose to go with Merlin and the others, he was overheard saying he’d like to come back one day and help these people. He also was allowed the privilege of not having a slave collar, leaving Colvarth unchained, but still with his collar on. Necton wasn’t worried about the old man with the harp.
But what was the use? For Merlin, it was awful — worse than even their original slave-taking, for it sealed their fate and meant escape would be nearly impossible. He marched with the others, head down, keeping the tears at bay. Plodding and plodding. Foot over foot. Mile after painful mile. Bedwir tried to talk with him, but Merlin ignored him. It wasn’t until they came to the Antonine Wall that Merlin realized they had been going south rather than north.
“What?” he exclaimed as the moss and vine covered ruins appeared over the hill.
Peredur slapped him on the back. “Where’d you think we were going?”
“To the highlands.”
“Well, you’re wrong.” He gave a nod and walked on.
Merlin jogged to keep up. Bedwir matched his pace to keep the chain from swinging.
“Where are we going?” Merlin asked.
Peredur grinned. “Ask Colvarth.”
The bard was at the front of the group, and Merlin and Bedwir had to catch up with him. Colvarth turned when he heard Merlin coming, amusement in his eyes. Merlin was huffing, but he managed to say between breaths, “You didn’t tell me.”
“You didn’t listen. Necton has finally agreed to sell us as slaves to King Atleuthun.”
“Finally?”
“Ah, but Necton didn’t want to go. It seems Atle has been
a harsh bargainer in the past.”
“But King Atle? Why did you —”
“What did you expect? We told Necton you were the king’s grandson, and that he would pay handsomely for you. And so we owe a great thanks to Gormla. With the expected reward, she wants to visit their market, and so she was the one who convinced Necton.”
Merlin had to think about this. “But —”
“Yes, it is true, Atle knows nothing about you, but hopefully I can convince him of your parentage. Leave it to me.”
“If Atle doesn’t consider me his grandson, then Necton will be furious —”
“Shush … do not say that so loud.”
“— and if Atle does consider me his grandson, then Atle himself will be furious. He tried to kill my mother!”
“Perhaps he has softened.”
“Perhaps!? You’re betting our lives on a perhaps? This might be worse than if we’d been sold north.”
Colvarth strummed his harp, held tight in his other hand. “Tsk.”
Merlin and the others marched nearly twenty-five leagues over the hills and across the lands of the Guotodin, and no one harassed them. Arthur took in all the sights quietly, sometimes riding on Garth’s shoulders or hanging from Bedwir’s arms. One night they stopped near the outskirts of Dineidean, a major hill fort in the region, but did not enter. The land to the east grew flatter under their feet and the forests thicker beside them until one morning at sunrise they at last spied Dinpelder in the distance — a strange hump of rock rising from the woods like the back of a gigantic boar.
But Merlin had been fooled by what he thought was just another hill. It took far longer to reach its base than he expected, and when they arrived, he opened his mouth in awe and craned his neck. Everything else lay relatively flat for as far as the eye could see, but here stood this massive rock jutting out from the earth and towering over him … one hundred and fifty feet, if not more. It was similar in width and breadth to the Meneth Gellik mountain at home but was shaped more like a flat bulge with sheer sides. The stone was different too; not the hard granite of home, but rather a gray stone flecked with white, which turned brown when weathered. Scraggly grass and mosses covered the hill, with pines and oaks clinging to its dangerous drop-offs. A wide path wound its way up the western side, leading to a fortress at the top that had been built of earthworks, timber, and stone — thick and strong as the mountain itself.
As Merlin followed Necton and the others, he cast wide eyes at the serrated cliffs. His mother had been thrown off one of these when King Atle had discovered she’d become a Christian. God had saved her miraculously, sure, and without injury — but King Atle’s anger wasn’t sated, for he then tried to drown her by tying her in the bottom of a leaky boat as the tide let out. And there it was — the ocean — only half of a league to the northeast where a river emptied past a village and its crowd of boats.
And on that second attempt upon her life, Merlin’s father, Owain, had saved her by braving the arrows of Atle’s warriors and swimming out, plugging the leak, and sailing away.
Merlin had been told this tale of his parent’s courtship only six months ago, before his father died, and here the story was, coming to life before his very eyes. He could picture it all … including Uther’s wrath at Owain for abandoning him on the eve of battle.
And now Merlin was here, and quite possibly about to meet his grandfather for the first time. A chill ocean breeze burst across the path, smelling of salt and filled with blowing flakes of snow. Merlin and the others hunched against the cliff face until the gusts died away.
Soon they came to the open gate, and it towered above Merlin — planed wood and banded iron at least ten feet tall and a foot thick. The guards were neither dressed like Britons nor like Picts. Each wore a roundish, hill-shaped helm engraved with coiling sea serpents. The guards’ armor was made from overlapped bronze scales, each molded like a salmon diving into the water. And the leather work — gloves, greaves, and boots — had all been dyed to a green reminiscent of the sea. At each of their black belts was tucked a long, curved axe, and Merlin didn’t doubt that each man knew how to use it.
But there was trouble gaining entrance. Necton explained his errand to the chief of the guards while he pointed at Merlin.
The guard shook his head.
Banging the butt of his spear repeatedly on the ground, Necton said it again.
The guard backed up, and ten more appeared at the doorway brandishing their axes.
Colvarth stepped between the two groups and held up his hands. “Let me explain,” he said. “I declare before you the son of Gwevian myr Atleuthun. She was lost to your sovereign many years ago, but now her son has returned.”
“Gwevian?” the front guard said, his thick, red moustache puffing out with the word.
The man’s accent was one that Merlin had not heard before … or had he? There was something similar in the way that one word was vocalized to the way his mother spoke.
The front guard consulted another of his kind, and soon both of their eyes lit up. “Theneva!” they said, turning back to Colvarth and Necton. “Sure, an we hae heard o’ the lass.”
“Then I suggest you do not keep your lord waiting, since his grandson stands before you.”
“I’m named Digon,” the red-moustached guard said, “and I’ll bring yer message tae the king.” He turned and ran up the stone walkway. The other men stood at the ready with their axes, eyeing Necton and his warriors.
While Merlin and the others waited, huddling in the cold wind, Garth passed around some oatcakes and a little water. Merlin felt better for it, and he could tell by the way Natalenya ate hers that she welcomed it as well.
When the food was gone, and the guard still had not returned, Necton began sharpening his spear with a smooth rock he found on the path. The other Pictish warriors did the same, all the time eyeing Atle’s men and their axes.
The gusts blew with a vengeance, and a deep chill set in Merlin’s bones.
Finally, Digon returned. He had brought twenty more men, all dressed the same.
Necton leapt up and raised his spear, a snarl on his lips.
But Digon held up his hand. “The king hae requested an audience with ye, but first ye must set aside yer spears an other sich weapons.”
Necton grumbled at this, but discussed it with Gormla and the warriors. Finally, he tacitly agreed by throwing his spear down with an impressive flourish. As he did so, Merlin noticed him push a knife into his belt where it would be hidden behind his cloak. The other warriors threw their spears down as well, and a few were able to hide their knives in similar fashion.
Digon grunted and motioned for them to follow. Necton went first, pulling the reins of Gormla’s horse, followed by two warriors leading the donkeys filled with plunder. Merlin and the slaves went next, and at the very back marched the final group of warriors. They soon found themselves on the very top of Dinpelder — a gently sloping plain surrounded by a thick rampart, with guards stationed at different points to keep watch over the surrounding countryside.
In front of Merlin lay a large village of timber huts. People milled about in the weak light of the morning, carving wood, tending sheep, weaving, chinking the cracks in their dwellings, and many other tasks.
As their party passed through, they came to a small market with wares of pottery, baskets, dried meats, and other things for sale. The owners looked upon them expectantly, and some even called out. Gormla slipped down from her horse, and one of the sellers grabbed her by the sleeve.
“Ye like jewelry, yes? Here, me lass, try a bracelet on!” And the man slipped a fine bracelet made of silver wire and dangling sea-shells over her wrist.
Necton stepped in between, ripped off the bracelet and threw it back. “Must sell-ametch first!” Gormla complained bitterly to him as he pulled her away from the booth.
As they walked on, one of the children, a youth with disheveled black hair maybe ten winters old, came out of his family’s hovel an
d stared at Merlin like he were a convicted thief come to steal the family’s lamb. The slave collar probably didn’t help any.
When they neared the far end of the village, Merlin took his gaze off of the silent inhabitants and saw their party’s destination. On the highest point of the hill stood the strangest wooden longhouse Merlin had ever seen: It had nine levels, each with steeply sloped gable roofs, and each level progressively smaller until the top could hold only a single man on lookout.
The wood was dark, maybe pine, and this was used for roof tiles as well. The lowest level was huge … bigger even than King Gorlas’s fortress, Dintaga — and the height of the building astounded him. The beams inside must be massive indeed to support such a structure. It was stave-built, with vertical timbers held together by sawn wood bands. At the top of every roof peak jutted out a fish, carved to look like it was jumping out of the foaming waves.
As they climbed up the hill and approached the hall, Merlin spied strange gods carved in relief into the cornice, jambs, and the huge doorway itself. These gods were giants who fought each other — their hammers swung by muscled arms. Each one blew storm clouds from thick lips, and lightning flew down to their feet, which stepped upon piles and piles of skulls.
Natalenya dismounted, and the horse and donkey reins were tied to the rail. Necton and two of his warriors took the bags of plunder and hefted it over their shoulders.
The guard knocked. “Open ‘er up,” he called, “this be king’s business!”
CHAPTER 24
THE BITTER SCHEME
Vortigern shook off the snowflakes dusting the sleeve of his disguise and urged his horse up the road. The sun had just risen, revealing a burned-out abbey building that hugged the mountainside just ahead. What a rot, this trip was, coming back to that stinky little village of Bosventor to find and get rid of Uther’s daughters. Didn’t he have enough to do as High King? Wasn’t rebuilding his war host enough? Wasn’t fighting back the Saxenow on the coast enough?
Ah, but that druid, Mórganthu, had failed him. Hadn’t gotten rid of the girls, and now Vortigern had to endure this nasty trip in cold weather. To make it yet worse, his back bothered him. Five days of hard riding had jolted him wrong and the pains shooting through his hip and spine made him feel like he had the horse on his back, not the other way around.
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