Merlin's Shadow

by Robert Treskillard

  And why was Tregeagle so insistent? The man had sent his blithering servant twice, whining out of his puckered little mouth, “Come and pay me for finding your nieces.” Pay him? Stick a sword through Tregeagle’s flapping tonsils, more like.

  Couldn’t the man wait for the fighting season to end? For the Saxenow to settle down at winter’s coming and leave the poor Britons alone? Leave the overworked and underpraised Vortigern alone?

  A barn-muck of a mess, it was.

  He really just wanted to rest for once in his life. To recline in his newly built feasting hall at Glevum. To eat and drink. To celebrate a little. But no … here he was, digging after Uther’s little rabbits like he was still a common warrior.

  He cursed out loud.

  “What is it?” Rewan asked, his horse riding next to him. “Don’t like the snow?” He brushed off the flakes that had gathered on his thighs.

  They had ridden up to the burned-out buildings, and the road didn’t go any farther. Vortigern had taken the wrong path, so he stopped his horse and ordered them to turn around. At least the monks were gone, and good riddance.

  Before they rode back to the crossroad, Vortigern studied Rewan to see if the man’s disguise was good enough. He didn’t want anyone knowing the High King and his men had come. Their task would have to be secret. An old cloak, and even older tunic … but at his hip a tear had opened up and some of the leather showed through. “Tuck your tunic in, you fool.”

  Rewan complied. “There’s something else botherin’ you. Is there unspilt blood left here? Something tells me we didn’t finish our work last time.” He drew a dagger, put it between his teeth, and smiled at Vortigern.

  As his new battle chief, Rewan would certainly understand because he had a mind for such things. Maybe now was the right time to talk about it. At least Rewan had some sense of what was right and wrong for a king to do.

  Thankfully Vortigern’s hapless son, Vortipor, had agreed to stay at home and spend time with the fawning ladies. If he’d come along, he certainly would’ve cringed at what Vortigern planned. Vortipor would never understand this gift to him and his heirs.

  Rewan and the three men with him had been handpicked by Vortigern for this task. He turned around and looked at them as they gathered their horses around him. Ruthless men, all, and willing to do anything for a bright coin and a full cup.

  Vortigern cleared his throat. “The bottom of the bag, my men, is that I don’t want Uther to have any brats who can stab me, or anyone from my house, in the back.”

  Fest, one of the twins, spoke first — a brutish man with a chin sticking out so far that his little brain must have rolled down and stuck there. “So Arthur’s back, huh? I thought he’d been taken by the Picts.”

  “Not Arthur,” Vortigern sneered, “but his older sisters. I don’t want Uther grandchildren running around either. His father killed my grandfather … I know how it goes.”

  Enison smiled, showing the gap where his two front teeth had been knocked out. He was the smaller twin brother of Fest, and not nearly as smart. “So we’s takes ‘em, eh? And then we’s does … what wi’em?”

  Rewan kicked out and struck the man’s shin. “We kill them, dolt.”

  The third man, Tethion, pulled his horse around, one hand fingering the feathered arrow shafts hidden by a cloth covering his saddle bag. “And that’s why we’re in disguise … so no one knows it’s us — true?”

  Vortigern nodded. They were catching on. “Not a soul here knows any of you four … at least not by name. Me, though, they’ll recognize. So call me Ivor while we’re here … catch it?”

  “Listen up,” Rewan said so everyone could hear. “Nobody’s to know the High King is here. Got that stuck in your noggin?”

  Fest and Enison both nodded.

  “And what’s your problem, Tethion?” Rewan asked.

  Tethion squinted his left eye and studied Vortigern. “These your sister’s kids, an’ she was killed by them druidow, right? And now you’ll have us kill your nieces? I don’t get it.”

  Vortigern paused. Igerna, his sister. He hadn’t thought about her these many months. Of course he’d wanted her to live. She was descended from Vitalinus, wasn’t she? But the spit started gathering on his tongue, and he ground his jaw.

  “My sister was a traitor to the house of my grandfather,” he said. “She sealed her fate when she married the son of that butcher.”

  Vortigern had wanted her to finally see things clearly … see her brother become High King … see the glory of their grandfather’s house restored. He’d asked Mórganthu not to have her killed along with Uther, and Vortigern had made the arch druid promise. But it was an accident. Mórganthu had told him so. And now her tainted daughters would follow her to the grave. The bloodline of Vitalinus would be pure once again.

  Vortigern reached out and grabbed Tethion’s reigns. At the same time he drew his blade and jabbed it toward the man’s stomach. “Do you have the guts for this? If you’re not sure, I can spill ‘em on the ground and check.”

  “No problem,” Tethion said, holding up his hands. “As long as I get some ale soon. Get me more ‘n a drop and I’ll be jus’ fine.”

  “A drunk archer misses the target.” Vortigern said, sheathing his sword once more. “You’ll be quick, silent, and accurate. Got it?”

  “Some ale afterward? Even some sweet mead.”

  Vortigern snorted and chewed on his moustache. “All right … When this is done, we’ll all see what we can find on the way back.”

  Vortigern and the four rode their horses no more than ten paces back down the road when an old man wearing a snow-covered hood stepped from the bushes and held up a hand.

  “I see … I see you have come back to claim your own,” the stranger said.

  Vortigern spit at the man’s feet. “Get out of our way.”

  But the man wouldn’t move. “I know your errand, and I must speak with you.”

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  The stranger’s sleeve slid down a little on the upraised forearm, and some blue scar lines became visible in the morning light. “I am the one who sees all, O High King. By my druid arts I even spied your coming two nights ago, camped secretly as you were in the valley near the lake where you slept under the pine tree. Did you think I wouldn’t know you in your disguise, Vortigern?” The man pulled back his hood, revealing his face and black-and-gray beard.

  Vortigern dropped his reins and shook his head. It was Mórganthu, that renegade of a doublecrossing druid. How had he known who they were? Surely he hadn’t been on the trail spying on them for the last few days … Vortigern had purposefully chosen empty lands for their path and had seen no one on the way from Glevum.

  Vortigern’s face turned hot, and he scowled. “Out with your words. And then get out of my way.”

  “O King … O King Vortigern, I tell you that the ones you seek are near, and that my granddaughter is staying with them. She is not to be touched.”

  Vortigern sniffed. “Why should I care?”

  “Because we have something in common, you and I … a love for the Stone. It has given you power over the people, yes. For me, I want power over the very stars of heaven.”

  The mention of the Stone piqued Vortigern’s curiosity. He still felt its pull and the dreams of majesty it had given him. “What of the Stone … is its power restored?”

  “No, no … not yet, but I assure you that one day it shall be … of that you have my word. But you, O King, might try to pull the sword from the Stone yourself … you have two good hands and are strong … yes, and you are the High King now, the rightful heir to Uther’s sword.”

  This intrigued Vortigern. Could he, through brute strength, do what Mórganthu could not through his druidic arts? But that wasn’t what he’d come for. Maybe after the girls had been taken care of. “I don’t have time for this,” Vortigern said. “Now get out of my way.”

  “Patience, O King, for I must speak with you about my daug
hter’s daughter. She is black haired, so you’ll not mistake her for Uther’s, or the weaver’s. I need your solemn promise —”

  “And you’ll trust me more than I trust you?”

  “Ah, you refer to our previous disagreement. Know, O King, that all is forgiven. After all, we are a forgiving people.”

  “And a thieving people too. Uther’s torc was missing when I buried him. Give it to me.”

  The druid looked down. “I … I do not have it. What does it look like?”

  “It had two eagle heads with amethyst eyes.”

  “A warrior must have stolen it.”

  Vortigern took in a breath. He had his own torc from his grandfather and didn’t need Uther’s. What he wanted was to make sure that it was never worn by a rival. No matter. If he had success in getting rid of Uther’s daughters then he never need worry about that again, at least from Uther’s line.

  Eh, but how fun it would be to run the old man down and see him scream under the sharp edges of his horse’s hoofs. It would be so easy. One less thieving druid in the world. But what of the Stone? What if Mórganthu held the Stone’s secrets? What if he alone could restore the Stone to its power? A longing filled Vortigern to see the Stone again. To touch it. To experience again the ecstatic visions that’d driven him to reclaim the kingship, to kill Uther, to kill anyone in his way.

  Did Mórganthu stand in his way? Perhaps not, but Vortigern hated him all the more because he needed him. “You have my promise, but nothing more. Now get your muddy legs out of here or I’ll kick you into a ditch.”

  Mórganthu bowed and stepped aside.

  Vortigern and the others rode around an arm of the mountain, bringing the village into view on the southern slope. Smoke trailed upward from the holes in the crennig roofs — half of them anyway. It seemed the village wasn’t as bustling as last spring. Had the people moved away? Died? Hopefully not of sickness — that was the last thing he needed, catching ill after finally claiming what was rightfully his.

  He led them onto the village green where they watered their horses and ate a small meal of smoked meat before remounting and heading up the main track that led to the old fortress — and Tregeagle’s house. Finally they arrived, trotted the horses into his yard, dismounted, and tied up the reins. Vortigern banged on Tregeagle’s door with the antiquated Roman eagle carved into it. What a joke, he thought. Vortigern was the real power in Britain now — not Uther, and certainly not the Romans who would never return. He was the High King.

  “Open up,” he called, “I’ve got business here!”

  After Vortigern and his men rode off, Mórganthu slipped into the forest at the side of the road — when he heard a curious noise behind him. It was a distant scuffing of feet. Someone — a figure in a dark robe — was standing outside the charred remains of one of the abbey buildings.

  Mórganthu crouched behind a fallen oak with branches full of dead leaves, and waited, watching. The person was looking around, listening with a hand cupped near his ear. Finally, he began walking on the road toward Bosventor — no, he was half limping, in an urgent-yet-wary sort of way. Had the man been injured at some point?

  When the man shambled past the fallen oak, Mórganthu bit the end of his healed stump of an arm. It was that Dybris fellow … that prying, foolish, interfering, and altogether death-deserving monk. What had he been doing in the abbey’s ruins? Scavenging, perhaps? For what? Mórganthu wondered at how he could have missed spying such a thing with the orb. The monk lived in the old chapel in the village proper, that he knew, but was there something else, something secret, that drew him here?

  And how had the monk become hurt such that he limped now? Ahh, on Beltayne night when the sword had been sunk into the Stone … that had to have been it. Mórganthu remembered seeing the monk’s body crumpled up against the wall of Owain’s smithy — perhaps McEwan’s club had performed that magnificent bit of work.

  Mórganthu dearly wished that this Dybris had fled along with the other monks when Tregeagle had driven them all away after Merlin left.

  But the perilous question was … had Dybris overheard?

  Mórganthu gulped. Did the monk know about Vortigern and his plan to kill the girls? If so, he would go straight to the weaver’s and —

  Mórganthu’s heart began beating fast. This was the undoing of all his patient plans, and he would have to act swiftly. Vortigern, that oaf of a king, would go to Tregeagle’s first — which meant it was up to Mórganthu to stop Dybris.

  He sat down on the snowy grass, took out the orb … and put it back, realizing his mistake.

  Seeing wasn’t enough. With such short notice, there was no stopping the girls from escaping. He had to deal with it on his own — and get Ganieda out of there now. If Uther’s girls escaped, and Ganieda was left in the house, then he could not predict what Vortigern would do in his rage. He might kill Ganieda. He might burn the place to the ground.

  And then the fang would be lost as well. The fang … oh, the fang!

  Dybris had gotten ahead, but his limp slowed him, and the road meandered the long but easy way around the mountain. Could Mórganthu get ahead of him by taking the high path? He crept from his spot and ran as fast he could, away from the road and up over the northern side of the mountain. Oaks, pines and beech, ashes, and rowan — he felt as if all his snow-dusted friends cheered him on as he ran as fast as his burning lungs and aged feet would carry him.

  With the monk limping, perhaps Mórganthu could get there first.

  But what then?

  Mórganthu stepped out of the woods next to the fortress and saw the village below him even as a daring plan formed in his mind. Dybris wasn’t even in view yet.

  He rushed down the hillside, avoiding the path to Tregeagle’s, and finally slunk in the shadow of a huge rock where two of his four druidow hid. They were watching the weaver’s house at his command.

  “Are they still there?” he rasped, and both druidow nodded in answer.

  “Keep watch, but make no move, and do not … do not show yourselves. The cat has arrived to eat the mice, yet a dog approaches and we cannot risk a disturbance. Come if I shout.”

  He snuck across the road to the abandoned crennig next to the weaver’s land. He slipped inside. This would have to be quick.

  Where had he seen those rags? Ah yes, precisely where he remembered the last time he came here to spy on the weavers: in the corner lay a pile of old clothes, next to the smashed old chair someone had lit a fire with on the hearth. He evicted some impudent rodents from the pile’s center and shook out each piece: a few bags, worn and dirty; three tunics, each more shredded than the last; two breeches, both shabby; an old lumpy hat, chewed but serviceable; and a pair of well-woven gloves, in decent shape. Some women’s clothes were mixed in, but those were useless to him, and he dropped them to the dirt.

  Doffing his own, druid-designed cloak and clothing, he shivered as he put on everything. One of the pants had lost its tie, and so he put the other over it and tied it tightly. He put on all three tunics, the worst on the outside, and this hid the blue scars on his arms perfectly.

  His beard — what about his beard? Would they recognize it, so long and illustrious? He had always prided himself in it, yet he had no choice. He pulled out his curved knife, and, pressing the length of his beard against his chest with his bad arm, he cut it as short as he could. A painful, uneven sort of shearing, it was, but that would aid his disguise. Then he rubbed ashes in to make what was left more gray.

  His long hair he could not cut easily with one hand, and so he stuffed it down the back of his tunics and hoped no one would notice it under that insufferable hat. He dearly hoped that Belornos, his god, would honor him for this extraordinary sacrifice, for the clothing smelled dreadful.

  Now for some mud, which he found in a corner of the crennig where the roof sagged. This he smeared lightly on his hands, forearms, feet, ankles, and a little on his face — all to cover the blue whorls and lines that marked him as a d
ruid. He had to appear thoroughly like a poor beggar to incite the sympathies of those hypocritical Christians.

  Ah, but his missing hand … had Troslam seen that it was missing? Did he know? That would give him away for sure, and nothing could be done to hide the fact — or could it? He examined the gloves. One had holes chewed into it, but the other was untouched, and it was the correct hand. He found some thin sticks, and shoved them into the five fingers of the glove. Then he filled it with a little sand he found near the hearth — just enough. With some cloth ripped from an old dress, he tied the glove onto his stump using his good hand and his teeth. Thankfully, the bump of his wrist bone still protruded out, or he would never have made it stay.

  The hand didn’t look real, of course, but if he put on the other glove and made that hand stiff, then they might not notice. Maybe he’d stiffen his entire body to incite more sympathy from the fools.

  Grabbing one of the old dresses, he wadded it up and stuffed it into a bag. This he slung over his shoulder before peering outside. Dybris was nowhere in sight, so Mórganthu shuffled out to the road, hunching, and started walking away from the weavers. If he could get the monk’s sympathy, then maybe the man would take him with — right into the weavers’ house.

  And it didn’t take long, for Dybris came up the road, scuffing one of his legs. Mórganthu positioned himself in the way, bending over to appear shorter.

  “Please, please, good man,” he called, disguising his voice to hide the Eirish lilt, and pretending to shiver in the swirling snow. “A cold beggar needs help!”

  When Dybris stopped and looked at him, Mórganthu wanted to clap in glee, but instead put on a sad face. There was pity in the monk’s eyes, yes, and something indecipherable. The odd thing was that the left half of his face sagged just a little … the same side that he limped with.