Merlin's Shadow

by Robert Treskillard

  Tregeagle looked at him with wide eyes. His empty bag still open before him. “They say only the High King can pull it out …”

  “Who says?”

  “The villagers. It’s the High King’s sword. Aren’t you the High

  King?”

  “Me? Of course I am.”

  “Then …”

  “Ehh? Then they’re wrong about the sword.” But this wasn’t why he’d come. He’d lost control of himself. it was time for action. He took a deep breath, opened his money bag, felt carefully with his hands, and withdrew a large copper coin and a smaller gold coin — the gold coin carefully hidden underneath the copper.

  “Here,” he said, regaining his composure. “I haven’t pulled the sword … but the Stone spoke to me,” he lied. “It told me it’ll turn twenty copper coins into gold … for you, Tregeagle, as payment for helping me.”

  Vortigern bent down and set the stack of two coins onto the Stone with the copper one hiding the gold. He waved his hands, chanted druidish, jumbled words, and then clapped loudly and pointed behind Tregeagle, saying, “Lightning!”

  Then, while Tregeagle jerked his head to study the silent clouds, Vortigern slipped the copper coin off and popped it into his wet boot.

  “Look!” he said, pointing to the gold coin.

  Tregeagle jumped and snatched it up! “Gold! Real gold!”

  Vortigern walked off toward his horses, signaling with his head for the others to join him.

  “But there’s only one!” Tregeagle said. “Where are the others?”

  “Go get nineteen copper,” Vortigern said, mounting his horse, “bring them back, and the Stone will turn them all to gold.”

  Tregeagle nodded, a silly grin on his face, and ran toward home.

  Vortigern kicked his horse and sped off on the road eastward, his men behind him. When he was out of Tregeagle’s earshot, he laughed and laughed, finally ending in a snort. For all he cared, the man could throw coins on the Stone till the moonlight froze. Time for home, his warm, delightful bed, and his feasting fire.

  Ganieda fingered the length of her mother’s hair while she looked up at the heavy-cloaked man — the Voice. He stood over her and she had to lean back to look at him, making her tongue catch in her throat. She scooted away. “W-what do you want?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to come,” the man said, his low voice mingling with the flowing water in such a way that Ganieda could hardly tell them apart.

  “You could have come to me.” She didn’t want to gaze into the dark pits of his eyes, and found herself looking anyway.

  “I could not. I was … unwelcome in the house of your sojourn. I suffered terribly to speak to you once — yet you turned away. Do not do so again, O daughter whom I desperately need.”

  “Go to Grandfather. He will serve you.” She took a few more steps back, expecting he wouldn’t seem so tall. But he towered over even more, his fingernails clicking as the wind rose.

  “Your grandfather is already my servant, yet he is old, and has failed. The glorious new tasks I require may take many years. Life. Power. Adoration. I will give these things.”

  He held out his hands, and between them a vision sparkled outward. An image of herself, grown up, with her arms draped around the neck of a handsome, dark-haired man in black armor, and between them stood a boy, a son. The vision changed, and she saw herself leading a great host of warriors — who worshiped even the dust on her shoes, feared her every glance, and charged through the land slaying her enemies. Enraptured victory. The bodies of all who opposed her upon great, reeking piles. Flesh-greedy crows circling overhead. The peace of the druidow enveloping the land. The peace of all who served the Voice.

  He clapped his hands and the vision folded up into nothing. “Yet you have not given your heart to me fully. Will you give it, in exchange for all that I offer?”

  “I want my mother.”

  “Ah, but she waits for you, dear one. Be assured that you will go to her and forever share the reward intended for all who faithfully serve me.”

  “I want her now!”

  “Then take this from me, and all your desires will be fulfilled. At great expense I have shaped it for you these last many months when we could not visit each other.”

  He held out to her a torc. Black it was, with the colorful heads of twin dragons fashioned upon the ends — one red with eyes of amethyst, and the other white with eyes of emerald.

  Ganieda held her breath. It was so beautiful … the most intricately crafted thing she had ever seen, far surpassing the smithwork of her father. Far surpassing even Merlin’s vaunted torc.

  “Will it allow me to see my mother again?”

  “Yes.”

  She snatched it from his hands, flexed it, and placed it eagerly upon her neck. She turned around to see her mother — and was disappointed she wasn’t there. Not anywhere. But the torc felt suddenly warm, then hot. Her skin hurt, and then began to burn. She struggled to flex the torc and rip it from her neck, but it was now rigid as iron and could not be removed no matter how furiously she pulled. Pain seared deeply into her skin, and soon she knew nothing else but the blazing torc whose heat jabbed and sliced into her neck.

  She lost her balance and fell, screaming at the Voice, “You lied to me! You lied!”

  “O, child, but you are wrong, for I never lie. Because you have taken this great gift from me, you will indeed see your mother again. But not now.” He laughed, a hollow, bone-rattling laugh, and then faded away into the gusting wind and was gone.

  And with his disappearance, the pain at her neck was gone. Like that. But the clouds had suddenly grown heavy, brooding some mischief. Had time passed so quickly? Had the voice spoken to her so long? Had she slept? Had she dreamt it all?

  But it was not so. The torc still lay tightly upon her neck.

  Ganieda sat up and tried again to remove the iron — but could not. She tugged, pressed, twisted, and grunted, but it would not come off. Her neck now bled from rubbing the spiraled horns of the dragons across her skin, and she had to stop.

  She wept then, caressing the length of hair that had once been her mother’s. It was all she truly had left. Even the Voice had tricked her. A few flakes of snow blew past her face, and she shivered. There was nothing for her here anymore. She needed to find her way back to Grandfather. To the warmth of his fire. To his oatcakes and bright, inquiring eyes. Even if he didn’t love her, at least he’d take care of her.

  She tucked the hair into her bag, wiped her nose, and set out again, this time into the blowing wind.

  CHAPTER 32

  RIPPLES OF THE STORM

  Merlin’s stomach flopped as he watched the wriggling roaches crawl across the ceiling and walls. The roaches on the floor were different, however — smaller, white, and they crawled between dark piles scattered along the hallway.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Bat dung,” a voice called from behind.

  Merlin whirled around. Kensa had spoken from the back. She wore a scarlet traveling cloak, and had a bag tied to her belt.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She smiled. “Telling ya aboot de bat dung. Dem bugs likes it fer supper.”

  “I mean, why are you following us? Go back.”

  Kensa’s face puckered up and the outside corners of her eyebrow’s drooped. “You nott wants me to … do yer? I’s got to come, I just haf to come. Else … else …”

  Bedwir sidled up to Merlin. “Maybe she can help. She’s been there. What if we get lost?”

  Merlin blinked. He hadn’t considered that. “Okay, you can come, but —”

  Kensa pushed her way to him and gave a crushing hug around his stomach. He stopped speaking and held his breath until she let go. She was far stronger than she looked.

  “— how do we get past these bugs?” he squeaked out.

  “We etts em. Like dis.” And she pulled one from the wall and popped it into her mouth.

  Merlin looked away
while she … well, he didn’t want to think about it.

  “Dey don’t efen complain, de liddle buggers. Och, but I forgot me sea radish. Maybe I shouldn’t ett any more.”

  Garth nodded. His face was white.

  “An here’s de way past,” she said, holding up a small shovel. “Et was leanin’ again’ de wall ofer der, an we shovel de bat dung away. Oderwise, dem stairs are mighty slippery. I’ve bonked me bones afore, ye see.”

  She proceeded to shovel the center of their walkway, and soon had a path cleared to the next set of stairs. Tireless, she was too, for Merlin offered many times to take over this chore on their way down, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Despite her best efforts, though, they had to be careful not to slip on the steps — or to disturb the uncountable number of bats sleeping on the ceiling among the crawling roaches.

  The worst was when the roaches dropped onto Merlin’s shoulder or into his hair.

  The absolute worst was when they fell down his tunic or crawled across his face.

  He wanted to scream but held it in lest he dislodge the whole waggling mass of them onto his head, bats included. And so the group’s descent was filled with curses, prayers, exclamations, and surprising oaths of every kind.

  By the time Merlin got to the bottom he had sixty roaches contentedly attached to his legs, and twelve on his tunic. He had crunched so many under his boots that he thought he would have nightmares — tormented without end by the hissing, popping, and squishing of the bugs.

  Just beyond the bottom of the final stair appeared a narrow crack wide enough for a man, cleverly hidden behind another rock that blended into the cliff. An iron gate had once been locked in place here, but it had rusted away ages ago and only the hinges were left now.

  He shook and flicked the final bugs off — his companions doing likewise — and then breathed in the cold, sweet air. “I don’t want to see another roach as long as I live.”

  They all nodded, except Kensa, who just smiled.

  Their north-facing path was a gently sloping hillside covered in rocks, shale, and gravel, and Merlin led the way down. But soon he felt something funny in his left boot. He sat down and, with a muffled yell, took it off, shaking out a dozen roaches. The other boot had even more.

  All the others emptied their boots as well, and then they set off once more. Thick clouds covered the sky, and in this gloom they took a brisk half league walk along a stream to the outskirts of the village. It was nestled at the edge of a small bay, whose water lay silver under a slate-blue sky. In the distance he spied two vessels floating at the short pier.

  Only two? What if neither were available? What if they didn’t have enough money to borrow or buy one? He turned to discuss how they should proceed — and realized that Caygek was still with them.

  Merlin looked the druid in the eye. “There’s no need to stay with us anymore,” he said, making his words firm. “You know where we’re going —”

  “Sure,” Caygek said, “off to save the High King. Very sacrificial of you.”

  Merlin grabbed his sleeve. “Look. He’s not the High King yet, and I don’t know if he ever will be. But I know this — he doesn’t deserve death, and I’ve given my word to protect him.”

  “But would you do it if he were Necton’s true son? Would you do it for a Pict?”

  Merlin paused, a spark in his heart, deeply embedded. “Yes. I hope I would.”

  Caygek’s stare burned into Merlin, but he didn’t flinch because it was the truth. No one innocent deserved to die.

  Caygek looked away.

  “So,” Merlin said, “off with you.”

  “I’m just coming to the village to buy a better blade, or even a spear. No offense, Garth, but the tang of the one you gave me is nearly rusted through.”

  “Fine.”

  Past an outlying farm, the village had over sixty crennigs clustered near the bay. Two men sawing a log looked curiously at Merlin and his scars as they passed down toward the water. A broad pier stretched out into the ocean a short way, and the tide was just letting out, lifting and bobbing the two boats.

  One was a fifty-foot wooden-hulled vessel with a stout mast and sail.

  The other was … ah, it wasn’t much, only a thirty foot long curragh with a leather hide for its hull, having four oars, and two small sails. Not seaworthy at all.

  Merlin’s eyes wandered back to the big one. What a boat. With that under command, they could chase after Atle and catch him in no time.

  But did he have enough coins for it? He opened the leather sack tied at his belt and dug down through the grain and smoked meat until he found the small bag of coins. Pulling the string loose, he poured the coins into his hand. Thirteen … all silver.

  Caygek stood nearby, and Merlin gave him two. The druid patted Garth on the shoulder, announced he was off to find a smith and then would be on his way south to Kembry. He bowed, turned his back on them, and walked away.

  Merlin was glad to see him go — the man had been nothing but trouble since he joined their party. But his departure left only eleven silver coins in Merlin’s hand. They would need to buy a few barrels of water and victuals. By then, they might only end up with … But buying the great wooden boat seemed unlikely. Maybe they could just borrow it.

  A portly man ducked out from the closest crennig to the dock. He wore a green cloak over a dirty yellow shirt. His trousers were held up by flaxen ropes tied over his shoulders and an orange hat covered his balding head, with a long goose feather in it. “Yah, yah,” he said, “you’re here to buy some of Aulaf’s famous herring. I have ten barrels at the end of the pier. I just got ‘em smoked, salted and coopered up, yah, very fresh —”

  “Actually, I’m interested in —”

  “My herring, yah, I know. You heard of famous Aulaf all the way from, from —?”

  “Kernow.”

  “Kernow, yes.” Then his jaw dropped. “Kernow! You come all the way from Kernow?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Yah, I am now more famous than I thought, and I will sell them to you — just for folks from Kernow — at two coynalls each.” The man had a blond beard ending in an upturned point, and his blue eyes reflected the darkness off of the waves. He smelled like a smoked fish himself.

  “We want to hire your boat … the big one. How much?”

  “My boat, yah?” he said, a big grin on his face. “Where to? Not back to Kernow?”

  “We’re … ahh … late for King Atle’s … voyage.”

  “Ahhh …” he said, nodding his head knowingly.

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “Uhhh, that’s a long way. My boat might not come back.”

  “We can pay. I have … oh, eleven silver.”

  “So few?”

  Merlin shrugged.

  “Coyntallow, or screpallow?”

  “Screpall.” Each was worth three Contyallow. Merlin held up one and showed that both sides had been struck.

  Aulaf swiped the coin from Merlin and turned it over in the light. “These are Atle’s coins, yah. Mints them himself. I didn’t believe your story — Atle doesn’t allow people from Kernow, only his household and warrior-kin, yah? But you have the king’s coins, so perhaps you tell the truth.” He gave it back. “But it’s too little. The seas are rough this time of year, yah? You’re just as likely to feed the herring as eat the herring. And my boat would go down.”

  Merlin pulled out his blade.

  Aulaf backed away, his hands up and his belly wiggling.

  Merlin realized his mistake, and sheepishly flipped it around and held the handle out to Aulaf. “Here … how much is this worth? You could keep it, or sell it if we don’t come back.”

  Garth grabbed Merlin by the arm. “You can’t do that! I just gave it to you —”

  Merlin shushed him. If it was in his power he would give everything he possessed to save Arthur. Even if he had to sell his boots and cloak — and freeze — he would do it.

  Aulaf took the hi
lt in his hand and let out a long whistle. “Yah, they don’t make swords like this around here. Our smith can’t hammer straight. This must be worth a couple denarius.”

  “Is it a deal? We’d also need some water … and a barrel of herring.”

  Aulaf smiled. Merlin gave him the money, and they shook hands.

  Kensa joined in and shook Aulaf’s hands too, joy spreading across her old face. Garth had already climbed aboard the big wooden boat and began inspecting the rigging.

  Merlin ran over and climbed up, but Aulaf shouted after him.

  “No, no. You don’t understand. That’s not my boat. My boat is that one, yah?” And he pointed farther down the pier to the leather-hulled craft, bobbing like a cork in the waves. “This one’s owned by the village headmaster — and not only that, but its rudder broke in a storm, yah?”

  Merlin walked over to the stern of the ship and inspected the rudder — and sure enough, it had been shorn clean off. He turned and looked at the other — the leather-hulled boat — and his stomach gurgled and a sour burp burned his throat. “Garth,” he whispered, “we can’t take that skin and bones across the ocean. What’ll we do?”

  Garth shrugged his shoulders. “Hmm … sure it’s small, but with a little care an’ a little prayer, those kinds o’ boats go all over. Me father used to own one when he first started fishin’.”

  Merlin crossed his arms, unconvinced. “What happened to it?”

  Garth dodged away, and Merlin grabbed his arm.

  “Okay, so it sunk … but it sailed eight years. Anyway, let me take a gander at Aulaf’s.”

  “Sure, but, don’t say yes just because it’s our only option. I mean … I mean … well, see what can be done with it.”

  Garth scampered over and everyone else followed, including Aulaf.

  “It’s really a sturdy little boat, yah? Most don’t come wid’ such fine oars. An to have two sails on such a lightweight craft makes ‘er fly like a bird right o’er the waves.”

  Merlin’s opinion wasn’t so glowing. First of all, the boat just smelled bad — like a dirty, wet sheep who’d been eating fish. Sure, it was long enough to hold them all, including Kensa, and it did have two small leather tents for sleeping in — but how fast could it really sail? Was the leather hull up to such a journey? How old were the wooden ribs? Unlike Garth, Merlin hadn’t grown up on the shore, and so the thought of sailing in such a boat frightened him.