The King's Wizard

by James Mallory

  “He must get through them at an alarming speed,” Merlin commented. He did not need to ask why the previous soothsayers had retired. There was only one way to retire when you worked for Vortigern.

  By now the rest of the soldiers had spread out around the clearing, surrounding him and incidentally cutting off his path of escape. Merlin saw that Vortigern’s men had come well prepared: all of them were armed to the teeth. More to the point, they’d brought a spare horse for him to ride.

  “He gets through everything at an alarming speed,” Lailoken said gloomily, as if agreeing with Merlin’s thoughts. The soothsayer shuddered, glancing at the ring of soldiers surrounding them both, and then, as if only now remembering his duty, said: “You are Merlin, the man without a mortal father?”

  “Yes,” Merlin answered, wondering why Lailoken was asking. There was no point in denying who—or what—he was: a wizard, created by the Queen of the Old Ways to be her champion and born of a mortal mother—but a champion who would not fight, and a wizard who rejected magic.

  “I’m afraid the king wants you urgently,” Lailoken sighed. He seemed to sincerely regret his part in the proceedings, whatever it was.

  Without being asked, one of the soldiers led the riderless horse into the clearing. The man’s expression said clearly—though silently—that Merlin would mount the animal one way or the other. Bowing to the inevitable, Merlin vaulted gracefully into the saddle, and from that vantage point took a last look around his forest home.

  Something within him told him that it would be a very long time before he saw it again.

  In moments, Merlin and Lailoken were surrounded by mounted soldiers whose horses were moving at a brisk trot along the road that led out of the forest, the road that led west… toward Pendragon Castle, and the king.

  In the month since the last architect had been executed, little had changed here on the Welsh border. The building blocks of what was intended to be Vortigern’s most formidable castle still lay scattered across the landscape as if they had been dropped by an angry giant. The tents that sheltered the members of the court obliged to attend the king here still decorated the grassy plain near the ridge like bright mushrooms. Beyond them, the tents housing the workers and soldiers spread in somber and orderly rows. All day long, masons and laborers toiled to repair the destruction of the tower’s last collapse. All of them hoped there would not be another—none more fervently than the man who huddled over a table of curled velum drawings, cringing beneath the king’s bright gaze. He was not the best builder in all of Britain, but he was certainly the most unlucky, for no architect in the last ten years had been able to make Vortigern’s fortress stand.

  “It’ll hold this time, Your Majesty, never fear,” Paschent said nervously.

  “I never have,” Vortigern said simply.

  It was no more than the truth. For more than two decades, the Saxon king had ruled Britain as king by right of conquest, and he had done it without help from either magic or religion. But Time had taken its toll, and now the aging ruler, his kingdom beset by threats from within and without, was willing at last to seek out new alliances. It was why he had demanded that his soothsayer discover why the tower would not stand, even though Vortigern had never found that magic could accomplish anything muscle could not.

  As he regarded Paschent, there was a sudden rumble from behind him.

  He heard the screams of desperate men, the scraping sound made by granite blocks as they ground together like monstrous teeth chewing workmen to pulp. The ground shook as the walls bulged and buckled, spitting out building stones that struck the earth like the footsteps of giants. Suddenly the air was thick with rock dust and the powdered mortar that rose from the destruction like morning mist before beginning to drift down the hill. The screams of the dying dwindled to whimpers and sobs, and the frightened murmurs of the survivors were punctuated with urgent cries for help.

  Through all of the upheaval, Vortigern didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. He could see all he needed to see in the architect’s face.

  “You were saying?” Vortigern’s voice was soft with menace. His hand dropped to the dagger at his belt and he watched Paschent’s face go grey with the realization of the magnitude of his failure.

  “Your Majesty!” a voice called from behind him.

  Vortigern turned away from the trembling architect. A troop of his soldiers had just ridden into camp with the soothsayer at their head. Lailoken actually looked pleased to see Vortigern. This was an event so unusual that it took the king’s mind completely off the latest collapse of his stronghold.

  There was a young man with Lailoken, an unprepossessing lad dressed in threadbare rags and animal skins. Vortigern was surprised: Lailoken had actually found the fabulous creature he’d gone in search of.

  The old Druid dismounted hurriedly and shuffled toward the king. The young man stayed by the horses, regarding the camp with watchful eyes.

  “Your Majesty, I’ve found him—the man without a mortal father!” Lailoken announced excitedly.

  Merlin contemplated the king with interest. This was his first actual sight of the man who had haunted his entire life with his bloodstained deeds, the man who had persecuted Christians and Pagans with a monstrous evenhandedness. Perhaps unconsciously Merlin had expected to see a misshapen creature as fearsome as any he had encountered in the Land of Magic, but Vortigern was only a mortal warlord.

  In a way, Vortigern reminded Merlin of Idath, Lord of the Wild Hunt and the Kingdom of Winter. And Idath, like the winter cold, could be a fearsome enemy.

  “If this is another of your moth-eaten tricks—!” the king snarled, and Merlin saw Lailoken cringe back. The wind on this hilltop cut through Merlin’s tattered clothing like a knife, and Merlin could see the more-warmly-dressed Lailoken shiver with more than cold. He took a few steps forward, knowing that there was nothing he could do to save the old man from Vortigern’s capricious wrath.

  “No—no!” the old man protested. “It’s all true.”

  Vortigern turned his attention to Merlin, and the impact of the king’s arctic gaze caused Merlin to take an unconscious step toward him.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” the king growled. With a swift stride forward, Vortigern punched Merlin in the stomach. “Get a knife and a bowl and cut his throat.”

  Merlin fell to the ground, gasping for breath. The winter-dry grass crackled beneath his weight. He could dimly hear Vortigern calling for someone to cut his throat, and Lailoken’s feeble protests. Merlin shook his head sharply, hoping to clear it, and struggled painfully to his feet, still panting from the pain.

  “He doesn’t look much like a wizard,” Vortigern commented.

  “You caught me by surprise,” Merlin answered honestly. What did Vortigern see when he looked at Merlin? A sacrifice for some ritual the Saxon didn’t even believe in? “Why do you want to cut my throat?”

  “It’s not personal,” Vortigern said. There was a dagger in his hand. “I have to mix your blood with the mortar in the castle. This toothless old fool says it’s the only way to make the building stand. You’ll die easier knowing you die for your country.” Vortigern smiled mirthlessly.

  It wasn’t hard for Merlin to suppose who had put such an outlandish idea into the king’s head. Queen Mab must think that if Merlin was faced with death, he would have to draw on the power of the Old Ways to save himself, breaking the oath he had sworn over Ambrosia’s grave.

  But Mab was wrong. Merlin had other resources than magic to draw upon. He had his heart, his will, and his mind.

  “I’m afraid Your Majesty is giving the impression of being invincibly stupid,” Merlin said kindly.

  Vortigern’s head snapped around. “What was that last word?” the king asked dangerously.

  “Stupid,” Merlin repeated clearly.

  There was an electric moment of absolute silence, as everyone who had been close enough to hear what Merlin had just said held their breaths and pretended they
hadn’t.

  Vortigern’s face revealed nothing. Then, suddenly, the king roared with laughter. Relieved, the others joined in.

  “This man thinks he’s me!” Vortigern said, and then, barely pausing for breath, “Why did you call me stupid?”

  Merlin took a deep breath and marshaled everything he knew of human nature. “Because it’s obvious why you can’t build a castle there. Look—”

  He gestured, pointing confidently toward a narrow fissure in the cliff just below the castle. When he had been a young man growing up in the Barnstable Forest, Merlin had been taught natural history by an old hermit named Blaise. From the furrows in the rock, he could tell that a stream had flowed there a long time ago. He also knew that by now Vortigern must be looking for a face-saving excuse to abandon this building project without having to admit failure. Perhaps this could be it.

  “I’m looking,” Vortigern growled.

  “I don’t see anything,” Paschent said, clutching his architect’s tools nervously against his chest.

  “Can’t you see the stream?” Merlin asked persuasively. He visualized the stream in his mind as it must once have run, a sparkling rill leaping from rock to rock, and willed the others to imagine it as well.

  “It runs into a great cavern below.” And that meant that if Vortigern ever managed to get the tower to stand, its weight would cause it to collapse and break through the roof of the cavern below anyway.

  “There’s no water there—I swear,” Paschent said frantically.

  “I can see it,” Vortigern snarled menacingly, turning on his architect. “We can all see it. You wanted to build a castle on water?”

  “But—but—but—” Paschent stammered.

  Now was the moment when Merlin should have taken control of the situation, persuaded Vortigern that he’d discovered the underground stream through his own common sense, and found some way to slip invisibly away from the king’s notice. But even as he formed the thought it floated away, just as his consciousness was. No! Not here! Merlin cried silently, but the force of the vision was too strong. Merlin became only a fragment of awareness, a leaf in the gale that was swirling him up to heaven. The mantle of prophecy descended upon him, blotting out everything else.

  “That’s not all that’s wrong,” he heard himself say distantly. “You’ve woken the dragons.…”

  The outside world vanished. With his inner sight, Merlin saw the vast grey landscape of dreams, and on that infinite plain two mighty armies clashed. The winter chill no longer troubled him; though the wind was enough to loft the armies’ banners into the sky, Merlin did not feel it. He was a disembodied observer, nothing more.

  Above the two hosts flew their battle standards: one a white dragon on a black field, the other a red dragon against a background as white as snow.

  “I see two dragons, a red and a white.…”

  “My crest has a white dragon,” Vortigern said excitedly.

  As the armies ran toward each other, the bright flicker of light on their sword blades became the dazzle of sunlight on the scales of two enormous dragons flying above them, one white as frost, one red as flame. As Merlin watched, the two beasts and the armies they embodied met in a clash of swords and scales. Their roaring deafened him, the screams of fury and pain chilled his blood.

  In moments it was over. The dragons faded away to become pieces of cloth once more. The black banner hung limp and tattered, while the red dragon waved triumphantly against a sapphire sky.

  Merlin blinked, refocusing on his surroundings with difficulty as the images of his vision slowly faded. Everyone was staring at him, some frightened, some hopeful.

  “What did you see?” Vortigern demanded

  “The red dragon conquered the white,” Merlin answered simply. He didn’t believe in lying, and even if he did, he suspected it would be very unhealthy to lie to Vortigern, no matter what the truth was.

  “It’s an omen!” Lailoken said, before he remembered who his audience was. Vortigern’s banner was the white dragon. “Er… wouldn’t you say, Sire? I mean, it could be an omen…” the old man’s voice trailed off uncertainly.

  Vortigern looked from Lailoken to Merlin, his eyes narrow with suspicion. Merlin could tell that Vortigern had not quite decided what to do, but the king was legendary for swift and ruthless decision-making. He was obviously waiting for more information.

  Just then, there was a clattering sound as a large party of knights rode into Vortigern’s camp in a great hurry. Before the horses had stopped moving, the knight in the lead had vaulted from his horse and rushed to the king’s side.

  “Your Majesty—Prince Uther has landed from Normandy with a great army!”

  “He’s marching on Winchester,” said a second knight, coming up behind the first.

  Vortigern’s response was an elemental howl of rage. He glared at his men, about to leap into action against this new threat, when suddenly he remembered Merlin.

  “You foresaw all this,” Vortigern said, his voice a deadly adder’s hiss.

  “I am Merlin. I see things unknown,” Merlin said, with more confidence than he felt at the moment. It was as much truth as boast, but saying it aloud made him uncomfortable. It seemed too much like tempting Mab to attack him.

  “What are your orders, Sire?” Vortigern’s commander asked urgently.

  “Gather my armies. We march on Winchester,” Vortigern said, turning away from Merlin.

  The wind caught the king’s black cloak and filled it like a sail, whipping it away from his body so that his scaled golden armor gleamed in the sun. The king took no notice. His knights hurried to obey him, and all around them the camp began to seethe like a boiling cauldron as the news of Prince Uther’s landing spread through it.

  The construction of the tower that had obsessed Vortigern for the last seven years was forgotten as if it had never been. The king had a new and more urgent threat to face.

  “Why doesn’t it ever stop?” Vortigern asked, as if only to himself. Suddenly he drew his sword with one fluid motion and laid it against the side of Merlin’s neck. “I’ve been fighting my enemies for twenty years. I crush one and another takes his place.”

  More knowledge than that of the white dragon’s defeat had come to Merlin in his vision. He had a part to play in Vortigern’s destruction, though he did not know precisely what it was yet. But perhaps through destroying Vortigern, he could strike at Mab as well.

  “Perhaps you need me to foretell the future,” Merlin said smoothly, trying to ignore the cold weight of the sword at his throat. “Then you could crush them all before they had a chance to cause trouble,”

  The words were spoken lightly, but Vortigern took them at face value. “Yes, that would be helpful, Merlin,” he said seriously.

  “Of course, then you couldn’t cut my throat,” Merlin added.

  “No.… You’re obviously an extraordinary man.” Vortigern lifted the sword away from Merlin’s neck. “But I can’t have extraordinary men running around loose.”

  Before Merlin could react, Vortigern leaped forward and struck Merlin a hammerblow to the side of the head with his mailed fist. The young man dropped senseless to the ground.

  “You’re just not quick enough,” Vortigern said smugly to the unconscious wizard. “It’s a mistake my enemies make, too. They always think before they act. I act before I think, so I act first! That’s why I always have the advantage.…” He prodded Merlin with the toe of his boot, and then, satisfied that the young prophet wasn’t shamming unconsciousness, motioned to his guard to take him away.

  “Mount up! We ride for Pendragon Castle—not you, you’re out of a job,” he added, pointing a minatory finger at Lailoken.

  “But Sire…” the old soothsayer quavered. He wasn’t quite sure what Vortigern meant, but he knew that leaving the king’s service was usually fatal.

  Captain Rhys led Vortigern’s black stallion forward. Vortigern vaulted into the saddle. He shouted with laughter, looking down at the expres
sion on Lailoken’s face. “Why so surprised? You must have known this would happen. You’re an expert on the future!”

  Vortigern rode away, still laughing. Lailoken stared after him for a moment, then began to shuffle in the opposite direction as fast as his old legs would carry him, lest the king change his mind. A moment later, Paschent joined him.

  Pendragon Castle stood as it always had, a brooding presence looking down upon the River Thames from the ancient Roman city of Caer Londinium.

  Once this city had been sacred to Lughd of the Long Hand and Bran of the Ravens, and ravens still flocked around the tallest tower of Castle Pendragon. But Bran and Lughd had been supplanted by Mars and Apollo and the eagles of Rome, and Lughd’s Dene had become the City of Legions. In the end, even Rome had left, and for a time the New Religion had reigned here, until Vortigern had taken the throne by treachery and betrayal. Vortigern worshiped no power but his own dark ascending star, and in his name crimes were done that shocked the ancient stones of Pendragon Castle.

  Princess Nimue sat in her inner chamber, her back resolutely turned to the narrow window-slit. Her embroidery sat forgotten on her lap. It was too dark to sew by now, and in any event she’d dismissed her waiting women—most of whom were Vortigern’s spies—in order to savor a little precious solitude. Any time that she did not have to play-act for the king’s benefit was priceless… the Princess Nimue had been given years in which to lose all taste for duplicity.

  Her childhood dreams of freedom had all been for nothing—she had simply exchanged her little lodging at Avalon Abbey for an equivalent cell within the walls of Pendragon Castle, and the life of a royal captive. Her world was still limited by blocks of stone and rules made by others.

  Nimue did not like to think of how many years had passed since she had become King Vortigern’s prisoner, one of the many men and women held by Vortigern as security for their fathers’ good behavior. “Hostage” was a kinder word, but the reality was the same: if she displeased the king, if her father Lord Ardent displeased him, Nimue would die.