“I fight for whoever feeds me.” I flash him a smile. “That would be you right now. I’m a fierce fighter. You won’t regret having me along.”
“I would never turn down an able-bodied warrior. Thank you, Merlin.”
“It will be my honor, and my pleasure.”
Uther moves toward the kitchen. Arthur gazes at me enviously and I push his shoulder.
“Don’t look at me like that. Now I’ll be able to give you a blow-by-blow account of the battle. You know your father isn’t likely to give you that.”
Arthur huffs.
“I guess. I could fight, though. I could.”
“Ha. Your father isn’t going to put his only son into battle until he’s sure you can avoid getting killed. Maybe if you disarm me one day, we can petition him.”
“Disarm you?” Arthur looks at me, dismay written across his face. “How can I ever do that? You cheat.”
I shake my head.
“Arthur, what do I always say? There’s no cheating on the battlefield—everything is fair game. In battle, winning means you live, so you do whatever you can to survive. The other man is doing exactly the same thing. Fair play will only get you killed.” I grin. “Besides, if you can beat me, you can beat anyone.”
***
We depart for the south two mornings later in a noisy caravan of shouting men and huffing horses, and ride for two solid days. It’s been a while since I’ve been on horseback for this long at a time, and I’m not sorry to see the familiar hills of the south coast region when they appear on the horizon. The outriders find only one scout, and dispose of him quickly after they discover the Saxon camp’s whereabouts. They’ve progressed just as Arthur predicted. We make camp and prepare for battle in the morning.
The next sunrise, Arthur wakes me where I sleep, rolled in a blanket in front of the dead fire. The camp stirs, and men begin to rustle armor and sharpen weapons. Boys run around with saddles and swords.
“Here.” Arthur hands me some dried meat and hard bread. “Breakfast.”
“Mmm. Thanks.” I take the food and sit up, yawning until my jaw cracks. “Shouldn’t you be helping your father get dressed?”
“I’m going now. I left your sword and a shield behind you.”
“You’re taking your squiring duties seriously.” I nod in approval. “But I won’t need the shield.”
“What do you mean? You use one in practice.”
“That’s because it’s good for you to practice against a shielded opponent. But in battle, I never use one.”
“Isn’t that foolish? How do you defend yourself?”
“The best defense is a good offense.” I grin at him and wiggle my fingers. “I need my hand free.”
Arthur stares at me and then laughs.
“You are such a cheater.”
“Tell me that when I come back alive with the Saxons beat. Then we’ll see what you have to say about my so-called cheating.”
***
The battle is swift and furious. We thunder down a grassy hill on our horses to the camp, where our war cries alert the unaware Saxons to our presence. The surprise attack doesn’t faze them for long and they range out to meet us. The shrieking clash of metal on metal mingles with the shouts and grunts of men and the screams of horses.
I leap off my horse at the earliest opportunity and send it flying back up the hill with a slap on the rump using the flat of my sword. I don’t have hands enough to fight and ride as well, and the horse’s lauvan only get in the way. I’m an anomaly among the horsed warriors I arrived with, who slice powerful sword-blows from atop their mounts at the foot-bound Saxons. I’m not concerned. On the ground I’m sure-footed and ready to meet my enemies. It doesn’t take long for one to find me. A huge Saxon with a tremendous frizzy beard and battle-madness in his eyes rushes toward me and hefts a massive spear in both hands. I raise my sword in one hand to greet him. It’s much smaller and lighter than the swords of Uther and his compatriots. I favor a spatha, similar to swords used by the Roman legions before they left our shores. It’s meant to be wielded in one hand only, which gives me much less power, but the metal is strong and it thrusts and cuts efficiently. And I have a weapon that most others don’t.
With my free hand, as the mighty spear thrusts toward my unshielded chest, I grasp the flailing lauvan of the warrior before me and pull hard. I’m not concerned with accuracy here—speed and force are much more important.
The warrior stumbles over nothing and his spear skims past my left arm a scant finger-span away, stabbing ineffectually at the ground. I’m ready for my opening and slice his arm cleanly. The big man roars and swings wildly at my legs with his overbalanced spear tip. I parry the weak blow with a shout and yank at another handful of his lauvan. The man twists as if given a blow to his side and gasps. It’s my turn again, and I thrust my blade into his ribs. The sharpness of my sword gives me only momentary resistance against his ribcage before slicing and crushing straight into his chest. The man screams and falls on his backside, writhing away from my blade. I twist it with a practiced motion. The man screams again and slumps backward. Blood gushes from of the wound when I jerk the blade out of his body. My heart pounds in my chest with fierce vitality and I release a wordless yell of triumph.
My shout is hardly noticed above the clash and din of battle. Thirty paces to my left, Uther defeats his opponent handily, and I turn to find another Saxon to conquer. Uther can manage on his own. I expect Arthur will have his father come home to fight another day.
I’m ready for my next opponent. My teeth are bared and my breath comes quickly. I’m tense and on my toes, looking for an opening. I wasn’t boasting when I told Uther that I’m a good fighter. Some skill with the sword, matched with exposure to different techniques in my travels and my secret weapon of lauvan manipulation, make me difficult to beat. Battles—and I have seen a few by now—give me a chance to use my skills in a way that is urgent and necessary and powerful and liberating all at once. I was built for this.
I cut down an opponent charging at me from the fray, dodge an errant spear, and turn to face another Saxon. This one has ripped off his helm and his dark blond hair whips its length around his face, giving me the impression that it is tangling with his light-brown lauvan. He is dressed in a typical Saxon leather jerkin and short mail shirt, his body slighter than his compatriots. Blue eyes meet mine.
I freeze. It’s Penda, the man who took me in last summer. I played my harp for him and his family during their midsummer festival. I played tafl with him in the long sunlit evenings, teased his wife about her baking, taught his son how to skip stones in the river. The rest of his people may be ruthless, but he showed me only kindness. In the fraction of a second that I have while I stare at him, I wonder what drove him and his people to pillage our shores. I knew times were tough over on the mainland—Sighard’s tribe was pressuring them to pay tributes of grain and meat that they didn’t have—but I didn’t know it was bad enough to try their luck over here.
Indecision plays over Penda’s face, just as I imagine it does over mine. The noise of battle doesn’t allow us to speak. I don’t know what I would have said, even if I could. I can’t kill him. I could—if we fought I would win, I know that. Arthur calls it cheating—I call it survival. But I can’t repay trust and friendship with a sword in the gut.
“Go,” I shout in the Saxon tongue. He can’t hear me, but he sees my lips form the word. I lower my sword tip and step to the side, jerking my head. He looks at me for a moment more, his face unreadable. Then he nods and charges to the left, into the fray and out of my sight. I wonder who I’ve doomed to die now that I’ve let Penda live.
***
It’s not long before Uther and the lords push the little Saxon horde into a run to the south. We give chase on our horses, harrying the survivors and herding them toward their camp. They have no extra men, no reinforcements from the camp, and we stop a few hundred paces away to watch the Saxons hurriedly pack gear and drag it to their
longboats.
Uther rides up to me.
“Merlin, you can speak the Saxon tongue, can’t you?”
“Yes,” I say. I look at him curiously. “Why?”
“Tell them that they must never return, that they will never be welcome here. That they must leave us alone or die.”
I nod and ride toward the beach. The crashing surf is loud, but I raise my voice to bellow Uther’s message. The Saxons stare at me with bitter eyes but say nothing. Penda is on the second boat, frustration flooding his face.
I wait until they push off from the beach, put their oars in the water, and pull out from land. I ride back to Uther, and his men give a great cheer. I look back at the Saxon ships whose sails sprout from the masts. Their billowing tan fabric catches the wind and bellies out to pull the Saxons away from our shores.
Uther claps me on the back when I approach him.
“Thank you for fighting by my side, Merlin. It was a good battle, a successful battle. King Marcus will reward us richly, I have no doubt.”
The cheering and Uther’s commendation warm me from the freeze of my heart at the fear and bitterness of the Saxons and of Penda. We won, after all, against an enemy that was killing innocent farmers and stealing their crops and goods. I smile broadly at Uther.
“I fight for the joy of battle, but I’ll never say no to a reward.”
Uther laughs heartily and we turn to head back to camp.
***
Arthur and the other squires run to us when we come out from the trees along the path from the battleground.
“Well?” he says to his father, panting, his eyes bright and high color on his cheeks. “You won?”
“We did indeed.” Uther reaches down to ruffle Arthur’s hair. “It was a rout. The Saxons ran from us with their tails between their legs like whipped dogs.” He smiles, then sighs. “I fear there may be more this year. The winter storms have not yet come, and the Saxons may use that opportunity to pester us once again, this time with greater numbers.”
“But you’ll beat them off again,” Arthur says, confident in the might of his father and his people.
“I hope so, son. I hope so.” Uther digs his heels in and trots his horse over to one of the other lords. I consider Arthur’s profile.
“So, do you want to hear what really happened?”
“Yes!” He grabs my reins and puts his hand on my horse’s cheek. “Tell me everything.”
I grin at him.
“Tonight, after supper. I’ll give you the full story, every dodge and blow. I promise.”
“How many did you fight? How many did you kill?”
“Oh, I lose track of numbers. In the thick of battle, all you can think about is your next move. I didn’t stop to take a tally.”
Arthur rolls his eyes at me. I flick the ends of my reins at him.
“Cheeky little squirt.”
Uther joins us once more. Arthur rubs his shoulder where my reins smacked him.
“Can you please stop calling me ‘little squirt?’”
“Why should I do that?”
Arthur wrinkles his nose, thinking.
“I’m almost as tall as you now, so I’m not little anymore. I’ve seen fourteen summers, so I’m not a child anymore. And father trusts me enough to squire for him.”
I nod slowly.
“Okay, no more ‘little squirt.’”
Arthur looks taken aback. I’ve been calling him that for four years now.
“Really? Just like that? I’ve been asking forever.”
“Well, it’s true you are older. When I was your age I was living on my own and fending for myself. And you are certainly more responsible. But do you know why I changed my mind?”
Arthur shakes his head.
“It’s because you argued your case with calm logic instead of pestering me with a child’s whine.”
Uther lets out a huge, rolling belly laugh that causes nearby men to turn their heads curiously.
“Well said, Merlin.”
Arthur looks thoughtful.
“But you’re still a little gangly,” I say from my perch on the horse. “You remind me of a growing tree. From now on, I’ll call you ‘sapling.’”
Arthur makes an exasperated sound in his throat.
“How do I lose this name?”
“When you’re ready, you won’t have to ask. It’s not something you can cheat.”
Uther laughs again. Arthur glowers at me and drops my reins, stalking off to join a gaggle of other young squires walking back to camp.
I grin broadly and Uther chuckles.
“It was a great win today.” I roll my tired shoulders. “We really made them run. They’ll be rowing back to the mainland faster than the wind can push them.”
“Yes, but there will be more. There are always more. And we won’t be able to stop them every time.”
“Cheer up, Uther. Enjoy the win.”
Uther shakes his head.
“You are wise and have traveled much, Merlin, that sometimes I forget you are still a young man. Battles are a young man’s sport and I can see you revel in them. But we cannot forget to remain vigilant against the invaders, lest we rest on our laurels for too long and let our enemies sneak up on us unawares. They will be back.” He gives me a sad half-smile. “I had hoped that Arthur might someday live in a world where he didn’t have to constantly look over his shoulder for the Saxons. Unfortunately, that day seems like a long time coming.” He nods to the approaching camp. “Come. Eat supper, rejoice in our win, but don’t be fooled that this battle was the end. There will be more, you can be sure of that.”
I watch Uther on his horse trot away, frowning. His words fill me with a deep foreboding I can’t shake. Unbidden, Penda’s face floats in my mind’s eye, frustration and fear plain on his face. Whatever is driving the Saxons here is worse than the perils they may face at the end of our swords.
CHAPTER XIX
My arm shakes.
“Merry. Merry, wake up.”
I blink blearily awake. The television is yammering quietly in the background about something called the SonicAb 3000. It’s the only source of light in the otherwise soot-black room. I look to Jen who has a hand on my arm. Her hair is tousled and she looks sleepy but concerned. I rub my hands over my face and sit up.
“Ugh, I guess I fell asleep. What time is it?”
“Four in the morning,” Jen says. She sits up as well. “We both fell asleep. I was just so tired after my stressful day. I don’t even know what we were watching when I crashed.” She looks at me carefully. “Merry, are you okay?”
“Hmm? Why wouldn’t I be?” I yawn hugely, my jaw cracking. “Besides being awake at four in the morning, that is.”
“It’s just—” Jen bites her lip, as if unsure what to say—or how to say it. “Your sleep was really restless, like you were having a bad dream. And then you started talking.” She looks at me fully, her warm brown eyes worried. “And the other night you were crying in your sleep. Are you okay? What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do?”
I look away, toward the flashing television. Now a well-muscled man so oiled he’s practically dripping is demonstrating the use of the SonicAb 3000. I look down at my hands instead.
“Sleep’s overrated,” I say, flashing a quick grin at Jen before looking back to my hands. “It’s probably just my body telling me I’m getting too much.”
Jen heaves a sigh much larger than I expect from such a slight body.
“Merry, if there’s something wrong, you can’t keep it cooped up inside. It isn’t healthy. And if you don’t talk about it with me, that’s fine, but you need to talk to somebody. But the problem is, I don’t think you’ve got many other people, do you? You never talk about other friends, and I don’t even know if you have any family.” Out of the corner of my eye I see her run a hand through her hair. “You know what, Merry? I think I know more about my roommate’s boyfriend than I do about you, sometimes. I don’t even know your middle name,
or where you were born. You’re one of my best friends, but honestly, you have to open up. That’s what friends are for. I can take whatever you want to dish out.”
Be careful what you wish for, Jen. There’s more in this world than you can imagine.
I’m still silent, unsure of what to say. Jen fills in the pause.
“I guess I just wanted you to know that you can talk to me, okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. Just know I’m here for you.”
It’s my turn to sigh. I wish I could tell her about my dream. I would love to talk about my memories with someone. Maybe then they would get out of my head and not haunt me so frequently. But the truth is, I’m afraid. Jen’s right—beside Braulio, ninety-six and in a care home in Costa Rica, Jen is the only friend I have. And I’m terrified that I’ll lose her if I tell her everything. It’s happened before, more often than I like to remember. The knowledge of my life shakes people’s worldviews, and some can’t handle that. I don’t want to push Jen away, but the only way I know how to do that is to keep her at arm’s reach. It’s a tricky balance, and now I wonder how long it can last.
“Thanks, Jen. I appreciate that.” I wait a moment before standing up. “I should let you get to sleep. We both have a long trip tomorrow.” I look back at Jen, whose face is a mixture of disappointment and resignation. I give her a half-smile which she only barely returns. I turn to go.
“Wait, Merry.”
“Yeah?”
“When you were talking in your sleep—you spoke very clearly, but I couldn’t understand the words. But they sounded so familiar, like a strange hybrid of Welsh and something else I couldn’t place. What was it?”
It’s getting harder and harder to keep Jen out. I turn and try a laugh.
“It was probably just dream gibberish. Who knows?” I shrug. “Night, Jen.”
I leave her frowning after me, lit by the flickering blue of the television.
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