Merlin's Shadow (14 page)

Colvarth stood behind him, holding a hefty stone. “No, my difficult druid … you are wrong. Those that stay awake make the decisions.”

Merlin breathed again. “Thank you, Colvarth.”

Now for the hardest thing he had ever done in his life — facing the Picts and the long death of slavery, for himself and those he held most dear.

Ganieda awoke in the most creamy warmth she'd ever known. One moment she'd been shivering before the Pictish leaders, and now she was … where? She turned on her side and felt with her hands the fur of an animal skin wrapped around her. The smell of oats baking made her stomach growl … and she opened her eyes.

Grandfather leaned over some bannocks, which lay on a flat rock nigh the embers of their fire, and poked them with his jagged fingernail. The orange light flickered on his forehead, lighting up the inside of his eyes in the near-darkness of the tent.

“Ah, my daughter's daughter — you awake at last. I tried to use the orb while you slept, but could not make it show me what I desired. Thus I despaired of learning what happened to our enemies until morning, yet now I have your attention once again. I hope this time you will be more …
obedient
.”

Never taking his eyes off of her, he drew forth the brass sickle blade from his belt with his one good hand and sliced a bannock in half, flicking a crumb into the coals. It flared up for a moment and then died. “There will be consequences if you betray me again.”

Ganieda shivered, despite the warmth of the fur blanket.

“Would you like a bannock? The oats are old but still have some life.”

“No.”

Outside the tent, a yelp was heard, a scream of some animal, and then loud whimpering.

Grandfather caught his breath.

Growling mixed with a whine, and then faded, loping into the distance. It was Tellyk; Ganieda knew it. Something was wrong. She had just stood when the ties to the flap began to rip, the shining steel of a spear point slicing them through. Blood lay on the tip.

Grandfather jumped. The brass blade shook in his hand.

The door of the tent flipped back and a spear pushed through, followed by the huge shadow of a man.

Grandfather backed up. “Who … who are you? What do you want?”

The man said nothing, but stepped forward and slammed the butt end of his spear into Grandfather's head.

Ganieda screamed as he crumpled to the ground.

The man turned toward her.

She reached for her bag, tied near her hip.
Her fang
. She would cut him! But the strings … they were too tight to open quickly.

The man stood over her, his cheeks puffing above his thick, golden beard. She stared at him, wondering if she knew him, but darkness filled the tent as he blocked the light from the hearth. Without a word, he bent down, grabbed her, and picked her up.

The ground fell away. She screamed again and tried to scratch him with her fingernails. But he lifted her farther into the air, swung her upside down, threw her over his shoulder, and then walked off into the coolness of the night.

“Let me go!” she screamed, but he would not.

She tried to reach for her bag — her fang that would slit him — but it lay on the other side of his shoulder near his neck, and his hand lay upon it, holding her waist.

In the distance, the camp of the remaining druidow stirred, and a few of them lit torches and began shouting out her grandfather's name, asking if all was well.

She pounded her captor with flailing fists, even tried pulling his hair, but he all but ignored her as he sprinted down the dim alleys of the deep and ever-shadowed forest.

S
HARP AS TALONS, THE CAPTORS CUTTING;
B
LACK AND BLACKER, THE FANG DEATH SPREADING;
G
LOP AS GLUTTON, THE EATER EATING;
D
ROWSE AS DREAMER, THE SLEEPER SLEEPING;
F
ORTRESS ON HILL, WARE THE WICKED GUISE.

V
ortigern swore as he wrapped a cloth rag around his bleeding arm. The spear had cut deep, but he'd been hurt worse before and lived to slice the heads off of his enemies. The problem here was that there were just too many wretched heads.

The mist had thinned, and he spurred his horse forward to get a better view through the large clump of trees. In the distance, the torches of the Picts parted, allowing Vortigern to see the entrance to the burial mound. Some figures stepped forth, holding their hands aloft. Vortigern squinted, but couldn't make out who the fools were in the dark.

“Ehh … Vortipor, is that them?”

Vortigern's son covered his eyes to block the moonlight. “It's them, sure. One's holding Arthur.” And then his voice faltered. “I even … even see Natalenya.”

Vortigern loosed the reins of his horse. “We can leave, then. I couldn't have wished a better end for Arthur. No blood on my hands, and we'll never see him again.”

“Leave?”

“We have lots to do. Gorlas is raising men for us, and we have the Saxenow to fight.”

Vortipor grabbed the leather brace of his father's good arm. “We can't just leave!”

Like an owl to the kill, and just as silent, Vortigern slipped out a short sword and held it at his son's throat. “There's a new High King to swear fealty to, if you haven't noticed. Choose the girl, and
your
eyes will never see your great-grandfather's torc on my neck. I swear it.”

His son hesitated.

Vortigern's anger rose. A squanderer for a son, he was. Always chasing the beauties — and his head so loose it was just
waiting
to fall off. He twisted the blade, but not enough to cut.

His son sucked in his breath and flared his nostrils.

Perhaps there was a better tact, Vortigern mused. He withdrew his sword.

“Imagine old Glevum rebuilt … and you sitting around the feasting fire in the great hall. You sit upon a pile of skins after a great victory, and a boar, roasted and sweet, lies before you. Its haunch is in your teeth, with the fat dripping down your beard. A thousand warriors raise their bowls of ale and shout your name. ‘Vortipor … Vortipor the Great!' they call. The kingly torc of our family line lies upon
your
neck, bright and shining, and the bards sing your praise.”

His son's eyes went glassy. “And I'm married, right?”

Vortigern repressed a snicker. “To anyone you want. They'll all be yours once I'm gone, but I need your help
now
.” He pointed toward the Picti. “Over there is only death. Come on.” He turned his mount and rode away. The other warriors followed, but Vortigern's son stayed behind.

Curse him. The stupid fool
.

But before Vortigern had spurred his horse out of the valley and down toward the sea and their waiting boats, his son rode at his side again. Vortigern smiled. All his long years of patient suffering under
Uther were over. It was time to gather his warriors to Glevum and declare himself the High King.

Just as the torch went out, Merlin led them out of the mound and gave themselves up to the Picts. Of course Caygek had to be trussed with a rope from Garth's pack and pulled out against his will — cursing Merlin all the way.

Ealtain, the chief of the Picts, presided over the slave taking. For his first act he approached Merlin and reached his right hand toward Merlin's bloodied face and scars. His huge fingers stunk of sweat, leather, and the bitter woad they used for war paint. Merlin flinched, and in response the chieftain backhanded him across the face and wrenched the torc from his neck. The falcon beaks on the ends of the torc scratched his skin.

Merlin staggered, fresh blood coursing down from the facial wounds Ganieda had given him. And when the pain eased and he could see again, Ealtain had placed the gold torc upon his own neck, tossing his dirty, old, bronze one to the dirt, where a nearby warrior scooped it up.

Next, Ealtain called out for a broad, dark-haired man to step from the ranks, presenting Merlin and the others to him as if they were a gift.

But someone else pushed his way through, shouting. This man was even taller than Ealtain, though not as thick, and he shoved the dark-haired warrior back with the haft of his spear. His orange-red locks were coiled into sullied braids, and his nose was long. His eyes, unblinking, were dark green, and they dared the dark-haired man to defy him.

Shouting erupted among the warriors, but Ealtain roared until they quieted. Turning to the red-haired intruder, Ealtain snarled, his lip upturned in contempt, and bid the two to fight.

The dark-haired warrior picked up a spear and stepped forward, jabbing.

Red-hair flinched back, knocking the blow aside with his spear.

All the warriors gave them a wide berth. Merlin motioned for their band to back away too, but they only managed a few steps before the spear points of the warriors stopped them.

Red-hair, who had the longer reach, countered with a quick strike to the head of his opponent. The man ducked and struck out with his shaft, thunking red-hair in the ribs. Red-hair answered with a vicious kick to the man's stomach — then, while the man was momentarily stunned, red-hair cracked him across the back of the head.

Dark-hair slumped to the ground, falling across his spear.

Red-hair laid his foot on the man's neck and let out a quavering victory yell, the feathers on his spear vibrating in the midnight breeze.

Behind him, Ealtain charged forward, his teeth bared, and slammed his shoulder into red-hair's side, knocking him flat. Ealtain's own spear now hovered over the man's eyes.

“Keepa an thrails by right-ah — but if thwarta mo again, fight'idh yiu, and then eat-idh yiur liver — like yiur fatheri.”

By this, the Pictish chief had given Merlin and the other's as slaves to red-hair, whose name was Necton — but Ealtain was not pleased that his choice had been frustrated. Indeed, he drew a thin, bloody line across Necton's chest, and spit on his face before backing away.

Necton rose, eyes unblinking, watching Ealtain. He wiped the spit from his face with a handful of grass and then approached his new slaves with a grim smile on his lips.

“Ealtain must have killed Necton's father,” Colvarth whispered to Merlin. “There's bad blood between those two.”

“Could that help us … or hurt us?”

“We'll see.”

Necton stripped them of all their weapons, food, and belongings, even their boots and cloaks. Only their basic clothes remained.

When Necton came to Colvarth, he stole the white-gold torc from his neck and placed it upon his own. Colvarth's torc ends were
formed with the heads of moor cats, each with a sparkling white eye, and this pleased Necton.

To Merlin's surprise, Colvarth didn't seem to care about the loss of his torc. “I am old,” he told Merlin later, “and cannot take my torc with me to God's kingdom. Such things are understood only when one realizes this island is not our true home.”

For Merlin it was harder, though. His own torc had been given to him by Muscarvel, that marsh-dwelling, prophetic madman with a rusty blade. A kingly gift the torc had been too. Merlin had worn it as a sign of God's promise to him of his role in protecting the new High King. To see it on Ealtain's neck was almost insufferable, but Merlin held his tongue.

Merlin also realized how frail Colvarth was. The bulk of his cloak had always hidden his thin frame, but now he stood before them, aged and taking deep breaths from the chill night air.

One thing did grieve the bard though … for he moaned when Necton stole the tin box containing the strange bowl Merlin could see but Colvarth could not. Thankfully, the Pict just tossed it into a bag and didn't examine its contents.

“We must get it back,” Colvarth whispered to Merlin, “for this is a mystery of the Christ and should not fall into other's hands.”

Merlin nodded, but this wasn't his present concern: Necton was studying Natalenya. Merlin's throat burned hot, for this was something he hadn't considered properly. He had decided to deliver her to her mother's kin. Even though he was alive — which meant there was a chance he could protect her — how could he
really
prevent Necton from making her his wife? He should have never allowed her to come along. Never.

Thankfully, Necton turned and sorted through the rest of the party's belongings, and these he distributed to the men under him. A difficult time for Merlin was when his father's personal longsword was taken by Necton. All his Pictish warriors marveled over the blade's workmanship and eyed Necton with wonder as he strapped it on.

When Necton unrolled the tapestry of Vitalinus from Colvarth's bag, he dropped it and jumped back. He yelled for the other leader with the bulky hair. “Scafta, come'ive here!”

Scafta … Merlin worried as he thought about him. Where Ealtain was brutal, Scafta slithered. The man's hair was long, matted into coils, and balled up into a great mound over his head. It was held there by two great combs made from the shoulder blades of a deer. And to protect this mass he had a strangely patterned hood held up by a framework of curved branches. Though his face had been shaven, his eyebrows grew so densely they merged into one long line, and his bony cheeks and thick lips added to the fearsome visage. His boots had a network of metal spikes tied onto them, and he wore a necklace of bones, bags, and scraggly feathers.

In his hand he held a long stick carved with human images. At its base and top hung cleverly crafted bells amidst human hair tacked on by their thin strips of scalp. When Scafta had first seen Merlin, he had pressed this stick in his face and shaken it, whooping a dance of victory. It had smelled foul, and Merlin had turned his nose away, only to invite a beating from the man.

“He is their
shaman
… their witch doctor,” Colvarth said. “The druidow of ages ago were thus, or so is whispered in our rare-spoken lore.”

Scafta stepped over at Necton's call and studied the tapestry, his feet tense and ready to jump as if it would strike him. The wind blew, and the tapestry flapped a bit, causing Scafta to grab a spear. With a cry the witch doctor drove the point through the image's chest, and he danced around it shaking his stick, warning all the warriors of its danger.

When this ceremony was done, Scafta threw the tapestry into a nearby fire, and Merlin was glad to see the near likeness of Vortigern go up in flames.

There were exceptions to Necton's theft, however — for apparently the Picts had a love of music. Necton let Colvarth and Merlin keep their harps, since Necton was unable to play them himself.

When Necton pulled the sack with Garth's bagpipe out of the pile, however, Scafta's eyes lit up, and the witch doctor started pawing the leather bag, its drone pieces, and the chanter.

Garth stepped forward, his cheeks red, and he tried grabbing it from them. “Leave that alone, you … I'll not lose it again!”

Necton, still gripping the bagpipe with one hand, slipped his new blade from his belt and pointed it at Garth.

With the blade threatening him, Garth let go and jumped away. “I mean … I mean … you can have it … if you insist!”

Necton sheathed his blade, and then tried to put the bagpipe together. He dropped some of the drone pieces, however, and couldn't figure it out. With a bark, he motioned for Garth.

Garth, puffing his cheeks in and out, put it together. And when he was finished, Necton yanked it away and tried to play it. When only squeaks came out, he threw it on the ground and lifted his foot to stomp on it.

Rage rose up in Merlin. Would this Pict ruin everything dear to them? Garth prized nothing if not his bagpipe. Before Necton's foot came down, Merlin leapt forward and pushed him back. Necton slammed Merlin in the chest, knocking his breath away and sprawling him in the mud.

That was when Scafta intervened. He pulled from his bag a single, shiny gold piece and offered it to Necton, who shifted his eyes from Garth, to Merlin, and then back to Scafta and his coin, now spinning between the man's fingers like a toy.

“Keep'ive foir song magic,” Scafta said, and he stepped on Merlin's fingers, which happened to be resting on a sharp rock.

Merlin wanted to shout but had to suck air instead.

Garth dropped to his knees and begged Necton to let him keep it. “Please, sir … I'll play it for you, promise!”

Necton pushed Garth away, shook his head until another gold coin joined the first, and then took both, allowing Scafta to scoop up the bagpipe and walk off with it, a wicked glint in the witch doctor's eyes.

Garth wept.

Merlin pulled himself up, cradling his bleeding fingers, and saw warriors had brought a set of slave collars. Every fiber in Merlin's body wanted to resist, but surrounded and weaponless, he had no choice.

Each collar had been made of two pieces of wrought iron, joined at the back by a bent pin. The left side of the collar ended in a small link. The right side ended in a large link and a chain attached just before it. The small link was threaded through the large link, and then the chain was threaded through the small link, securing it. The chain was then slid onto the next slave collar. Thus they were chained together into two groups; Colvarth led the first, followed by Natalenya, and Caygek. The second group was only Garth and Merlin — or so he thought.

Garth, in particular, looked down at his slave collar a long time as if there was something funny about it. Merlin tried to ignore him.

Necton dragged forth another man with long black hair. His face was swollen, bruised, and bloody from a beating, and he lay there, dazed. His eyelids puffed out grotesquely, and he could barely open them.

As Necton ripped off the man's deep green cloak, Merlin spied there a brooch — the golden boar that Uther's warriors all pinned on their cloaks.

He was Vortigern's man.