Merlin's Shadow (15 page)

Necton also stripped him of his shirt of iron scales and put it on himself. The stranger bled from his side — a sword or spear had sliced near his ribs. The blood had dried down his tunic onto his breeches. If the wound was deep, the man would probably be dead within a few days.

And then Merlin recognized him. He was the warrior Merlin had battled on horseback, as well as on the fishing boat. He alone of all Vortigern's warriors had been taken by the Picti.

Necton clapped a thrall ring upon him just ahead of Garth, and the man groaned, trying to pull it off. For this he was beat with a
stout club until he collapsed to the ground, his legs jerking. They locked it by bending a thick iron pin with a massive hammer.

A little later the man awoke.

Merlin helped him sit up and asked his name.

“Bed-dwir,” the man said, his tongue thick, and then Merlin truly knew him. He wasn't just a warrior, but rather one of the war chieftains underneath Vortigern. Merlin had met him at Uther's war council held in the king's tent. But Merlin had been blind then and hadn't seen his face. Uther had asked for their advice in dealing with the villagers' disloyalty, and Bedwir had recommended holding a dance with music and mead to win over their hearts — clearly the kindest approach given by one of the war chieftains.

So here before Merlin sat a man who's heart brimmed with grace and forgiveness — but also dauntless courage, for Bedwir had been the first to attack Merlin twice. Was he loyal to Arthur … or Vortigern?

“I'm Merlin. I met you in Uther's tent, and we've fought twice near Dintaga.” He half-expected Bedwir to become enraged, but instead he grasped Merlin's hand and squeezed.

“Is … Arthur safe?” he asked, his head lolling to the side.

Merlin motioned for Garth to hand Arthur to him, and he placed the boy in Bedwir's lap.

Arthur eyed Bedwir silently and folded his small hands, not knowing who the strange man was or why he should be put in his grasp.

Bedwir kissed Arthur's head, and tears streamed from the slits of his eyelids. “He's here … O blessed God, he's here!”

Colvarth stepped close now, Natalenya and Caygek chained behind him. “Follower of Vortigern, do you know me?”

Bedwir reached out and found the bard's shoulder. “Colvarth, I do know you — at least your voice — and I doubt no longer your loyalty to Arthur.”

“We fled from Vortigern and his blade.”

“Justly, for this n-night I finally overheard him plotting … with Vortipor to k-kill Arthur.”

Bedwir swooned, and Merlin steadied him. “Are you all right?”

“Vortigern speared me, but I think my ribs saved my life.”

“If God has saved you,” Colvarth said, “there is a blacker thing than death at hand.”

The sun rose, red as blood, and Merlin yanked at the slave collar once again, hoping beyond hope that it would loosen and he could slip it off. But it was not so. Indeed, the thrall rings were heavy, and Merlin's had already begun to chafe his collarbones. He tugged at it again, feeling the iron with his fingertips to find any cracks or flaws in its forging, but there were none. He studied the chain likewise but found no hope of breaking it without tools — and being the son of a blacksmith, he would know.

Necton stepped over and pulled Arthur from Bedwir's hands. Holding up the boy, he studied Arthur for the first time, almost like a trinket he might keep or throw away. Arthur's lips pouted, and the boy was about to cry, his legs wiggling so high above the ground.

Setting Arthur between his feet, Necton pulled off the boy's shirt and then whistled for a warrior to come over. The warrior brought a leather satchel and untied it. Necton knelt down, dipped his fingers in, and smeared greasy woad paint over Arthur's chest.

The warriors around him shouted and shook their spears. “Chrithane! Chrithane! Now ish boiy an Chrithane Mor!”

Merlin cringed. Necton intended to raise Arthur to be a Pict, a warrior of the mountainous north — and unless Merlin could free them somehow, Arthur would fight
against
his own people.

And even though the boy was given back to Garth to be cared for, Merlin worried how long that would last.

Merlin saw among the Picts the same horses they had set free in the dark. These were prized because they helped the warriors carry home more plunder, and Scafta-big-hair took the honor of doling them out to certain warriors that pleased him. Necton didn't get
one, but he traded with one of the lucky warriors for it. Caygek's sword was part of the bargain.

A moan escaped Caygek's lips as his blade disappeared into the mass of warriors.

During this time, Ealtain reattached a wheel to his chariot with a hammer.

They marched when the sun rose above a distant hill, and their pace was brutal. Merlin was grateful for his position at the back of the line because it allowed him to see the needs of those in front — and pray for them.

Natalenya — she could barely handle the walk and stumbled often. Merlin longed to help her but was glad when Colvarth allowed her to lean upon his shoulder.

For Bedwir, the man had trouble keeping up at first, but rallied to prevent Necton's spear from jabbing another slit in his side.

Garth, the saint that he was, carried Arthur most of the time and tried to keep him happy. Between all of Garth's funny faces and his alternating sad and cheerful demeanor, the two had clearly bonded.

“Arth, you're better'n a bagpipe, that's for sure,” Merlin overheard him say. “But it'd sure be nice to have both. I'd teach you to be a piper like me father, that's what I'd do.”

For the most part, the Picts ignored them, but now and then Merlin, at the back, would get rammed by Scafta with his witch doctor stick. He would lean over his chariot, leering, and say foul things, spittle slipping from his dirty teeth.

From the position of the sun, it appeared they were heading northeast, and Merlin pled with God that a band of warriors from Kembry would accost the Picts and set he and his friends free. During the warmest part of the day they rested and drank in a deep forest. Necton ate fish and smoked meat but only offered his slaves dried bread.

Before they left again, Ealtain came up. “Joined us yiu an right time. Now go back'idh north we are to homes — and begin we an thrail taking.”

“This is a common practice,” Colvarth explained to them later. “Raiders sweep down from the north, pillaging as they go, but don't take any slaves until they turn back toward home.”

They marched for five more hours that day, and it was mercifully cut short well before dusk. All of them had held up well except Natalenya, for by the end she had to be helped by both Colvarth and Caygek. Merlin ached to help her, but Necton's spear kept him bringing up the rear.

They retreated into the woods again, and the warriors seemed tense, sharpening their spears and chatting in low, excited whispers over their meal.

Colvarth, with the sharpest ears for their strange tongue, told them what was being said. “Ealtain has requested to attack a nearby village. To decide the matter, Scafta has studied the flight of birds to and from the otherworld — or so he says. Because of this, he has authorized the attack. The birds tell him it will not rain … apparently he does not consider fighting in the rain to be auspicious. And the men hope for treasure and to add new slaves for the journey home.”

Merlin shifted his slave collar. “Do you think there's a force in Kembry large enough to stop them?”

“Perhaps if many villages banded together … but that is unlikely since most have gone to fight the Saxenow on the coast. The High King will not return there to lead them, sadly.”

“Yes he will … but the torc of the king will be worn by Vortigern.” Merlin regretted saying it, but it was the truth.

Colvarth sighed. “My great failure, yes … O, God, I did not see the scoundrel, even while he was nesting in my beard!”

“At least our heads won't be on
his
spears.”

“And for that, let the Lord be thanked.”

“I wish the Romans were still here keeping the Picts in check. I never dreamed they raided this far south.”

“Ah but the
Pax Romana
is gone, and do not wish for it again, for it was really nothing but the
Pretium Romana
, the Bribes of the
Romans … and so now the Picts take by blade what they'd been given by the Romans to keep the peace. What we need is a strong High King to prevent such brazen attacks.”

“We must find a way to free Arthur.”

“Yes.”

Necton stepped up to them. The scale armor he'd stolen from Bedwir was now smeared with blue woad, and some of the paint had mixed with Bedwir's dried blood. Next to him stood a smaller warrior holding a spear with a barbed tip. “Watch'idh guard yiu while attack-i we this village. Stay'ive here yiu, or slit'idh guard yiu.”

They figured out Necton was leaving to attack a village, and a guard — who looked like a shorter, younger Necton — was going to watch them. Soon the warriors formed up a long line, and after crashing their spears together, they raced off through the woods due west.

The guard tossed his red hair out of his eyes and laughed. To reinforce his new power over them, he ripped Merlin's tunic with the end of his spear.

Ganieda screamed, her back to the rock wall of the crennig.

Strangers surrounded her, peering at her. Ah, they tried to smile, but she could see through it — their quick glances and their smirking faces told all. That cruel man had hit her grandfather, the only family she had left, and had stolen her away.

He stood in front, with thick, fox fur boots wrapped over his brown pants. The man's tunic was woven finely with many different colors, making up a plaid she hadn't seen before. His big hands still held his spear, and Ganieda could tell he was just waiting to skewer her with it. He had a red-yellow beard, and she could see his sneaky eyes just under his dark eyebrows.

Next to him stood a woman, her hair hidden in a striped white-and-orange wrap. Her hands were stained a light brown, and she had a long wooden spoon in her apron. Behind her peeked out three
girls. One was younger than Ganieda, one was about the same age, and the tallest was older. Those frog-eyes, why wouldn't they look away?

The woman stepped over and knelt before her.

“Tellyk,”
Ganieda screamed. If he were here, he'd rip them with his fangs, he would —

Fangs? How could Ganieda have forgotten so quickly? She slipped her hand into her bag, and pulled out her long fang.

The woman reached out to her. “There's no need to be afraid …”

Ganieda scratched the woman's arm, and a stirring of power climbed up Ganieda's spine.

The woman screeched and pulled back.

But Ganieda wasn't through yet, and she leapt forward, raising the fang.

The man, however, bent down and seized her wrist, bending her arm away from the woman. “Imelys, get the rope. I told you she was wild!”

Ganieda pulled the man's hair. “Let go! Where's my wolf, and where's my grandfather? I'll kill you!” But she realized she had spoken in the tongue of the druidow, and these foolish people wouldn't understand her.

The man twisted her hand holding the fang until her elbow and shoulder burned. She tried to get her hand free, but unable to do so, she let go of his hair, and tears began pouring down her cheeks. She didn't want them to see her tears, and tried to brush the wetness away with her sleeve, but the man wouldn't let go.

“That hurts,” she screamed.

One of the girls brought a thin rope, and the man grabbed it and wrestled Ganieda until he had tied her left wrist.

She shrieked.

“Troslam, don't do this!” said the woman.

He wound the rope around the other wrist and yanked it tight. “We have no choice.” The man finished with a messy knot, and then bound her feet with the remaining length.

The rope burned her skin. Ganieda thrashed her body and pulled to get free, but couldn't. She tried digging the fang into the rope to cut it, but the man snatched the fang from her grasp. So quick, and it was gone. She screamed. “Give it back — give it back!” She would kill him if she got free. He would regret this. They would all weep in their regret.

M
erlin thought they would all get to rest while the warriors were off raiding, but he was wrong — very wrong. The guard forced them all to a nearby stream where clothing had been strewn around in piles.

The guard commanded them to start washing the clothes in the stream, and then he sat on a rock with his sharp spear across his lap.

Merlin looked at the clothes and realized
why
they needed washing. They were soaked in blood — all of them. The clothes had been stripped by the Picts from their victims, whose blood had dried onto the cloth.

Merlin glared at the guard, who pretended to gut Merlin with the tip of his spear. The thought of attempting to escape flitted through Merlin's mind, but he let it go. There were five other warriors left in the camp, and he and his fellow prisoners would never make it. So submitting, he bent down, and began scrubbing a horrific, bloody tunic, whose previous owner had been stabbed three times.

The rest followed his example, picking up whatever cloth lay near. Before Garth began, though, he set Arthur down in the grass with a piece of bread, and the boy alternated sucking on the bread and playing with the stalks, here and there pulling them up in fistfuls.

This went on for an hour, and with each garment, Merlin began to despair a little more — for their future, and for the future of the villagers who were being attacked by the Picts. He wanted to pray but found it hard, what with the red-stained brook slowly flowing past and the slave collar noosed around his neck.

Natalenya began to sob.

Merlin looked over, and in her shaking hands lay a little tunic. Some boy, maybe three winters and not much older than Arthur, had been slain by the Picts, and then stripped of his clothes. Her tears fell upon it, and she tried to scrub it, but could not control her trembling.

Merlin wanted to comfort her, but did not know how without angering the guard. Then an idea struck him. He dried his hands on his pants, pulled his small harp from its leather satchel, and began plucking a hymn he'd learned at the chapel in Bosventor.

The guard stood and watched Merlin intently, but then sat down again on his rock and listened.

This is what Merlin sang:

Colvarth knew the song, for he joined in, and Garth must have heard it at least once, for he tried to sing a little. Natalenya sucked in her sobs and, breathing hard, paused as if listening to the words.

It was hard to trust God while wearing a slave collar, so as he played and sang, Merlin tried to think of God's goodness and of his own need for forgiveness. Thankfully Natalenya finally found her voice, and raised it shakily on the last verse.

Even with the verses sung, Merlin still played the tune, humming it to himself.

Natalenya nodded to Merlin with a thankful expression, and he returned the gaze, allowing himself for a moment to enjoy the beauty of her eyes again.

But he had to look away or his heart would melt, and so he focused back on the harp. And just when he thought that he, as well as Natalenya, had found the strength to continue scrubbing the awful, spear-ripped clothing — Scafta arrived.

Apparently he'd come back early from the raiding and had heard them singing. In particular, he'd heard Merlin singing.

“Yiu doig with scars,” he said, pointing at Merlin with his witch doctor stick. “Yiu stop!”

But Merlin defied him and kept on playing, if only to gall the man.

“Yiu think yiu am bhaird?” he yelled as his nostrils flared and the veins pulsed on his neck. “Airson challenge-amsa yiu before our wiarr-band for am Knock o' Bhairds.”

Hitting Merlin over the head, he stumped off.

Merlin looked to Colvarth for an explanation, but the bard only hummed while he scrubbed a blood-soaked scarf upon a rock.

“Colvarth? What was that all about?”

The man stopped his humming, sat up, and bit his lip. “You have been challenged.”

“And …?”

“And you and Scafta will each stand on opposing hills …
knocks
, as they call them. There the war band will judge between you and Scafta. This is an old practice of one bard challenging another.”

“Judge us?”

“Yes. Judge as to which of you is the better bard.”

“But I'm not yet a bard, how can I …”

Colvarth frowned. “You have a strong, bardic voice, and you will be a bard after many years, God willing, but I regret that I've taught you precious little in these few days we've had together. I hope your innate wisdom is enough.”

With one eye on the guard, Merlin picked up another bloody tunic and began scrubbing it. This one had a hole in the side. Then he whispered to Colvarth, “Can't you take my place? Why'd he pick me?”

“I am old and threaten him little. You, however …”

“What?”

“The Picts fear you.”

“Necton sure doesn't.”

“Ah, but he does. Have you not heard the whispers of the warriors, and seen Necton's glances at you?”

Merlin leaned closer to Colvarth. “No, I …”

“Your scars mark you as a great warrior, fearless in many battles, and to them your harp marks you as holding the secrets of the other world. And Scafta, too, fears you. He fears for his position, and he hopes to make you out to be a fool. Every Pictish king requires a bard, and Ealtain has chosen Scafta, but could just as easily choose another.”

“If I were Ealtain, I wouldn't choose Scafta as
my
bard.”

“Ah, but you don't understand. A Pictish king requires a bard to make the people afraid. Without Scafta, the king would lose his authority. The people fear Scafta, and therefore fear Ealtain. Take the bard away from a Pictish king, and you chop off his right hand.”

“But I'm a fool if I have to pretend to be a bard. I can't challenge Scafta.”

“Ah, but you must. Sometimes to be a fool is a wise thing,” Colvarth said, and then he winked. “Being a fool might save your life.”

Merlin and the others continued scrubbing for another hour. Arthur grew restless after crawling around as far as Garth would allow, and the clouds seemed to match Merlin's mood, gathering darkly overhead. Soon the warband returned, whooping and shouting. They carried sacks full of plunder, and at their spear points walked seven villagers to be made into slaves. Merlin's heart beat rapidly as they put these new villagers through the same grueling process, and he could hardly look.

So he turned and watched Natalenya, and that was almost worse. She was so tired, worn out more than the wet rag hanging from her hands. Her skin had gone pale, and yet Merlin could tell from her shallow breaths and droop of her eyes that she must have a fever.

She was getting worse, and what could he do to help?

Pray. He could pray. So he did, asking God to heal her, to give her strength. Earnestly — his heart secretly full of hot tears — he prayed during the slave-taking. And when he looked upon her again, she was worse, now laying in the dirt with her eyes barely open.

God? Won't you heal her?
he pled, but no answer came; no healing, no balm, no miracle.

And around him the Picts celebrated their victory. Grotesquely stained spears clacked, bags clinked, and blue-painted bodies danced.

It was only then that Merlin noticed that a young man had been chained behind Caygek. One of his front teeth had been smashed, and blood still stained his fuzzy cheeks. He stood shorter than Caygek by a forehead, and Merlin learned his name was Peredur, the skinny son of a horse trader. Just fifteen winters, and already a slave.

But now was not the time to be focusing on the new slaves, for Scafta conferred with Necton and then pointed at Merlin.

“Whenna?” Necton asked, and Scafta shook his fist and slammed it into his hand. Necton nodded, and, raising his hands, stopped the celebration of his fellow warriors. Then he gave a long speech, most of which Merlin could not understand.

Colvarth gripped Merlin's shoulder. “It is now. You are to stand on that hill, and Scafta will be on the other. You will each take turns trying to impress the Picts with your bard craft.”

“But …”

Colvath shook his head. “I am sorry, my Merlin, that I have failed to prepare you. Simply play a song that you know.”

“But —”

“It is supposed to be a song of a true bard, but they might not understand anyway —”

“Colvarth!”

The bard stopped speaking and looked at Merlin.

“Besides a few prayers and a worship song, I only know two children's rhymes.”

Colvarth opened his mouth. He shut it. He opened it. “What? No praises to a king? No battle songs? No festals? No laments? How long have you been playing the harp?”

“Barely two weeks … Natalenya hasn't even had time to teach me.” A cold shadow fell on Merlin, for the clouds had now covered the sun, and they brooded over him.

“The Christian prayer songs you know might anger or confuse the Picts. Do what you can with the rhymes. I will pray.”

“A lot of good that will do …”

Colvarth glared at him, but said nothing.

Necton came with the great hammer and pushed Merlin down next to a rock. With four clanks upon the pin, he freed Merlin from the others. Necton started to pull Merlin up, but he refused the help and stood on his own.

Colvarth offered his large harp, but Merlin shook his head. He had only plucked Natalenya's large harp once, and he would be more comfortable playing the small one that Natalenya had given him.

He stepped onto the small hill knock Colvarth had indicated, and found that the warriors had formed a wide ribbon around the two. Scafta stood on the other hill, his hands holding a harp made from the upper skull of a buck, with the strings tightly wound onto the antlers and down to holes carved into the skull. It was a crude instrument, but Merlin recognized the elemental power it would hold over the Picts compared to Merlin's ten-string lyre harp, which had been purchased from a Roman merchant. While Merlin's was a fine instrument with a carved wooden soundbox and bronze tuning pegs, Scafta's skull “sound box” had sharpened teeth and strange designs carved and painted into the bone. To the bottom of the skull had been attached many bells and other metal trinkets.

Scafta went first. He held his harp high, and, jangling it, pranced around his mound, faster and faster, his feet kicking into the air. All the warriors beat their spears together in time to this — until Scafta jumped into the center at the same moment that they slammed them together in a final, teeth-chattering blow.

And then Scafta began to play. His harp strings were thick, making the melody resonant, and this matched his voice. Merlin could not make out the words, but it was clearly an old song, for the older warriors among the group dropped their eyes in respect.

But as the song went on, the darker notes began to rule, and this matched the thickening cloud cover. The pace quickened as well until Merlin felt as if the devil himself would soon emerge from Scafta's mound and join in. When it ended, a few of the warriors had tears in their eyes. Clearly Scafta had chosen his song well.

All eyes turned skeptically to Merlin, and he could only think about tuning his harp — but what a fool! He knew no bardic lays, no ballads of consequence, no songs of history, and certainly nothing the Picts might understand or know.

His mind raced among his meager set of songs — then thunder clapped in the distance, an edge of black clouds approaching from the west — and he suddenly knew which children's rhyme to sing. He could hear the sound of his mother singing from so many
years before, and his fingers began plucking out the tune. His throat twitched, making him cough before singing out:

At this point Merlin was supposed to sing, “Sleep, sleep, little babe sleep,” and he paused in order to figure out how to avoid embarrassing himself completely. At that moment lightning burst from the sky, shaking the air — and so he sang out:

The warriors had up to this point been looking on with some attention, but when a new blade of lightning shattered a tree just behind them, they ducked, covered their heads, and called out Merlin's name in their strange tongue.

Scafta would not have it, though, and ran screaming at Merlin.

They were only twenty paces apart, and Merlin had almost no time to react. He turned to the side to ram Scafta with his left shoulder, cradling his harp in the other hand.

But it didn't work, for at the last second Scafta whirled aside and booted Merlin off the hill. Merlin fell, and before he could recover, his harp had been yanked from his hands. Scafta dropped
the instrument to the ground, smashed it with his boot, and then turned upon Merlin.