Merlin's Shadow (20 page)

For if he ever became Scafta's slave, he wouldn't last long, as the witch doctor was brutal. One poor slave found out the hard way by misplacing his wooden comb. When he found it again, it was helping hold up Scafta's voluminous hair. The man, indignant of having lost everything else, could not stand this final outrage. He snuck up behind Scafta and pulled it out. Scafta whipped around, grabbed the man's wrist, pinned him to the ground, and slew him.

Merlin had to find a way for them to escape — and soon.

His first break came when Bedwir found an iron-plated wooden hammer left behind beside their oat field when some workers had finished repairing a cart axel. Merlin hid it underneath a rock just behind a tree. And so he began to plan.

But was Natalenya too sick? She had improved a little, yes, but enough to survive such a journey? They had to try, even if going slowly was the only way.

As summer's frenzy rusted away to fall's exhaustion, no opportunity to escape presented itself. At lest the weeding became less, so Garth and Colvarth were given the job of helping prepare food for
the slaves, as well as the Picts. To do this more effectively, they were chained only to each other, and even had the privilege of handling some old knives to cut up the food under the watchful eyes of one of the Pictish guards.

One day Merlin was carrying a heaping basket of oats to a storage hut, and he passed Garth stirring a pot of old, weevil-infested beans over a fire. The boy said to the Colvarth, “It's all wrong.” A few tears had rolled down his cheek, and he wiped them off.

Colvarth arched a dirty eyebrow. “The soup will taste better than it looks.”

“Not the soup,” Garth said, dropping in some long fetticus weeds pulled from the wheat fields. “This slavin' an all o' Scafta's killin' … an their pagan worship. It's all wrong. I saw a lot with the druidow, an' I'm sick of that witch doctor even more than I was o' the ard dre.”

Scafta walked by with Garth's bagpipe under his arm, as he often did in the evenings. He turned a wicked eye at Garth, fuffed up the bagpipe with air, and began playing. To Merlin it sounded like Scafta was squeezing a sick rat to death. The boy played much, much better.

Garth clenched his jaw.

“There is something we might do,” Colvarth whispered, “besides pray and hope.”

“What?” Garth asked as he leaned forward to hear the reply.

A warrior yelled at Merlin to get moving, and so he never heard Colvarth's answer.

It had only been two days since Mórganthu's pact with Tregeagle, but he was already fretting the decision. He ground his teeth while walking back and forth outside his tent. Around his tent. To the stone circle. Around the stone circle. To the southwest to gloat over Uther's cairn. Oh, how he wanted Ganieda. How he wanted the fang — desperately. But if he made any move to take either back, then Uther's girls might flee and hide. If so, then Tregeagle and his
warriors would try to exact the gold debt upon Mórganthu and his precious nose.

Surely he could just leave and Tregeagle would never find him. But he couldn't abandon his daughter's daughter to these worshipers of a foreign god, never, so he had to stay. And not only that, but he wanted to see for himself this honey-dipped retribution upon Uther's children.

But the fang? Was there any way to get the fang? No. Even going back to see if the shutter was unlocked was too chancy. And Ganieda could use it to defend herself, if needed.

He would have to wait until Vortigern came, and then make sure the oaf knew that
his
granddaughter was also in the house and she was not to be touched. There must be no confusion.

If only he had more than four of his druidow to help. The rest had dug the Honor Pit, set their dead brothers's bodies in it, and left. So only two could be called upon to take turns watching Troslam's house. Mórganthu vowed to make them vigilant, for these remaining scums of Uther would not escape before vengeance had been exacted.

And the orb, aha, the orb would help him keep watch. Since Ganieda had used it so effortlessly to see places far away, even visit them, could Mórganthu learn its secrets too? If so, then he could scrutinize those around Ganieda to make sure she was being treated well. And he could also quite possibly see and observe other things happening in Britain, Erin, and even across the sea. With the orb he could devote his time to learning the secrets of the world, expanding the knowledge of the druidow, and thereby increasing their power.

He ran back to his tent and took out the orb from the deep barrel where it had been hid. It felt somewhat soft to the touch, which was strange since he could see into one side of it like it was made of glass. He fingered the fibers coming out the other end, and they had stiffened over the last many days. Some of them had even broke off. What was this thing? He held it up before his eyes, and commanded it to show him where Merlin was. Mórganthu wanted to gloat over that meddler's squirming slavery.

Tendrils of a black smoke swirled inside and then lit up with a dim, purple radiance. Soon the image cleared, and he spied Merlin, a stubbly beard on his smudged, sweating face. The man trekked north with a slave collar pinned around his neck, and his skin bled under its heavy grip. He'd even been chained to other slaves. And though Mórganthu could clearly see all of Merlin's suffering — and the suffering of that wretched Garth and the wicked Colvarth — Mórganthu became so incensed that the scoundrel lived that he wanted to smash the orb against a rock. But he dared not, for with the orb he could see many things.

And so as the leaves turned from summer's green to autumn's brown, he spent his time absorbed with more important visions, such as that traitorous Vortigern. There he sat, with a majestic torc around his neck as he began his reign as High King of the Britons. Thousands of warriors lauded him, each one bowing before him and kissing his boot. The flat-nosed Vortipor stood beside him, only half interested in the proceedings. The hall around the new High King was being rebuilt, and Vortigern smiled like a buffoon at the masons and carpenters busy at work. Ah, but he would come to Bosventor soon, like a dog to its vomit, and kill Uther's daughters on Mórganthu's behalf. What a nice thing for him to do. Mórganthu didn't have to lift a finger. Only watch. And wait.

W
eeks passed with Merlin waiting for the moon to go from full, to half, to a cold crescent, to nothing but a hoary sliver — and the time to act had arrived. With the nights getting fridgid, they couldn't wait another month, guards or no guards.

So early the next morning, before the warriors drove them from the stone huts to work, Merlin rolled over to Colvarth, woke him, and told him of the secret mallet and of his plan.

The bard's face flushed in the thin light filtering through the door, and he motioned Merlin closer. “It is all I could hope for, but it will be difficult.”

Merlin tensed his neck, thinking of the risk. “I know.”

“You do not. Tonight, when the moon is dark, the Picts will celebrate their pagan harvest feast of Samhain. Have you not known why they work us to the bone to finish the harvest?”

“Perhaps they will be careless.”

“Perhaps not. To them, it is a night when the otherworld bleeds
through to our own to work its mischeif. They will celebrate, certainly, but they will be afraid, and more than likely post more guards around the village.”

“They're that afraid?”

“They fear the otherworld. And because of that, many fear you.”

“Still?”

“Scafta is afraid.”

“He hates me, sure —”

“Lately, he has been observing you more. The last few days I have often seen him standing in the woods, studying you. Watching from the shadows.”

Just then, a darkness fell over the door.

Merlin sucked in his breath and bit his lip.

“Thusa get-a up yiu!”

It was just one of the guards, come to wake them up.

That day the Picts worked the slaves many extra hours to finish cutting and threshing the wheat crop. Necton took particular interest in driving Merlin to the breaking point and brought a whip to keep him moving. It didn't matter if Merlin's left calf had cramped up, that his blistered hands wept their pus onto the wheat, or that his right elbow throbbed in pain — he had to keep loading the wooden carts with sheaves until they could hold no more, or else endure additional scars added to his back.

Merlin was thankful Bedwir was chained beside him and did his best to help, despite his right foot having been injured on a thorn the week before.

The slaves then pulled each cart over to a large, flat rock where Caygek, Peredur, and many others threshed the sheaves. From there they sifted the grain into hundreds of baskets and clay pots for storage inside a row of stone crennigs. The Picts hoped that these grains would last the village through the long, snow-deep winter.

Merlin cast a heavy bundle of sheaves onto the nearest cart and
then turned to pick up another when he saw Colvarth and Garth, chained together, walk toward the woods with a guard at their heels.

Merlin's tongue felt thick and dry, but he called out anyway, “Where're you going?”

Garth waved. “A hunter got a deer, an' we're s'posed to skin it an' roast it.”

“Did you sharpen your knives this time?” Merlin called.

“Yesterday's boar taught me.
‘Always sharp yer knives'
is me new motto!”

Hopefully, the boy had learned a different lesson as well and wouldn't get another bashing. Earlier in the day a Pictish cook had punched Garth in the eye for tasting the roasted boar's crispy skin so he could “make sure it'd been salted right.”

Merlin shook his head at the boy. What a trial it must be for Garth to cook up big pots of grouse and oat porridge soup … without being able to taste one spoonful. To bake baskets and baskets of steaming barley rolls … without being able to eat one crumb. To boil and mash great tubs of honeyed sloe and rowan berries … without being able to even dip his thumb in. To fillet heaps of pike and smoke them … without being able to nibble the smallest morsel.

Thinking about it made Merlin hungry too, for he and the other slaves would get their same, worthless fare: moldy bread, and if they were lucky, some old, dry meat only fit for a dog. He was glad Garth could get away from the cooking for a bit — at least he wouldn't be tempted.

But lack of food meant nothing to Merlin. He just wanted their escape to succeed.

And the other slaves? They just wanted to survive to the feast, for Scafta's lust for blood made him hunt among them for any infractions worth a beating. And he found such a violation in a bare-chested, older slave who he caught sleeping under a pile of sheaves.

“I … I was jus' … checkin for bugs!” the man said as two warriors stood him up and shoved him toward Scafta.

The others backed up, and a circle was quickly formed. Necton
stood nearby, and he secretly scowled at Ealtain when the chieftain stepped over to see what was going on.

Scafta crouched, ready to spring, one hand balled in a fist, and the other holding his shaman stick.

The slave backed up, but a warrior shoved him forward once again.

Scafta struck, lunging to the man's left and cracking him over the head.

But the slave fought back. He shook his head and picked up a wooden hay fork. He held it up and jabbed it forward.

Scafta turned to the side, and as swift as a fox he slid off a secret cap on top of his shaman stick and swung the stick toward the slave. An iron-tipped, crude dart flew out and punctured the slave deeply in the chest.

The man staggarred back, dropping the pitchfork. He looked down at the dart and screamed. His hand drifted up unsteadily, took hold of it, pulled it out, and then his face turned white.

He fell to his knees then, just in time for Scafta to kick the slave twice in the gut with his spiked boots. Blood poured out as the slave collapsed, moaning.

Scafta retrieved the dart, put it back in his stick, and then strutted near Merlin with that enormous shrub of hair massed upon his head, all the while picking at his teeth as if he'd just eaten Merlin's liver.

Clenching his fists, Merlin wanted to rip each one of Scafta's ribs out, and he would have if it hadn't meant certain death at the hands of the Pictish warriors, who looked at Scafta with awe on their faces. Even Necton, who stood nearby, had a look of shock. And Ealtain, the man who derived a portion of his authority from the witch doctor, walked away from the fight with a fearful, backward glance. Who could stand up to such a one? All Merlin could do was glare back until Scafta tired of his gloating, turned on his heel, and left.

The slave died that hour: shaking, vomiting, and mumbling about strange colors.

Later that day, Merlin, Bedwir, and a number of other slaves were given the task of dragging logs to a clearing in the middle of the village where the Samhain fire would be lit. All around, the Picts worked on masks made from the dried, thick hides of large turnips: ghoulish, horned, sooted black, and grinning. They planned to wear these while dancing, and so smeared ashes on their bodies to make them as white as ghosts. Their practiced chants reminded Merlin of a cross between the guttural howls of wolves and the warning cacaphony of crows.

And whenever Merlin looked into the face of a fellow slave, there was a tightness about the eyes. They were afraid, all of them, for their usefulness would soon come to an end. Only one hundred and fifty or so remained of the original two hundred slaves; some had given in to disease, some had been killed, some just suddenly died from overwork. None had escaped. What would the Picts do with them when the work was done?

And so Merlin wrestled with his desire to free all of the slaves, and not just his own little band — but decided it was too risky. His oath had been to Arthur, and to that he would be true — even if he was a fool to try even that. Could Arthur really come to the throne of his father? Could the island be ruled by justice, and
every
slave set free?

Deep down, Merlin doubted, for the months of suffering and the sickening stupidity of his decisions had grown a callus so thick that he could hardly feel his soul breathe anymore. The only dim hope he had was to escape. But would they all just be dragged back before morning? If so, would Necton give Merlin over to Scafta so the witch doctor could exact his ultimate revenge?

In the midst of his wood hauling, Merlin spotted Arthur playing outside Necton's hut under Gormla's watchful eye. He wanted to go over and hug the boy, talk to him, and tell him it would be over soon — but he couldn't arouse suspicions. He needed to wait until
tonight. And there was work to do, so he and Bedwir stacked the wood for the fire to the height of a man and then some.

Dusk fell, and all the slaves were sent to their end of the village, along with five guards set as watch. Most of the slaves retired to their stone huts for the night, but Merlin gathered his band together and had them light their own small fire about ten paces from the edge of the Picts' feast. All, that is, except Natalenya, whom Merlin would warn of their plan in a short while.

Thankfully, the six of them were chained in pairs now, and not three together: Caygek with Peredur, Colvarth with Garth, and Merlin with Bedwir. This would make it easier to attack the guards, if they could somehow get them down to three.

“This night is special for the Picts,” Colvarth explained to Peredur, who had been brought up ignorant of the old ways, “because for them it marks the death of the season of light, and the birth of the season of darkness.”

A man stepped up to them, the firelight making shadows play on his face. It was Necton, and he held a hammer in his hand. He pointed to Garth and had him kneel as he unbent the pin holding the boy's slave collar to Colvarth.

He grabbed the boy by the tunic and began dragging him toward the feast.

Merlin jumped to his feet and began to follow, motioning for Bedwir to join him — until Colvarth grabbed their chain and stopped them.

“Do not interfere,” he said. “I have witnessed this celebration once before, and I think the boy is safe.”

“You think?”

“I cannot be certain.”

“Then I —”

Colvarth yanked the chain. “If I am wrong, there is nothing you can do. There are too many warriors.”

“But I —”

“If something must be done, then wait and pray, and I will tell you when.”

Merlin sat down again and tried to take a deep breath, but his heart sped up instead as he watched the proceedings before him.

Necton took Garth and made him kneel before Scafta, who rubbed his hands together in glee, and then strapped to the boy's back a wooden saddle from which hung, on his left and right, two large bronze circles emblazoned with the image of the sun. The saddle had a wooden statue shaped like a rider that held a large drinking horn.

“This is the Sun Horn,” Colvarth explained, “and it holds a special admixture of ale and … other things.”

The horn itself had been taken from some massive beast, and Merlin could only fathom how dangerous hunting it must have been. Its drinking edge had been circled in gold, and golden wires spiraled down along the horn's sides to the sharp tip.

After Garth was positioned and given instructions, he pawed forward on all fours, pretending to be a horse — a very careful horse — and delivered to them their ale. The Picts' voices rose in uproarious laughter at this spectacle, and Merlin thought Garth would turn red from embarrassment, but for some reason, he did not. He held still on all fours, first before Ealtain, then before three other leading warriors whom Merlin did not know, then before Necton, each one lifting the horn from its socket, drinking a long draught, and then replacing it.

Last, Garth waddled the horn before Scafta, who lifted it high and babbled on before the crowd about the sun's death and how they would celebrate that night to assure its warm return. Then he drained the horn before placing it back in its socket in the wooden saddle.

General merriment ensued, with the Picts passing around bowls of ale, along with baskets of little biscuits shaped like the sun, and these they ate with relish. Garth was released from his saddle, and he ran back to Merlin and the others, picking up along the way two biscuits that had been dropped.

Merlin realized he'd been holding his breath, and knew why when he saw Garth's face.

It was white. “Scafta said he'd cut my throat if I spilled the ale.”

Merlin turned angrily to Colvarth. “Did you know this?”

Colvarth sighed. “I suspected, but I did not know for certain. At the Samhain feast I witnessed many years ago, the young boy did not spill the ale either.”

“You risked —”

“No, I trusted in God … You are the one who would have risked.”

Merlin crossed his arms. “Well, we're all going to risk it tonight. Is that understood?”

Everyone nodded, including a still-pale Garth, who ate one of the biscuits. After finishing it, he handed the other to Merlin. “It's sweet, but I'm not hungry anymore,” he said, wiping the crumbs from his mouth.

Merlin then explained as quietly as he could the full plan — and finished just before Necton returned to fix Garth's slave collars on again.

After this was finished, Merlin made his exit, taking Bedwir along, to visit Natalenya. And he brought with him the biscuit to give as a gift.

As they approached her hut, a pang of guilt swept over him because he only visited her once every few days or so, not wanting to keep her heart entangled. Colvarth continually reprimanded him for this, and made sure to visit her twice a day. Even though this made the burden lighter for Merlin, it was not enough to ease his conscience.

Looking inside her hut, he saw her kneeling next to a flickering fire of bramblewood. Why wasn't she resting? She needed to gather her strength, especially if they were to escape in the middle of the night. As he ducked under the low doorway, leaving Bedwir outside, he prepared to scold her — but then he heard her whispering in prayer. He shut his mouth and stood there while she finished.

Even in her sickness, with her cheeks sunken and her body so
frail, she was beautiful. When he was blind, he had tried to imagine what she looked like, but never thought he would see her one day … nor hear her say that she loved him. From her sweetly curved eyebrows pressed across her closed, caring eyes, past the tip of her impertinent nose over those tender lips moving quietly in prayer, down to her small, pretty chin — he loved her.