Merlin's Shadow (24 page)

And then the fang would be lost as well. The fang … oh, the fang!

Dybris had gotten ahead, but his limp slowed him, and the road meandered the long but easy way around the mountain. Could Mórganthu get ahead of him by taking the high path? He crept from his spot and ran as fast he could, away from the road and up over the northern side of the mountain. Oaks, pines and beech, ashes, and rowan — he felt as if all his snow-dusted friends cheered him on as he ran as fast as his burning lungs and aged feet would carry him.

With the monk limping, perhaps Mórganthu could get there first.

But what then?

Mórganthu stepped out of the woods next to the fortress and saw the village below him even as a daring plan formed in his mind. Dybris wasn't even in view yet.

He rushed down the hillside, avoiding the path to Tregeagle's, and finally slunk in the shadow of a huge rock where two of his four druidow hid. They were watching the weaver's house at his command.

“Are they still there?” he rasped, and both druidow nodded in answer.

“Keep watch, but make no move, and do not … do not show yourselves. The cat has arrived to eat the mice, yet a dog approaches and we cannot risk a disturbance. Come if I shout.”

He snuck across the road to the abandoned crennig next to the weaver's land. He slipped inside. This would have to be quick.

Where had he seen those rags? Ah yes, precisely where he remembered the last time he came here to spy on the weavers: in the corner lay a pile of old clothes, next to the smashed old chair someone had lit a fire with on the hearth. He evicted some impudent rodents from the pile's center and shook out each piece: a few bags, worn and dirty; three tunics, each more shredded than the last; two breeches, both shabby; an old lumpy hat, chewed but serviceable; and a pair of well-woven gloves, in decent shape. Some women's clothes were mixed in, but those were useless to him, and he dropped them to the dirt.

Doffing his own, druid-designed cloak and clothing, he shivered as he put on everything. One of the pants had lost its tie, and so he put the other over it and tied it tightly. He put on all three tunics, the worst on the outside, and this hid the blue scars on his arms perfectly.

His beard — what about his beard? Would they recognize it, so long and illustrious? He had always prided himself in it, yet he had no choice. He pulled out his curved knife, and, pressing the length of his beard against his chest with his bad arm, he cut it as short as
he could. A painful, uneven sort of shearing, it was, but that would aid his disguise. Then he rubbed ashes in to make what was left more gray.

His long hair he could not cut easily with one hand, and so he stuffed it down the back of his tunics and hoped no one would notice it under that insufferable hat. He dearly hoped that Belornos, his god, would honor him for this extraordinary sacrifice, for the clothing smelled dreadful.

Now for some mud, which he found in a corner of the crennig where the roof sagged. This he smeared lightly on his hands, forearms, feet, ankles, and a little on his face — all to cover the blue whorls and lines that marked him as a druid. He had to appear thoroughly like a poor beggar to incite the sympathies of those hypocritical Christians.

Ah, but his missing hand … had Troslam seen that it was missing? Did he know? That would give him away for sure, and nothing could be done to hide the fact — or could it? He examined the gloves. One had holes chewed into it, but the other was untouched, and it was the correct hand. He found some thin sticks, and shoved them into the five fingers of the glove. Then he filled it with a little sand he found near the hearth — just enough. With some cloth ripped from an old dress, he tied the glove onto his stump using his good hand and his teeth. Thankfully, the bump of his wrist bone still protruded out, or he would never have made it stay.

The hand didn't look real, of course, but if he put on the other glove and made that hand stiff, then they might not notice. Maybe he'd stiffen his entire body to incite more sympathy from the fools.

Grabbing one of the old dresses, he wadded it up and stuffed it into a bag. This he slung over his shoulder before peering outside. Dybris was nowhere in sight, so Mórganthu shuffled out to the road, hunching, and started walking away from the weavers. If he could get the monk's sympathy, then maybe the man would take him with — right into the weavers' house.

And it didn't take long, for Dybris came up the road, scuffing
one of his legs. Mórganthu positioned himself in the way, bending over to appear shorter.

“Please, please, good man,” he called, disguising his voice to hide the Eirish lilt, and pretending to shiver in the swirling snow. “A cold beggar needs help!”

When Dybris stopped and looked at him, Mórganthu wanted to clap in glee, but instead put on a sad face. There was pity in the monk's eyes, yes, and something indecipherable. The odd thing was that the left half of his face sagged just a little … the same side that he limped with.

“I can't help you now,” Dybris said as he placed a small coin in Mórganthu's good hand. “But take this and find yourself a cup of good cheer.” His words had a slight slur.

Mórganthu exaggerated his shivers. “But … I am quite cold, and need a warm hearth to sit by … even fer a moment. I've been walking night ‘n day for days ‘n days, and —”

Dybris shushed him. “I'll hear your story later. I haven't time now.” He pointed down the lane to the far, far end, where the chapel sat against the mountainside. “There, in the last crennig — our chapel — should be a small fire, with more wood outside. You are welcome to stay there, and I will come soon and share a warm crust with you, but I have an urgent errand to attend to —”

“Ah, ah … but my lungs!” Mórganthu feigned a wheeze. “I'm wore out, ready to die, and my breathers are all but frozen! I don't think I can walk that far.” He wheezed twice more. “Is there perhaps a place … nearer by?”

Dybris looked at him quizzically. “You've come this far, surely you can make it to the chapel. Now, excuse me,” he said, and he began to limp off.

But Mórganthu snatched at the monk's robe, gripped it tightly, and stopped the man. He pretended to be jerked nearly off his feet by this action, and fell to one knee.

“Mercy … mercy upon me, a frozen icicle of a worm, good monk.”

Dybris tightened his lips and turned around. “Oh … all right, then. A fire?”

“Nearby, yes.”

“A few moments only? Just so you can make it to the chapel?”

“Oh, yes, you are a kind savior in my dark troubles, my … my good monk.”

“Come along then, I'm going to the weaver's, but you'll have to leave
very
quickly. It may only be a short visit.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Mórganthu said, turning his laugh into a wheeze.

They went together: Dybris limping, and Mórganthu gasping out his frosty breath. When they came to the weaver's gate, Mórganthu kept walking, pretending he didn't know where he was going.

Dybris patted his shoulder. “Here, good man … come in and warm yourself.”

“Ah yes, ah yes … just the place for me frigid breathers.” Mórganthu swallowed. He'd better not overplay it.

Dybris knocked on the door. “Open up, I have important news!”

H
earing no sound from King Atleuthun's hall, the guard knocked again on the door, this time louder. “Open up I says, open uppa!”

“Shut yer gull beak,” came a voice from within. “We kenna.”

The doors clicked open, and two warriors stood at the ready. The guards led their party into a large, smoky hall past a blazing hearth.

Merlin looked up and squinted his eyes. The center of the hall went upward to the very top — the ninth level. Massive beams had been mortised and tenoned together to support the structure, and here and there, bars had been crisscrossed to hold it all together. The lower levels had rooms around the central atrium, with doors opening outward toward the railings. The height made Merlin's head spin.

Colvarth elbowed him. “Pay attention.”

Merlin blinked and looked around. Unbeknownst to him, they had halted before a low table, both wide and long. Many warriors
reclined around it, and they all stared at the party. Their long hair — either red or golden — was held in place by silver clasps that reflected the dim light. Iron plates over leather covered their chests, and nearby stood a rack of spears, barbed like harpoons. Their helms, each of which had been set on the table near to their drinking bowls, had small fins riveted onto them. Each man's gaze flicked from Necton's Pictish warriors with their blue cloaks, to Merlin and the other slaves who stood together.

One of the warriors stood out among his peers. His hair was long like theirs, although black and curly. His eyebrows pressed down as he studied the party — Merlin in particular — and there was some secret concern there. Something seemed familiar about him, though Merlin could not put a finger on it. Certainly his tunic wasn't familiar — a rich, shiny material of black and red, the like of which Merlin had never seen.

A screech filled the room, but Merlin could not tell who had made it.

“Cease thy kries,
mine mor,
” came another voice.

And only then did Merlin see the man seated on the throne at the very back, for the smoke had obscured his presence. A long and curly white beard fell down from his aged and frowning, face. A fur of black and white lay heavy upon his shoulders, and over his chest he wore a red, shiny tunic decorated with white thread. The man was mostly skin and bones.

Merlin sucked in a breath. This was King Atleuthun, his grandfather, still alive.

Atle's hand held forth a rod, and he bent over and hit a bent and twist-backed person on the head with it — a woman, if Merlin's guess was right. She wore a knobby, garishly purple hat, and this must have softened the blow.

“Cease! Stoppe!” the old man said, and hit her again.

But she cried out in a blubbering sing-song. “Theneva … Theneva Gweviana!”

This time he took his rod and smashed her across the face, and
the woman's bulbous nose began pouring forth blood. It dripped onto her already stained purple tunic. Only then did she cease talking and pinch her nose to stem the flow.

The king looked up and scanned his visitors.

Merlin felt like an intruder. He didn't want to be here — yet here he was.

“Vich o' de young men among ye dares claim he's me grandson?” the man bellowed, his lips curling in disdain and his sunken eyes smoldering in the dim morning light that was able to penetrate the building.

Merlin swallowed and stepped forward as far as the chain to Bedwir's collar would allow. “I am he. Merlinus mab Gweviana, who, I am told, is your daughter.” Merlin wanted to kick himself … why had used his Latin name? The king had a strange accent. Was it Lochlan? Either way, it certainly wasn't Roman.

All the warriors turned to look at him — especially the young man with the black hair, whose gaze fell upon Merlin like a razored arrow.

In the silence, Merlin decided to continue. There was nothing else. “I was born near here, though I know not where, and then my parents moved to Kernow, where I grew up.”

The young man stood and swaggered over to Merlin. A short blade lay at his hip, broad and sharp. “And sae ye, a youth, hae come from Kernow in the southwest — as a slave?” The last word had a mocking tone.

“Loth! Sit, and I vil handle de imposter,” King Atle said.

But Loth ignored the king and just stared at Merlin, a challenge in his upturned nose.

Two things surprised Merlin. First was Loth's speech, which was different from the king's — the man rolled the “r” in
Kernow
, which reminded Merlin of his mother's accent. Second was Loth himself — he stood exactly Merlin's height and could have been his brother. It was like looking into a mirror of himself, only older, and without the scars.

Natalenya gasped.

Merlin continued. “Our party of seven was taken captive in Kembry, and this eighth man was added to our number later.” Merlin tapped Peredur's shoulder, and he gave a slight bow.

“Seven?” Loth said. “Not only are ye sich a liar, but ye canna count, either.” He yanked Peredur's chain until the man fell to his knees. “With him included, I see anly seven.”

Merlin's hopes rose. Even though Arthur sat in Gormla's arms, Merlin wanted to make sure that Atle knew of the boy's existence — while still keeping his identity a secret. “The one you have missed is but an orphan babe, yet is loved by us all.” He pointed to Arthur. Gormla jerked to the side as if to hide the child from view.

King Atle cleared his throat and looked to the child. Then he turned his gaze to Merlin and Necton, and finally back to the child. And he was silent, considering them like they were wooden pieces on a gameboard. Finally, he and Loth exchanged a strange glance, and then the king spoke. “Yerr klaim to be me grandson is impossible.” His next words slipped out one by one from underneath his snarling upper lip. “Andd … I … know … dis … for … I … haf … no …
daughter
.”

Necton grunted and his nostrils flared. He turned on Colvarth and grabbed him by the tunic. “Told-ha yiu to me, pay-idh he would … give-idh he to me gold ans abundance!”

Merlin signaled Bedwir and prepared to pounce if Necton tried to injure the bard. But Colvarth took a deep breath and whispered to the Pict, “Let me speak. I can convince him.”

Necton released him.

Colvarth handed his harp to Caygek, approached the throne, and fell to his knees. “Oh great King of the Votadin! Lord of the wood people, and lord of the sea people, hear me! I am known to you as Bledri mab Cadfan, and many years ago, during the reign of Rhitherch the Old, King of Rheged, I once visited your grand
hof
and enjoyed the bounty of your hearth. Then I was in the service of the druidow. Although that is no longer the case, I am still chief
bard of this island of the Mighty. In those days you held my word in esteem as a seeker of truth, and as a speaker of truth — and in the trust that you once bestowed upon me, I ask you to hear me now.”

Atle snorted while petting a dog that yapped at the base of his throne.

Colvarth continued. “As servant of High King Uther, I came to know of this Merlin, and of his father, Owain. This Owain was in Uther's warband nigh on twenty years ago, and they sought your succor in time of dire need, and you granted it …
You must remember this
, for Owain it was that took in marriage your daughter, Theneva Gweviana. It is thus —”

Atle leaned forward, and with his rod attempted to smite Colvarth in the head, but the bard ducked just in time.

“No more vil I hear o' yerr foolishness,” the king bellowed.
“I haf no daughter!”
He snapped his fingers, and two of his guards stepped forward and raised their axes. “If ye spekk thus again, ye vil lose yerr tongue — and yerr head vith et. I neither vant ye, nor any other slaves, and vil not pay forr dem.” The king cackled until a coughing fit overtook him.

Colvarth shuffled backward on his knees until he was out of reach of the guards. Then he quickly stood and joined the others.

Necton cried out and tried to leap at the king, but his own warriors held him back.

King Atle waved his age-spotted hand toward the Pict. “Neferless, we are villing to see yerr plunder andd consider payment for sich dat we deem useful.”

Calming somewhat, Necton shook off his warriors. He brought the first of his sacks and dumped it upon the feasting table … then the second … and the third. Each time a clatter filled the hall as the mound grew larger.

Merlin's opened his eyes wide, for there — amidst the jumble of jewelry, plenteous Roman-made silver dishes, fine clothes, bronze lamps, cloaks, armor, scrolls, and many other blades — lay Merlin's sword. To think of it now, the last time Merlin had seen it was at
their slave taking when Necton had strapped it on his own waist. Why was it to be sold? Here lay one of the finest swords Merlin's father had ever forged — and Necton was going to sell it?

He nudged Colvarth and asked him why.

“The Picts prize spears above all weapons, and though they amuse themselves by pretending to take swords for their own, they do not know the art, nor desire to learn it. They sell such to others and reap the coins instead. Only in their spears do they trust.”

Now that Atle had rejected purchasing them as slaves, would he buy Merlin's sword? What of Merlin's torc? He looked, and that still rested around Necton's collar. In either case, they were lost to him.

The warriors began sorting through the pile, considering each piece and passing to others what they weren't interested in. Atle himself shuffled over, and threw things into the hands of his servant woman. One of these was Merlin's sword, snatched from the hands of a lesser warrior who nodded his head to the king, eyes downcast. The king nodded while inspecting the blade's edge and strength, its iron crossguard braided like the horns of an ox, as well as the yellow gems and the leather-wrapped hilt.

When all had been sorted through, only a few notched blades were left, along with the worst of the clothing and jewelry. The king conferred with his warriors at length about the value of the items, and finally sat upon his throne. Loth passed some guards and disappeared into a distant room. When he walked back, he shook in his hands two bags filled with clinking coins. He handed them to the king, and then sat once more at the head of the table of warriors.

The king cleared his throat and then spoke. “I haf counted out ferr ye twelf geld pieces, andd tirty silver —”

Necton stepped forward, his hand open to receive the bag, but the king jerked it back.

“I vil not give dese coins to ye unless ye make one more bargain vit me. I desire to buy de orphan child for me househeld, andd vil pay ye dree more geld pieces ferr him.”

Gormla shouted and tried to run from the hall with Arthur, but
guards jumped in her way and grabbed them. Other guards held their axes at the ready.

Necton's fury rose, and he lunged at the king, the hidden blade drawn from behind his cloak and jabbing toward the king's heart.

But Loth was quicker — he stuck out his leg and tripped him.

Necton crashed to the stone floor, and three guards quickly restrained him, wrenching his arms behind his back and then pulling his blade away. The other Pictish warriors hadn't had time to react, and before they knew it, they had the harpoon-like spears and axes pointed at their backs and necks.

Loth held his sword point at Necton's ribs and forced him to kneel before the king.

Atle smiled down at him curiously. “De child? I haf made an ofer ferr him, and I vil haf yerr answer.”

Necton looked sideways at his warriors plight, and then at his wife's. Finally he turned his gaze upon the king. “May I, gle servant-i of yiur, make-idh an offer?”

Atle chuckled while he tapped the sole of his red-woolen shoes upon the gilt dais underneath his throne. “Ya, ye may make counter, but me answer may be yerr blood.”

“Sell-i yiu an child …” Necton began.

Gormla struggled against the grip of her captors. “No! Sell-i canna!”

Necton ignored her and flinched at Loth's blade. “Sell-i yiu an child … and all an plunder … for an price named yiu … plus three more gilt coins for an thrails.”

“I do nott vant de slaves.”

“Want you an child? Then take-a yiu an thrails.”

The king shook his head. “Loth …?” The blade bit into Necton's side.

“Two coins for an thrails —”

The blade bit deeper.

Necton jerked away. “One gold-ah coin …
one coin only!
”

The king nodded. “Ve are in agreement. One geld coin ferr de slaves and tree ferr de child. Do ye see how easy dat vas?”

Gormla sobbed uncontrollably as one of Atle's warriors seized Arthur from her. The child screamed all the way to the king's lap. Gormla covered her face with her hair and wept into it.

Two bags and a single gold coin were tossed to Necton, who snatched them and retreated from the feasting hall with his warriors and howling wife. The door slammed shut behind them. Necton was gone. But Merlin's joy was short lived, for now they had new masters.

Atle called Loth and a few warriors to approach him, and he spoke to them in a low whisper. Loth questioned his father, but finally nodded.

The king's warriors brought forth hammers, and, without any words, they unbent the pins that held the slave collars together. Unthreading the chain through his collar, Merlin shucked it clanging to the floor. Confusion filled his heart as he looked at the king … his grandfather.

Atle stepped forward and placed his thin and slightly trembling hands upon Merlin's shoulders. “I know who ye are — me grandson — an' so ye are free.”

At the same moment, the old woman with the bent back shuffled forward and took hold of Merlin's left hand, all the time saying, “Theneva Gweviana's … Theneva Gweviana's!”

Merlin pulled his hand away and wept. He didn't know what else to do — because all his pain, all his frustration, and all his many months of suffering poured forth from his soul, blurring his vision.