Merlin's Shadow (28 page)

M
erlin caught his breath as the ghostly moaning faded away. Everyone's eyes scanned the room. Garth jumped to the center of the group and peeked out from behind Bedwir. Even Natalenya, while petting the dog, sat up on her makeshift pallet to listen.

“Just some wind through the upper windows,” Peredur said. “I heard the same thing before the feast.”

But the sound filled the hall again, this time louder, and the clinking of chains could be distinctly heard.

“Theh … aye … ney … vah …” called the disembodied voice. And a banging sound echoed — metal upon metal, jangling chain upon solid bar, followed by a muffled wail that sent shivers from the base of Merlin's skull down to his feet.

It was the woman Atle had put in the hall's dungeon! God had showed it to him in his vision, and Merlin had forgotten all about her. He ran beyond the throne to where a low table stood — covered
in dirty trenchers, half-consumed bowls of food, bones, and other rubbish. He heaved the table over, revealing a roughly smithed iron plate embedded in the stone floor. About four feet by three feet, it had a hole in the center that looked suspiciously like the simple keyholes his father made back in the blacksmith shop. But where was the key? The group had followed him by now, and he knelt down and banged on the iron plate. The sound that echoed back was hollow.

In answer, they heard the moaning from below, rising to a muffled cry. “Kehn … sah … kehn … shah …”

Caygek knelt down and put his ear to the iron. “Is someone down there?”

“Yes,” Merlin said. “It's the old woman who served Atle food when we first arrived. He's locked her there for some reason.”

“Her? The misshapen one? Who cares about her? Let's light the building on fire and let her die in it, I say. She's one of them, and worth nothing compared to our freedom.”

“Yes … your well-loved freedom,” Merlin said, remembering their previous altercation after Merlin had decided to give themselves up as slaves. “I love freedom too, but I'm not going to leave her in prison while we run off and possibly burn the hall down above her.”

“She'll survive — she's got an iron plate and a stone foundation to protect her.”

“And if she doesn't? I won't have her innocent blood on my hands while I try and save Arthur.”

“Arthur? Do I care for Arthur? I only care about my own blood.”

Merlin looked to the others. “Who's with me?” he asked. “Who will help me free her before we leave?”

Everyone nodded … everyone except Caygek. The druid's nostrils flared, and he jumped at Merlin, snarling.

Merlin hadn't expected this and so reacted late by trying to jump away.

One of Caygek's hands grabbed his tunic, and the other smashed into his jaw. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, grappling with the druid, who raised his fist to punch Merlin again.

Bedwir and Peredur arrived, pulling Caygek's arms back and yanking him off of Merlin.

“Peace, young Caygek,” Colvarth said. “We accomplish nothing by fighting among ourselves. We either all work together —”

“Or we die!” Caygek said, struggling. “And I'd kill you both if I still had my sword.”

Garth stepped over and stood in between Merlin and Caygek. “Even if she survives the fire, she'll still die down there with no food or water. Imagine it. Didn't you learn anythin' about compassion while we were slaves o' the Picts?”

Caygek took a deep breath, and then nodded. “Yes … I did. Especially from you. But I don't have to like it. I don't want to be trapped here any longer than I have to.”

Colvarth held his hands out. “None of us do. Let's work to free this unfortunate soul.”

“Fine. Fine. I'll cooperate.”

Bedwir and Peredur loosened their grip, and Caygek shook himself free. He grabbed a thick iron spoon from the clutter around the fallen table and started to pry at the edge of the iron plate. “Isn't anyone here going to help?”

The others all found something to pry with: Colvarth and Peredur with more serving spoons, Garth pulled out an iron rod from a tapestry, and Bedwir used the edge of a decorative shield he'd yanked from a well. Merlin found a broad bread knife, dull but tough.

But try as they might, the iron plate would not budge. While others kept trying, Merlin stepped back. What had the angel in his vision said? The words echoed in his mind.

“… freedom for those in darkness is hidden in the throne …”

The throne! Merlin walked around and began to study it. The back was made of an aged oak, inlaid with a lighter wood in the pattern of ocean waves. Dusty-blue gems had been set into these waves in the outline of a boat. But it wasn't only the gems that looked like a ship … the seat and arms themselves had been shaped like of the
hull of a boat. And so there was space where something could be hidden below deck, but Merlin's inspections didn't reveal any hatch.

“Garth,” he called after his search proved futile, “Come and help.”

The boy looked up from his prying, confused, but dropped his iron rod and walked over.

“The key is hidden in the throne. If you had a boat … where would you hide a key?”

“Boat's don't have keys … but they do have
keels
.” Garth bent down and knocked hard on the bottom hull of the seat. A clink could be heard inside. “I don't see … hang on a bit.”

Merlin knelt to see what Garth was doing. The bottom of the boat seat did indeed have a keel at the bottom, a small board protruding down. Garth looked closely at it, and finally rotated it sideways on some hidden pin.

Click
.

A board at the top of the seat popped up.

“You did it!” Merlin lifted the board more and saw that it had been attached to a cleverly hidden hinge and lock. The inside had two carved slots — a round one for a ring of keys, and a long one shaped like a large dagger. The ring of keys lay in its slot, but the dagger was missing. What looked like dried blood coated the place where the blade would have been.

Garth pointed to the empty slot. “What do you supposed that's for?”

“I'm not sure I want to know.” Merlin grabbed the ring of keys and ran over to the iron plate. Everyone backed away as he tried the first, which was too large for the long, thin slit that was the keyhole. The second key fit, however, and he slipped it in on the right side where the iron was scratched. Fiddling with the position of the key, it finally clicked in place and pushed the tumblers out of the way. Merlin smiled as he slid the bar to the left. The plate came loose, allowing them to pry it up. The iron was heavy, however, and they had to heave it to the side, revealing a shaft that was abysmally dark. Stone steps began about two feet down — narrow and steep.

A slight breeze of cool air rose from the depths, bringing with it a pungent smell that reminded Merlin of a cider vinegar jar he'd found at home that'd became infested with dead, putrid flies.

Bedwir took two rush lamps from their sconces and lit them on a coal from the hearth.

“Her name is Kensa,” Merlin said as Bedwir handed him one of the lamps. “I hope she's not hurt.” With one hand on the edge, Merlin led the way, slowly descending the steps. He was glad his head felt better, for the steps had been cut so narrow that he had to be careful not to lose his balance. At about the ninth step he had to sit to avoid hitting his skull. Soon the steps widened and the ceiling raised so he was able to stand. Behind him came Bedwir, Caygek, Peredur, and last of all, Garth, who'd tucked a dull bread knife into his belt.

Merlin descended in a straight line for about a thirty feet, hesitating when the steps ended in a level passage. Here the walls were rough with cracks, and someone had charcoaled them with ferocious sea serpents who coiled among the waves. Some were crushing charcoal-drawn ships. But a strange thing — a trick to his eyes, perhaps — was that the walls seemed to be moving — no, wiggling — just beyond the rushlight. But as he walked cautiously forward, the walls appeared normal. He stopped to examine the cracks, but finding nothing, he shook his head and kept on.

Farther down the passage — perhaps midway, for it went beyond Merlin's ability to see the end — a door of iron bars had been set into the side, with chains securing it, and the party gathered around. Merlin held up his lamp to illuminate the interior. “Kensa?”

Black hands seized the iron bars and rattled them so hard Merlin was afraid the ancient door would shatter.

Merlin leapt back and accidentally slammed into Peredur's shoulder. He lifted the light with a shaky hand to see an enraged visage emerge from the shadow.

Troslam ran, his spear in his left hand and his other pulling the two girls along. Eilyne kept pace, but the younger, Myrgwen, had bloodied her knee so badly that now tears covered her face. But their lives depended on speed, and she'd have to keep up. They ran west along a path through the village, staying as close as they could to the stone walls. Where the wall's height wasn't sufficient to hide their presence, they ducked, praying Vortigern and his men didn't see them.

Where were they going? Safrowana and he had talked about this eventuality, but had thought they'd have time to prepare. He and the girls had no provisions, and their clothing of boots and cloaks would hardly keep them warm. The best place was his brother's farm in the village of Risrud, but that was twelve leagues west, and it would take four days to get there, what with the girls so young. Maybe they could stop at the abbey in Guronstow for rest and help.

As they ran, Troslam realized his mistake. He'd missed the last turn leading down the mountain, and now the path headed upward. Double back? He didn't dare. All he could do now was look for a place to cut through. Up ahead lay the barrel maker's land, and his ramshackle stone wall.

He helped Myrgwen climb over, then Eilyne, and finally he leapt over. They ran past the barrel maker's crennig, over his other wall, and to a path leading downward.

A shout rang out. Troslam turned and spied three, one who was pointing, another with a bow. The third was Vortigern. They were a thousand feet away and running toward them. It was over. Or was it? The marsh! If a fisherman had left his boat at the docks, he and the girls could —

But there was no time to think. He yanked on Myrgwen's hand and pointed with his spear for Eilyne to see. “To the docks — hurry!”

But Vortigern had two men with him. Troslam could kill one, maybe two, but never three. And not an archer, who'd stand back, away from Troslam's reach. And he'd never taken on trained warriors. He was but a simple weaver. He knew more about selecting the right wool, boiling down dyes, and weaving patterns than he
did about war. Sure he had a spear, but it might've been a twig for all it mattered.

The ground began to slope down, and the village's three docks appeared. Neither the center nor the left had any boats, but the right held three. The dock swayed as they sprinted onto it, their feet banging out a cadence upon the old boards. Troslam led them to the end and set the girls in a long but narrow boat with oars, the bottom of which was filled with an old net and some dead fish. But before he jumped in, he went back to sink the other two vessels. The first was a leather-hulled coracle. He jabbed his spear and sliced it through. The boat began to take on water.

He ran over to the second, a wooden tub meant for bringing in the larger nets. He thrust his spear at the bottom, but the thick wood resisted his efforts. Again he stabbed it, but no luck.

He heard a shout and looked up.

Vortigern and his men were rushing down the hill toward them.

Ganieda walked south. The sun would set soon, but she didn't worry, because she was almost there. Her mother would have a fire going, and Ganieda imagined how wonderful the hot oats would taste. Maybe she'd add a little goat milk to her bowl, and she would eat it with her favorite spoon.

And here was the stream. Just a little farther up the valley, and she'd find Mammu. This was the path they'd taken that night, for she'd led her mother here all by herself. Her mother'd been wailing, and Ganieda had held her hand, the fingers so hot. Had her mother's arm been infected? But the infection had healed, hadn't it? And her mother was well again. She would be so happy to see Ganieda. It had been too long.

Ganieda's shoes pinched her toes, but only a short distance remained. She rounded the funny oak with its huge, outspread arms and climbed down into the secret glen — near the spring that bubbled
out from the rocks — where no one else had ever come except Ganieda and her mother.

But there was no cheery blaze waiting for her. The sunlight still shone through the trees, but there wasn't much of it left. Ganieda dashed forward to see if her mother had fallen asleep waiting. Yes, perhaps she'd grown tired. She'd likely built a small crennig in the last few months and was inside.

But no such building existed. The ferns swayed in the wind. A jay ridiculed her from a nearby pine as Ganieda ran to the spot where her mother had been. She fell to her knees and parted the cold, stiff ferns. And screamed.

Bones lay upon the ground. Scattered. Picked clean by animals, for teeth marks had been cut into them. And they'd been broken, and the clothing shredded. Her mother's skull was missing, yet a lock of her hair lay upon what was left of her mother's shift.

Ganieda picked up the strand of hair and poured all her tears upon it, weeping there in the dusk. The sun gave up his life, touching her in a final, warm embrace, but Ganieda turned her back and let him sink beyond her reach.

“Are you finished, dear one?” the voice of a low-timbred man asked from behind her.

Ganieda slowly turned, wiping tears from her eyes with her sleeve.

A man in a shadowy cloak stood just a few feet from her.