Merlin's Shadow (34 page)

The hill steepened, and sometimes she had to pull herself up by the branches to keep from slipping on the icy mud. Sticky wax clung to her fingers and covered her arms and dress before she found herself on flatter ground.

But the wolf was right behind, its ice-covered fur shining through the snowfall as it pushed its way past the trees, snapping branches and cracking the trunks.

It howled at her. So close behind.

A massive pit appeared before her running feet. She twisted to avoid falling in and slammed into the ground, crying out as her legs slipped down into its mouth. Her fingers scrabbled at the soil trying to seize onto something.

The wolf's head appeared, its fangs snapping at her hands.

She fell. And hit, squishing her legs downward into the something. Yielding mixed with hard and sharp. Cold liquid on her legs. She turned, and through the snow and ice saw a skull. Empty eyes. Slack jaw. Frozen flesh. Beyond it, another skull. And another. She could hardly breathe — they were everywhere. She had fallen into the pit that the druidow had dug and thrown their dead comrades into. The body pit. The more she struggled, the deeper she sank into the mass of corpses.

She screamed.

Notwithstanding the strange light that guided their boat, the unending waves and continually thick cloud cover left Merlin morose. Was Arthur still alive? Had the moon gone dark yet? How many days did they have left? How far from their course had they strayed during the storm?

And most upsetting was that every day appeared shorter than the last. Every night longer. And now, on what he calculated to be their tenth day of sailing — the sun didn't come up at all. The night wore on, oppressive, cold, and endless. For they'd finally entered the sea of darkness, and the fables of his youth gnawed at his mind. Tales of coiling sea monsters. Reports of floating islands where the souls of the dead crawled around in the shape of long-fanged demons.

And most maddening of all was that the wind ceaselessly whispered,
“… Arrthur … Arrr — thhhhur …” He had to cover his ears at times just to shut it out.

What helped was the routine. They had developed a system of alternating shifts of three working together, with the others on call in case of an emergency. This allowed for what little rest and warmth the small tents could afford them. Peredur, Merlin, and Garth took one shift, followed by Bedwir, Caygek, and Kensa. Each group worked as long as strength allowed, and then called the others to take their place. It was important for Merlin and Caygek to be on different shifts, for they alone could see the strange light that guided their craft.

And just when would they make landfall? And how would they know if they'd found the right place? Perhaps Kensa knew, but she said little, and what she did say had more to do with the salted herring and the dwindling water supply than their ultimate destination.

Merlin was near the end of his strength and ready to trade places with the others when he spotted something on the horizon. No more than a small light at first, it seemed to move closer to them, or maybe they to it. As it drew near, Merlin could see that the light came from individual lamps, and by them he made out the black outline of a ship, for the lights were attached to the rails. But something was wrong, for even though its huge sail reached toward the thundering clouds, the boat lay low in the sea as if it had taken on water or was overloaded.

Peredur ran up to Merlin. “Turn the sail!”

“What?”

“We're going to hit!”

Merlin panicked. The black hulled ship was bearing down on them. But couldn't Garth steer them to the side? Merlin turned. The boy had fallen asleep!

His face lay sideways, and a quiet snore flowed from his open mouth. A little ice had gathered on his nose, and his hand had fallen from the steerboard, which thumped quietly against the hull.

“Garth! Wake up!”
Merlin lunged at the boy, grabbed the steerboard, and fought against the waves to turn the ship to the side.

A wave lifted the black ship and sent it sliding down toward them.

Peredur let out a rope and shifted the sail.

Garth woke, glimpsed the ship, and yelped. All the others had awakened as well and stood on deck, mute and wide-eyed.

The curragh turned at the last moment, and the black ship sailed past on their port side. Merlin held his breath, for it was so close he could have reached out and touched its barnacled hull. The oil lamps were made of glass set in the iron mouths of fell beasts, each decapitated head swinging from a chain hung between iron poles. These cast ghostly light upon the deck of the black-hulled boat, revealing piles of bodies, their faces frozen in the agony of death.

A lone man stood upon a high platform near the back of the boat. He wore a black robe, with a cowl covering his face, and his whitened hand lay upon the rudder.

That quickly, the boat passed … and was soon lost from sight.

Peredur shouldered up to Merlin. “What was it?”

“It's going to the land of the dead.”

S
afrowana held Imelys on her lap, and they hugged until their mutual tears dried once more. Ten days had passed since Troslam had fled, taking Uther's daughters into hiding. Nine days since Kyallna, her neighbor, had found and untied her, Imelys, and Dybris from their ropes.

Troslam had not returned.

Dybris had looked for them, but the good monk's limp made his progress slow. And Allun the miller — the only other person she could trust in the village — had been sent to see if he could find Troslam in Guronstow, and if needed, further on in Risrud.

So far, nothing.

And she could no longer push down the thoughts that stole her breath and froze her hands at the loom — that he and the girls had been caught and killed.

A heavy knock came at the door.

More wary than ever, and not expecting Dybris, she peeked out
a high window in the front of their roundhouse. An old man with long hair stood on the other side of the hedge. He was rocking on his heels as he looked around nervously.

It was Mórganthu.

She ducked down and motioned for Imelys to be absolutely quiet. She wanted to pretend she wasn't home and have him just go away, yet fury rose in her like a storm cloud, and she grabbed an old weaving rod. She would open the door and clout him, yes. He was just an old man with one hand. She could handle him, couldn't she?

She also pulled a small axe from the woodbox and handed it to Imelys.

“Stay behind me,” she whispered, “but swing at his legs if you have to.”

The knocking sounded again, this time more insistent.

She crept to the door.

Lifting the bar silently, she set it down on a pile of shorn wool.

Then she flung the door wide and charged out with the weaver's rod swinging. “Get away from here, you devil of a druid!”

But no one was there.

A head popped up from behind the hedge. “Hello!”

She screamed and swung at him.

He ducked, and then popped back up again. “Don't hit poor Musca!”

She started to swing again, but stopped. Musca? Was this Muscarvel?

She'd never seen the ancient man of the marsh, and had wondered if he was just a legend. She looked closer, and sure, it wasn't Mórganthu at all. This man was older, with patches of long hair growing from his scalp. His eyebrows had been burned away. And he had marshweeds slimed into his hair.

“I have news,” he said, ducking down. “If thou wilt stop sporting at my pate. Thy husband sent poor Musca for help. Bandages. I am to bring bandages!”

Safrowana dropped the weaving rod and fell back against the doorframe. “My husband?”

He jumped up and down. “Yes!”

Imelys stepped out of the door. “Take us there!”

He nodded, stepped out, and then bowed before them, his shirt hanging in tatters. “Poor Musca at your service!”

One of the endless nights passed fitfully for Merlin in the tent, for another storm had arisen, and every twenty winks he'd get splashed either in the legs or the face, the tent flaps notwithstanding. And he became seasick and lay there next to Garth and Peredur on their stinky, wet sheepskins. Not that those two got any better sleep than he did.

As it was, Merlin felt awful and exhausted when their watch came again. Fourteen days at sea had taxed him beyond what he thought possible — but he got up nonetheless and left the tent. To his surprise, a huge white
something
floated past on the lee side, a stone's throw away.

“It's ice,” Bedwir told him before retiring. “Keep a sharp watch.”

The hours passed and the storm continued, with ice floes occasionally drifting past. The waves lifted the boat up and down. Ever and on. Merlin's eyes glazed over, and he had to pinch his own leg to stay awake, trying with all his strength to focus on the light that guided them. Each time the boat was blown off course, he had to point out the light to Garth and then follow commands for adjusting the mainsail. Oh, when would the darkness end? When would this nightmare of a journey bring them to shore?

During a calm stretch, Garth gave the steerboard to Peredur and played his bagpipe to keep their spirits up, and this helped some. But he soon tired, took his place once more, and set his bagpipe next to him.

Peredur assumed the management of the sail, and so Merlin sat down next to Garth and leaned against the small leather tarp at the
back of the boat. Maybe he could just close his eyes for a moment. Garth was such a reliable navigator … if the boy just kept his course steady, they'd be fine. Only a short rest.

Merlin dozed.

He woke to shouts.

The deck of the boat was a frenzy of panic. Bedwir raised the mainsail to its highest peak, causing the mast to bend in the quickening wind. Peredur turned it to face the port side, but the wind blew it backward.

Caygek and Kensa tried to adjust the headsail, but had no better results.

“What's going on?” Merlin yelled.

Garth was shouting instructions, his face purple. “Turn the sails, turn the sails!”

Merlin grabbed Garth's cloak. “Why?”

“We fell asleep. Look at the rocks!”

Just a short distance away loomed the dark outline of a steep headland with piles of surf-sprayed rocks at its base, whose sharp teeth could rip their little boat to shreds. And the wind and tide had conspired together to send them to a certain death.

Bedwir and Peredur untied the mainsail's ropes in an attempt to swing her about, but Bedwir's rope caught and cut furiously into the spar rope, which snapped. The spar fell with a crash, spinning in the wind. Bedwir and Peredur were both knocked into the water.

Merlin lunged toward the nearest edge, where Peredur had gone down, but couldn't find him. The next thing he knew, a massive wave lifted the boat high and smashed it against the cliff. The wood cracked, the seams of the leather ripped, and the boat broke in two.

Merlin hung on to a rope, but it was torn from his grasp. The world turned upside down. He plunged into the icy water, which shocked his head and paralyzed his chest like a vise. He felt himself lifted up — or was it down? His arm hit something hard. Smooth. He grabbed at it, but it slipped away. He gasped for air, and received a mouthful of freezing water.

Upward the waves roared once more, and this time he was thrown upon the rocks and clung there, coughing and wheezing. He wiped the water from his eyes and looked out. Kensa and her purple hat had somehow found their way onto a rock lower down. He reached to her and pulled her up just before the next wave hit. She screamed, grabbing on to him as the water washed over them. It lifted them upward yet again. Merlin lost his grip, and they were tossed backward against another rock.

“Are you hurt?” Merlin asked when the water fell back.

“Nott, nott. Me auld bones are tough,” Kensa said.

The next wave didn't reach as high, and Merlin helped Kensa up onto the next level of rocks, and then climbed up himself. Coughing to clear his lungs, he looked around and was relieved to see Bedwir and Peredur had climbed up about ten paces away. Below him, the boat had been shattered into five pieces, and one began sinking.

Nowhere could he see either Garth or Caygek.

Merlin's lungs had recovered from the shock of the water, and he yelled,
“Garth!”

There was no answer but the water breaking on the rocks.

Merlin started pacing on the small ledge … and shivering.

Away to his right, he saw a hand reach up from the waves. Bedwir laid down, stuck out his arm, and pulled a wet Caygek from the water; the man's lips were blue and his limbs stiff.

Where was Garth?

Surely the boy knew how to swim?

“Garth!”

As Bedwir helped Caygek find his feet, Peredur made his way over to Merlin. “We've got to get up … find some shelter. We'll die here.”

Merlin shook his head. No, he couldn't leave without Garth.

“We've got to go … Kensa's found a path … see?”

But Merlin didn't want to see. He wanted to plunge into the waves and find Garth. But it was hopeless, and he knew it. There was no way he could survive in that water. Peredur took his arm, but
Merlin shook him off. And while they all climbed upward, toward the top of the cliff, Merlin stayed by the dark ocean that had claimed his friend.

At first Ganieda tried to pull herself from the corpses and their cracking, flaking, ghastly fingers, but could not. She had screamed, but no sound came. Emptiness engulfed her and she felt herself sinking down and down into the depths of the pit. But no bottom for her feet could be found, and she sunk farther and farther until she felt herself falling, head over heels.

It felt as if she had been tumbling forever.

She heard howling. She looked down as the wind whipped past her face, and there below her stood the black wolf, aglow in some ethereal light. The beast stood ten times his previous size. He opened his massive jaws and she fell onto his drooling, slime-coated tongue. The teeth snapped shut and she cried. The tongue convulsed below her, pushing her backward. She tried to grab on, but could not, and she slipped down to darkness.

The Voice appeared before her, his black cloak hiding a rich, blazing blue robe. She knelt upon a floor of granite, and long chains bound her wrists. Torches flickered with a bluish light and gave off a smoke that seeped onto the floor.

Behind the Voice stood a stone pillar, draped with a blue cloth decorated with intricately woven spirals and symbols. Something lay upon the table, but she could not see it, and her legs refused to let her stand. The desire grew stronger so that she called out to the Voice, “Will you help me?”

“Rise and see!” he said, and as he lifted his hand her legs raised her from the ground to behold four drinking horns, which had been placed at the corners of the pillar. Each one had been made from the long curving horn of a ram that spiraled inward and downward until coming to rest in an iron stand with the finger-like talons of some great lizard. The first horn was red as sweet cherries, the second
of gold, the third a beautiful white, and the fourth a shining silver.

“Once I offered these drinks to Merlin,” the Voice said. “Did you know that? He was foolish enough to refuse me, and soon he will die at the hands of Atle, my faithful servant. But you aren't so daft as Merlin, are you?”

The torc tingled at her throat, and she looked at the Voice's face and the scar that ran upward to his temple. “No,” she said, shaking her head. She was smarter than her blind brother. She always had been.

“Everyone in the world drinks from my table, whether they know it or not. Ah, but most of them drink only a little. If they drink too much, they die, for my enemy has snuck a poison into my broths. But you are being given a special gift, for you have received the iron torc from my hand, and have become my special servant forever. Thus you may drink to the dregs and I will protect you from the poison. Won't you trust me? Good. Take and drink.”

Ganieda approached and leaned forward to peek inside the red horn. It was filled with the freshest-smelling water — upon which flickered images of scary things she didn't understand. She tried to look away, but couldn't find the will. The pictures kept changing, nearly blinding her, and to get rid of them she took up the horn and drank until it stared back at her, empty.

Her throat still felt thirsty, and she stepped over to the second, the golden horn. A brown, frothy cream filled it, and it made a bubbling sound. Entrancing words slipped from the horn, telling of the sweetness of herself above all others, and her need to protect her freedom by any means possible. Others mattered nothing, it said. She brought the horn to her lips. The liquid coated her tongue and fled down her throat until it was all gone, and still she wanted more.

The third horn lay before her, white like alabaster, and she desired to drink it before she even looked within, for it smelled sweet and luscious, like the essence of a thousand wild plum trees. Ganieda saw her life, then, stretching out before her. Men and women adored
her. Fell prostrate before her majestic glory. Praised her and served her every whim. And she protected them all though they feared her … Mórgana, Druid Queen of the Britons. Yes, she was the fulfillment of all her grandfather's dreams.

The white horn was in her hands in an instant and she sucked down its jade-colored soup. Sweet, yes, but there was so much to drink! It never seemed to end, and Ganieda began to feel full — almost ready to burst.

The Voice reached out and pulled the horn from her grasp. “There is more, here, than you can now hold. But you will come back, and one day finish it to the very bottom.” He directed her to the last horn of all, the silver one, which shone like the brightest, most beautiful jewelry Ganieda had ever seen.

Did she really have room to drink more?

And the final horn was huge, made only for a great monarch …

The voice lifted the horn from the table and held its thick, black liquid before her. And though her stomach felt so full, her throat underneath the iron torc still longed for more and more. She reached out and grabbed the horn from his cold hands.

A vision overtook her of a great battle. Warriors, dark and grim, fought for her against Merlin and those with him, and pools of blood had been spilled for the delight of the circling birds. A young man stood at her side wearing lustrous armor. Long and golden lay his hair, and his black sword had been smeared with the filth of their enemies.

Yet a kingly warrior opposed them with rank upon rank of men at his side. His hair was dark. his eyes shone with the fierceness of death, and he held a beautiful sword in his hands.

Ganieda blinked.

That sword had been smithed by her father. It was the same blade that Merlin had driven into the Stone. Why was it in this strange man's gauntleted hand? And what had become of the Stone?

But the Voice covered her eyes and said, “This vision is not for you to see!”