Merlin's Shadow (37 page)

M
erlin gagged, for a horrible smell wafted up from the blood-soaked ground where he knelt.

Atle stood before him, his legs wrapped in furs, and if Loth hadn't had a sword at the back of Merlin's neck, he would jump up and …

Merlin sighed. His sword was gone, and his bag had been snatched from him and thrown in a heap with the rest of their things about ten feet away — his hidden knife within it.

And even if Merlin did get away from Loth and attack Atle, it would be more likely that Atle would kill Merlin first, for Merlin's left elbow was indeed broken. The joint sent waves of cramping pain so intense that he couldn't do anything with it except let it hang limp. And the old man was stronger than he looked. Merlin had learned that when they'd sparred over the candlestick in the king's private chamber.

The king cleared his throat. “Look up to me, O Merlin. For Kensa
has, beyond my amazement, arrived at de last moment to preserve her own life … andd dat of yers as well.”

“Preserve my life? You mean she betrayed me.”

“Betrayed you? No, dat is not my mother's intent, for she loves you more dan you know. You are de son of my daughter, Theneva Gweviana, as Kensa most ardently reminds me, andd therefore ye have de right to participate by blood in de rite that is about to be performed.”

“I don't care —”

Atle kicked Merlin hard in the mouth. “Listen, O Fool! I hadd chosen to withhold dis from you because of your mother's disobedience, but now dat you are here, I will give ett, at Kensa's behest, if you are nott impudent andd presuming.”

“Give what?” Merlin slurred, spitting out the blood that had begun to gather.

“I offer you nothing less dan undying strength, eternal youth, andd joy. I offer ye a place en me family for eternity.”

“I only want Arthur free,” Merlin said.

“Ah, but ye don't understand
properly
. Lett me help ye before yerr choice es no longer possible.” He held the rope so Arthur's hands were lifted upward, and he cut a thin line down Arthur's chest with his knife. The child cried out, squirmed, and tried to get away, but Atle held him fast. He let the blood to trickle downward and caught some on the tip of his knife.

“Here, feel and desire de gift I offer you, for ett es amazement.” With these words, he let Arthur's blood drip into an old pool of gore at his feet. Then he grabbed onto Merlin's hair and hauled him forward until Merlin stared into the liquid. In the murky mirror, a vision appeared.

Merlin saw himself rising upward, strong and hale. In the vision the years passed, and he began to age a little, until another ninth year approached when he needed to renew the blood sacrifice to make himself young again. For an eon the cycle raged, and each time Merlin matured more quickly until he, too, grew old by the
ninth year — like Atle. But Merlin could still live, couldn't he? Yes, it was true. For as long as the sacrifices were renewed.

Something else caught his attention. In the vision, his scars had vanished completely from his face. Utterly gone.

Natalenya could love him. His heart could trust her. Trust that she wouldn't abandon him when she tired of looking at his ugly visage. Trust that she wouldn't regret her marriage to him.

Did Atle really offer him what God had denied him? Could it be true? And all he had to do was say yes. He could look like Loth. They could be brothers. Two alike, friends, and handsome forever. Every part of him longed to say the word. Every part of him screamed at God for the injustice of his disfigurement. Why hadn't God taken his scars away? Protected them during their journeys? Why?

“Vat is your answer?” the king asked. “Vill ye partake in de blood of de little one?”

Merlin looked once more at Arthur. His dark hair was disheveled, and his wrists raw from the rope. But he was just a child. Not even capable of real speech. Wasn't the world filled with uncountable children? Did it really matter if one was slain so that Merlin could be free of his scars? No one would even miss Arthur's passing. The boy's parents were dead. Perhaps it was best for Arthur. This way, he would never know the anguish of loneliness. The world was cruel, was it not? His suffering would end, and in that end he would also relieve Merlin's suffering.

Atle gave a wheezing chuckle. “I see your thoughts, andd ye are right. A little suffering ferr everlasting profit. Perhaps one day everyone in de world can benefit from de blood of de little ones. You vill join me, yes?”

Merlin wanted to agree. To nod his head. To whimper out the word. But then he beheld Arthur's eyes, and saw fear, confusion, pain, suffering. All these emotions and more, accusing Merlin. But an accusation only had weight before a judge. Was God a judge? Would God judge Merlin?

Yes. For it was God who had formed Arthur in Igerna's womb.
God who had fashioned the boy in mystery and fear. God who had planned his days before any of them came to pass. And God would hold Merlin accountable for his blood.

Do not murder
, the Scriptures said, and so Merlin spit into the pool of blood and sent the horrible vision rippling away. He would stay the same. Merlin the scarred. Merlin the unloved. Merlin the despised. Merlin the dead — yes — but better dead in God's righteous hands than alive and hale in the devil's filthy ones. So be it.

“No,” he said. “Take your bloody knife and kill me as well. Get it over with.”

“Dat I shall. Each o' you will be sacrificed after de child dies. Too bad you don't appreciate me hard bargain: yerr freedom for Arthur. Now ye lose both.” And he plunged the knife deep into Arthur's gut. A scream ripped forth from the child, his face turned red, and he began to thrash in agony. Arthur's blood poured down onto the altar, and Atle smiled in triumph.

Ganieda rubbed her hands together as she watched Merlin through the orb. He was considering his fate, bowed with his gaze intent upon the strange vision in the pool of blood.

And when he finally spoke his answer, and Atle plunged the knife into Arthur, she clapped. Yes — their family's vengeance was nearly complete! When the Stone still had its power, Uther had killed her grandfather's son — Ganieda's uncle — and now Uther's son was dead. Merlin's death would soon follow.

Mórganthu got up from his chair and began to dance around the tent, the orb a streak of purple light as he giddily jumped about.

Ganieda joined him, holding on to his waist.

Around and around they twirled in celebration, until a sound echoed from the orb. A man's scream. It sounded like Merlin's voice.

Mórganthu knelt on one knee, and together they looked once more.

M
erlin struggled to rise, yelling. If he had two good arms, he could —

Loth viscously kicked him in the small of his back. “Stay down, dog head. Ye'll have no part in this.”

As Merlin fell flat on his stomach, he lifted his head to keep it from dropping into the bloody snow, and so the tip of Loth's sword cut into the nape of his neck. The pain tore a yell from his throat — yet he kept his eyes fixed on Arthur, who was in the throes of death.

Like sparks from a fire, a crackling darkness burst out from Atle's knife where it had sunk into Arthur. A stain upon the air, it climbed Atle's arm and engulfed his whole being. Kensa grabbed his belt. All around Merlin, the people of Atle's household stepped up and held hands, making a direct connection to the king. Then others — natives of these islands — joined as well.

And the darkness spread.

The sword slipped away from Merlin's neck, and Loth's boot
eased its pressure. Merlin spun savagely around and lifted himself into a crouch. Pain surged from his broken elbow, and he had to prop it on his thigh as best he could.

All around him, a black undulating web covered the people — everyone but his friends, who were cowering down in shock. The torches took on an eerie, red glow in the hands of the people, frozen in position.

Atle himself began to change. Taller he grew, and less stooped. The deep lines of his face smoothed. His arms and legs solidified with muscle. His hair lengthened, thickened, and the gray disappeared.

Merlin panicked. He had only a few moments. Atle's youth would soon be complete and Merlin would be overpowered. He leapt at the pile of their belongings, but the weapons weren't there. They had been left in the woods, no doubt. With no time to look for them, he dug, found his bag, and opened it with one hand. There was the map! He pulled the rolled-up leather out and dumped the knife to the ground.

He froze before taking the knife. A strangely familiar lump lay in the bottom of the bag. He opened it wide. It was the Sangraal. The very bowl he had flung into the ocean. The bowl he'd rejected. How did it —? Why —?

He looked from the knife … to the bowl … and back to the knife.

He had to choose.

Black smoke swirled inside the orb, and then lit up with a soft purple radiance. Soon the image cleared and Ganieda spied Arthur crying out in pain and kicking his legs. She felt like a happy pig, wallowing in his death.

And Merlin, her poor, poor brother — hah! — did that little slice to the neck hurt? Soon Loth would thrust the blade right through his heart, and Ganieda wouldn't even shed a tear.

A black, bubbling web began to cover Atle, and all the people with him. The king began to get younger, and Loth as well — yet in
the midst of the changes happening to his body, he forgot to keep Merlin pinned down.

“Stop him!” she cried out, but Loth couldn't hear.

Her brother escaped and dove to his bag, his left arm hanging like a broken branch. He dropped a roll of leather from it and shook a knife from the center. Then he opened the bag wider to reveal a wooden bowl.

Strange. Why would he care about a bowl at such a time?

But the bowl grew larger and larger inside the orb, its grain and edges beginning to glow. Soon the bowl became a white blaze, which stung Ganieda's eyes. She continued to look, but the light became so bright that she fell backward, squinting until she could stand it no longer.

The orb began to burn in Grandfather's hand and he dropped it, yelling.

The light faded and the orb cooled, and he tried once more to see Merlin, but the only image to appear was of the sky and the bright sun shining down from the heavens. It refused to show Merlin or anyone else with him.

She grabbed onto her grandfather's arm. “What's happening? What's wrong with it?”

He shook his head. “Perhaps the orb is wounded. Perhaps afraid.”

“But I need to see. I want to see Arthur die.
I need to see Merlin die!”
She screamed at him and stamped her foot.

“Perhaps, my daughter's daughter, you can travel there and see for yourself. Then come back and tell me.”

She glimpsed fear on his countenance, and she pondered this for a moment. Had she ever seen real fear in him before?

“Why do you wait?” he said, holding out the orb. “Remember … remember when you visited Vortigern on the boat? And the Pictish chieftain in the valley? Do it again!”

He handed it to her, and a delight buzzed up her arm as its warm, soft flesh filled her palm. She called upon the orb to take her to Merlin.

Once again it began to grow heavy in her hand until it rolled to the floor. Soon it was beyond her height, and still it grew, changing shape now into the head of a phantasmal lizard. Like a dragon it was; red, gigantic, and powerful, with great curled horns like that of a ram's. Its mouth opened and a flickering light could be seen down its throat. This time she did not scream. She did not flinch. She lunged within, and the ghostlike creature swallowed her whole. The great tongue pushed her down the greasy, palpating throat, the world darkened, and she floated down. The air chilled and her feet rested upon a slushy, bloody hilltop not three paces from Merlin.

Merlin had to decide between the knife and the Sangraal, for his left arm throbbed uselessly at his side.

Without more than a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the knife.

But after two steps, he realized he was holding the Sangraal. He turned back angrily and saw the knife laying on the ground. He dropped the bowl, grabbed the knife, and again the same thing happened. The bowl, with its gritty wooden rim, was pinched between the fingers of his right hand. He fell to his knees, set the bowl down, and picked up the knife.

Why would the Sangraal be here? Now? And why couldn't he get rid of it? The fool thing hadn't worked. Yet a voice from his vision filled his head. It was the fisherman turned king, singing in joy as his great and painful wound had been healed:

The words echoed in Merlin's ears, and for the first time he really listened to them. Like the gentian tea his mother had made him drink when he was young, the words were bitter yet cleansing. He'd been wrong. So wrong. Wrong to trust in the Sangraal rather than the
God
of the Sangraal. Wrong to trust in his own abilities apart from the God who had made him. Wrong to lose faith in God.

He cried out then, and tears began to blur his eyes. But there was no time for that — for Arthur's dying screams filled the air.

A spark of hope — and of faith — filled Merlin's heart. Faith in the God who had led him during each painful step of his life: his childhood, his blindness, his battle with the Stone — even during this journey of suffering over the last half of a year. Faith in the One who had, up until now, protected them all. Protected them in the midst of Natalenya's sickness. She hadn't died, had she? At least not yet as far as Merlin knew. Could he trust God even for that?

But what if she did die? What if Merlin died — all of them? The worst thing that would happen was God would enfold them in His arms and lead them on high to a feasting hall so great and mighty that the richest kings of the world would be as beggars at the door.

Begging to see God.

God.

The true reward.

Merlin had been such a fool.

He dropped the knife and picked up the bowl — such a simple bowl, really, blackened with antiquity. There in the bottom lay a
single drop of blood. And this wasn't at all like the blood shed by Atle — who lusted after the life of others — but rather it
must
be, somehow, the blood of Christ, who had given it willingly for his children. The smell of a flower radiated from the bowl more fragrant than if all the bursting, tender rose petals of Kernow had been gathered togethe.

Merlin ran, then, in faith. Not at Atle for revenge — but to the pagan altar next to Atle where Arthur jerked against the impaled knife.

And there she stood. Little Ganieda. His sister. Once more she had appeared to him, and now stood in his way. A torc with the heads of dragons lay curled around her throat, and an icy hatred gleamed from her eyes. She put up a hand to stop him.

“Dear brother … where are you going with that?”

He edged sideways, but she turned to block him.

“What are you holding? Let me look.”

So he held it out to her.

She backed away.

He pushed it closer.

“Don't touch me with it!” she hissed.

Another step, and he held it right under her nose. “Please, this is for you as well. Take it.”

She screamed, dodged past Loth — and disappeared among the black pulses of the web.

Merlin spun around. Where had she gone?

Arthur cried again — hardly more than a whimper.

The boy had fallen onto his blood-soaked knees. The crackling darkness engulfed him and he fell prone. His body grew, as in a vision: his legs and arms lengthened until soon Arthur lay there on the altar as a mighty man with a glorious torc upon his throat — the torc of a king! Light shown from his flesh and Merlin started to cover his eyes. But then the blobs of shadow grew upon his chest into two, huge ravens, black and fell, and they clawed at his wound and ripped at his flesh with their beaks. Arthur's light began to fade.

Merlin shouted at the birds and tried to scare them away, but they turned on him and the right one scratched his shoulder with its talon, cutting deeply.

Merlin yelled in pain and backed up. Then, holding the Sangraal before him, he shoved it at the birds.

They screeched, the smell of death issuing from their throats.

Merlin stepped closer, holding his breath, and the birds flapped off into the air and burst like rain clouds, pouring their blackness down to the ground in great, sizzling drops.

Arthur was now little again, the kingly vision having faded.

Yet the freakish smile covering Atle's face was no vision, and his transformation was almost complete. His arms had become three times as strong. His hair had darkened, and lay upon his shoulders in long and wavy tendrils. His torso and legs were muscled, and even his clothes had been renewed. But the king's eyes were dead, with only a lust for more blood written around the pupils.

Well, Merlin would give him one drop more. He poured out the solitary trickle upon the altar between Arthur's little knees, trusting Christ that no matter what came, all would be well.

And nothing happened.

Arthur fell down in a heap.

The black web had left Atle now, and he released the rope and withdrew the knife. The man looked with pleasure upon his hands and arms.

Poor Arthur rolled onto his back, his lifeless eyes looking up to the dark sky.

Clutching the Sangraal, Merlin lifted the boy up and held him close.

Atle turned and saw Merlin. He clenched his teeth and raised the knife to strike.

Merlin kissed Arthur on his cold cheek and bowed his head before Atle. He wanted to die with the boy, and tensed himself.

But the stroke didn't fall.

Atle stepped back even as water began to trickle down the altar.

There was something strange about this water, however — it was bright with a crystal shine unlike anything Merlin had ever seen. It bubbled up from where he had poured the drop from the Sangraal, and the previous gore fizzled away. Even the altar itself began to disappear — like a chunk of snow thrown into a stream.

At first the water poured past Merlin's boots. Then it made waves over his ankles. The altar broke apart and sunk so that the water burst from the ground itself, as if a well had opened up in the earth. The mountain shook, and a roaring sound echoed from its depths.

Atle and the others of his household stepped away, but fissures opened all around them.

A youthful Kensa screamed as geysers of glowing water poured from the ground, charring her beautiful purple gown and flawless skin. The old columns of the temple crashed down, crushing many. Atle shouted as he was knocked into the swirling cataclysm of water, his body burning and smoking until nothing more could be seen of it.

Merlin slipped and fell — the deluge washing him away. The trees cracked off around him, the mountainside shook, and the roar of the water washed downward. He gasped for air, holding tightly to Arthur's body, and trying to keep his head up.

Down the mountain he rolled, first on his side, then on his back. The bright water gushed over his face and he coughed. Arthur's body began to escape his grip, but he scooped him closer. His knee hit a rock, and a tree limb slammed into his back. Kicking with his legs, he broke to the air and struggled for breath. Down the mountainside, faster and faster he spun until the first walls of the ruined city passed by, and still the water poured from the top of the mountain.

He reached out to a wide ledge of rock, grabbed on, and pulled himself up with help from his legs. Only at that time did he realize his left arm didn't hurt. A winter breeze picked up across the island, tousling his hair, but his skin had been strangely warmed by the water, and he didn't feel cold. He sat up wearily and laid Arthur's body on his knees.

All around him the old, dead trees caught fire, snapped, and fell into the water. The bodies of the sacrificed fell with them and disappeared beneath the flood. Above him, the night sky lit up with undulating swirls of blue, green, purple, and red. The strange lights illuminated the devastation flowing by: broken trees, brush, and vegetation were mixed with the smoking bodies of Atle's household.