The Mammoth Book of Merlin

by Mike Ashley

  Bending low along his horse’s neck, Myrddin determined to put as much distance as he could between himself and the villa. There was no knowing whether his mesmerizing of Lowri would work and for how long. He had attempted the accomplishment only once or twice before and then on fellow students for short periods. He hardly believed that it worked at all. This he knew: that he had to effect the rescue of Gwendoloena from the fortress of Cynric immediately. The sooner he attempted it the better, for even the sight of her slain brother might awaken the memories in Lowri’s mind. If she was right, and the fortress of Cynric was not far distant, he had little time before the alarm was raised.

  The one thing he wished he could have pressed further with Centwine and Lowri was the matter of the mysterious banner, the banner with the same embroidered knot emblem that had been on the blanket in which he had been found as a babe. Where had it come from? From whom had it been stolen? And did it mean that he was a scion of the house who used it as their symbol? Yet there was no time to consider the matter now.

  He urged his horse to increase its stride, eventually turning from the main path that ran to the villa in order to conceal himself amidst the forest tracks.

  X

  Myrddin had concealed his horse in a small grove of oaks on the edge of a sprawling forest which surrounded the approaches to Cynric’s fortress. The fortress was a tall grey stone fortress which stood on top of a great rolling earthwork which crowned a large hill and dominated the plain below. A river pushed sedately by, just skirting the edge of the hill at one point. It had obviously been built in the olden days by the Britons to defend themselves against Roman attack, then vacated during the days of their occupation but reoccupied at the time of the Saxon invasion. Now the Britons, the former occupants of the fortress, had been forced away and the Saxons commanded the heights and reinforced the walls and vantage points of the fortress.

  To Myrddin, as he lay hidden in the gorse and bracken of a nearby hill and examined the mighty gates, the patrolling warriors, the earth bank heights, it seemed an impossible task to infiltrate Cynric’s fortress and find Gwendoloena. He lay flat on his stomach, propping himself a little on his elbows, as he scanned the battlements with growing dismay. No wonder Cynric had decided not to destroy this fortress but occupy it in turn as his stronghold. The Britons had built it to withstand the storms of ages. And they had built it well.

  Myrddin’s eyes narrowed and he sighed.

  But then, he reminded himself, the fortress had fallen firstly to the Romans and then to the Saxons. Therefore, it was not impregnable. He simply had to find a way inside and . . .

  His ears detected the rustle of the gorse a split second before he felt hands pinning his arms behind him, a gag thrust into his mouth to prevent him crying out, and a rope expertly used to bind him. Then a cloth was placed around his eyes and he was dragged to his feet.

  He felt that there was more than one assailant around him but no one spoke. He had the impression that he was being dragged down a hill. There was a pause and, with a jerk, he realized that he had been thrown over the broad shoulders of a powerful man who carried his slight form as easily as a babe.

  Once more Myrddin had cause to curse himself for his stupidity. A “man of oak wisdom”! He was but a silly, vain child, without knowledge. He was a mere boy let loose in the world whose years of training had counted as naught against the cunning and wiles of his enemies.

  He had trained with Mawr, the warrior; had learnt the art of forest craft with Fychan, yet twice his concentration and concern about the rescue of Gwendoloena had blinded him to the very basic principle of survival. For the second time he had allowed the Saxons to catch him. He’d better start using his store of knowledge to better effect.

  He wondered whether his mesmerism of Lowri had been insufficient and she had raised the alarm as to his purpose and plan.

  With Centwine’s death, the Saxons would show him little mercy now, if mercy was ever a word in their vocabulary.

  He dragged his mind away from his self-reproach, realizing that self-reproach was also an immature luxury he could not afford.

  He realized, with some surprise, that he was being carried away from the Saxon fortress. The subconscious part of his mind had registered that his captors had taken him down the hill from his spypoint, but away from the fortress, and into the surrounding forest. Were they Lowri’s men intent on vengeance?

  With a sudden abruptness, the man carrying him halted and flung him unceremoniously onto the earth, knocking the breath from his body.

  Someone grasped his tunic and dragged him upright, thrusting him backwards, so that his back encountered the bole of a tree.

  “Sit up!” hissed a voice in Saxon.

  Myrddin presumed that he had been seated with his back against a tree. He felt puzzled.

  A familiar voice came from a distance.

  “What is it, Carannog?”

  “A Saxon lookout. We found him near Cynric’s fortress. We might persuade him to tell us how to get inside.”

  Myrddin was astonished.

  The voices spoke in his own language. They were Britons. And why was the first speaker’s voice so familiar?

  He struggled against his bonds.

  “I doubt any Saxon would betray Cynric, even if his own life depended on it,” came another voice. “Better to kill him now, Carannog, and save us trouble.”

  “No, wait!” It was the first voice. “The thing a Saxon warrior fears most is a death which is not in battle and without a sword in his hand. They believe that their god Woden will only allow them entry in their Otherworld, their Hall of Heroes . . . they call it Wael-haell. If they die bound and without a sword, then they have no after life.”

  “A stupid belief,” sneered the unnamed third speaker.

  “Stupid or not, Cadell, we will try to persuade our Saxon friend here that he will die bound and gagged and obtain no after life unless he shows us the way into Cynric’s fortress. Carannog!”

  Myrddin felt a hand close on the cloth that had been placed over his head and it was wrenched away. Then someone loosened his gag.

  He gasped as he sought to regulate his breathing.

  “Now, Saxon, we have a proposition for you . . .” began Carannog.

  “I am no Saxon. I am a Briton, like you!” Myrddin managed to say between his gasps for breath.

  “What?” There was a gasp of astonishment from half a dozen throats.

  Myrddin gazed up and focused on a burly, red-haired British warrior bending over him in surprise.

  “Have you no eyes to recognize a Briton from a Saxon?” demanded Myrddin, recovering himself. “Untie me.”

  “What trick is this?” returned Carannog. “What would a Briton be doing at Cynric’s fortress?”

  “The same as you, seeking a way in,” snapped Myrddin.

  “How can we believe you . . .?”

  “We can believe him, for I have seen this man before.”

  It was the owner of the first voice who spoke again.

  A young man crossed the small forest clearing in which the group of British warriors were apparently resting.

  Myrddin raised his eyes to meet the grim features of a young man, the young man named Artio whom he had encountered with the elderly Emrys, the dying High King of the Isle of the Mighty.

  “This is the man who helped Emrys and I when we were attacked by Saxons. Your name is . . .?”

  “Myrddin.”

  “Just so. Release him, Carannog.”

  The red-haired warrior, with a muttered curse, bent forward and cut Myrddin’s bonds. Myrddin came to his feet rubbing his chafed wrists.

  “Now, Myrddin,” the young warrior said, “you have some explaining to do. What are you doing at Cynric’s fortress here in this kingdom of the West Saxons?”

  Myrddin made a gesture of irritation.

  “I have no more explaining to do than you, my friend,” he countered. “I left you with a dying man heading west to Dinas Emrys. Now I f
ind you here in the land of Cynric.”

  Artio looked annoyed, as if he were about to argue, and then he shrugged.

  “We shall both swap tales. Mine is simple. Emrys, God be merciful to his soul, died before I had gone far. His bodyguard had just joined us, having come to seek us on the road, and so it was decided that some of them would escort his body on to Dinas Emrys. A dozen of us, those you see here, decided to return the Saxon raid before they learnt of the tragedy.”

  “Why would you need to return the raid before they learnt of Emrys’ death?” asked Myrddin.

  “Easy to tell. Once Cynric learns that Emrys is dead, and the Britons are without their High King, he will raise the West Saxons, indeed, he will raise all the kingdoms of the Angles and the Saxons to unite in a fresh attempt to annihilate the Britons. My aim is to forestall this with these chosen warriors. We planned to enter Cynric’s fortress and slay him and so balance the scales.”

  “But with Emrys dead, is it not better to elect a new High King as soon as possible and prepare a defence?”

  Artio grinned sourly.

  “Alas, my friend Myrddin, you know little of the politics of our land. Emrys held the Britons together by the force of his personality, by the victories he won against the Saxons. It is only because of the unity that Emrys forced on them that the Britons have been able to keep the Saxons in check these last forty years. With Emrys gone, until a new strong leader emerges, the Britons will become a series of petty kingdoms, with their kings and chieftains arguing amongst each other. Hywel of Cornwall demands that he be recognized as the equal to Gereint of Dumnonia; Gwid of Elmet demands precedence over Padarn of Gwynedd; Tryffin of Dyfed believes he is superior to Cyngar of Powys and so on . . . each squabbling with each other over inconsequential considerations while the enemy is at their gates.”

  Myrddin shook his head in sadness.

  “Is there no one who can unite them?”

  Artio shrugged.

  “At this time, I can see no one person capable of such a deed. So, while the arguing goes on, I believe that a swift raid on Cynric’s fortress and his death would redress the balance and throw the Saxons into disarray, giving us time to mend our differences and restore the balance of power.”

  Myrddin could see the logic of the plan.

  “And now, your story, Myrddin. How came you here?”

  “I was staying at the abbey at Llanelen when Cynric’s men stormed and burnt the abbey and killed many there.”

  The youth named Artio looked concerned.

  “And the Mother Abbess, the Abbess Aldan, was she killed?”

  “No. But they kidnapped the lady Gwendoloena, daughter of the king of Ynys Wyth. I was there, though they knocked the senses from me. When I recovered, I tracked the raiders here.”

  “What made you recognize Cynric’s men? Was Cynric their leader?”

  “Not that I saw. But I recognized Centwine.”

  Artio brought a fist into the palm of his other hand.

  “By the Living God! This Centwine shall pay for his sacrilege.”

  Myrddin’s lips thinned.

  “He already has. But a few hours ago, I slew him. But not before I discovered that Cynric has Gwendoloena imprisoned in his fortress.”

  Artio stared at Myrddin.

  “You told me that you were no warrior, yet you act and think as a warrior.”

  Myrddin shrugged.

  “You know that I am a ‘man of oak wisdom’, Artio. I am a believer in the old gods.”

  “Let each man honour his conscience. I care not which path you take so long as it leads by the parallel morality to the same place. Give me your hand, Myrddin, for I honour you.”

  “The time to honour each other is when we have succeeded in our plan. Yours is to kill Cynric while mine must be to rescue Gwendoloena. However, in these plans we may join together for part of the way.”

  Carannog stirred and sighed.

  “You have seen Cynric’s fortress, Myrddin. It is impossible to scale the walls.”

  Myrddin nodded and then grinned sharply.

  “If it is impossible, then why attempt it?”

  Artio frowned.

  “What do you mean, Myrddin?”

  “There are other ways into the fortress which are not impossible. For example, why not walk through the gates?”

  Carannog laughed loudly.

  “Because the Saxon warriors might object to a band of British warriors riding up to their king’s fortress and asking for entrance.”

  “Then why go riding up as British warriors? You are in the land of the Saxons. Are there not enough Saxon garments about for the taking?”

  Artio began to smile gently.

  “I see what you are about, my friend. But, in fact, we do have another plan but we are not sure of it. That is why we have been seeking other ways.”

  “What plan?”

  Artio motioned to another of the warriors, a swarthy man with thin features.

  “Cadell here was the son of Idwal whose home was once in that very fortress before the Saxons drove the Britons from it. Come here, Cadell, and tell your story.”

  The thin man approached.

  “Little to tell,” he said. “I was born in the west of Dumnonia where my father fled as a young man following the fall of the fortress yonder which Cynric now makes his own.”

  “Go on,” pressed Artio when Cadell paused.

  “I do not vouch for the truth of this,” he hesitated. “When I was young I used to listen to my father speak of the impregnable fortress of his people. He told me that the only reason that the fortress fell was because the Saxons had forced a local farmer, curses on his name, to reveal the existence of a tunnel which leads up from the river that skirts the hill. This is a passageway into the centre of the fortress. By this means, a band of Saxon warriors infiltrated the fortress and opened the gates to allow their fellows inside.”

  “A tunnel? What sort of tunnel?”

  “It was built to take effluence away from the fortress and into the river. A conduit. But that is the only information I have. I have no knowledge where such a secret tunnel starts or where it comes out.”

  Myrddin thought for a moment.

  “That may be enough for our purpose. If Cadell’s father was correct, then there is only a short stretch of river where the conduit can exit into. What Saxon warriors have done, we Britons can do.”

  “You mean, we will climb into the fortress through the conduit?” asked Carannog.

  “Certainly. If it leads to the river then there is only an area of one hundred yards on the far bank to search. We should soon find it, if it exists. Let us draw up a plan. How many speak the tongue of the Saxon?”

  Artio glanced about at his men.

  “We have a company of eleven, plus myself and now you. Thirteen all told, of which five of us speak the Saxon language.”

  “Do you include me?” asked Myrddin. “For I also have knowledge of it.”

  “Then six of us.”

  “Very well. We must ensure that those who do not speak Saxon are always in the company of one of us who does, in case we need to bluff our way out of danger.”

  “A good stratagem,” nodded Carannog.

  “And it augurs well,” smiled Myrddin confidently. “For we have a leader and twelve to follow and that reflects good fortune for it is written that twelve followers constitutes a magical force.”

  “Christ had twelve followers,” interposed Carannog.

  “Which is why his influence was great,” agreed Myrddin, “for he must have known the significance of numerology to choose them and no more.”

  “Very well,” Artio was a little impatient. “What now?” It was clear that he was not happy that Myrddin had assumed the authority of planning strategy.

  “We must leave some men outside when we enter. A total of four, I think. Two men to guard the entrance of the conduit, for we may wish to make our exit through it, if all goes well. And two to place themselves on the hil
l where Carannog found me to watch the main gates. It will be the purpose of these men that, if we exit with the Saxons in pursuit, they must ensure our horses are available. We can tether them in the oak copse behind the hillock where I tethered my own.”

  Artio nodded in agreement.

  “That means nine of us shall enter the fortress.”

  Myrddin grinned.

  “Another number signifying good fortune. Nine is the sacred number of our people for the ancient heroes went in companies of nine.”

  Artio was impatient.

  “I know the ancient stories, Myrddin. And will this good fortune show us the way to the entrance of the conduit?”

  “Let us hope so, my friend.” He glanced at the sky. “Dusk will soon be here. We will use its darkness to examine the river bank for sign of the conduit. Now who comes into the fortress and who remains outside?”

  It was Artio who took over and made the necessary appointments.

  “Once inside,” Artio added, “we must go quickly in search of Cynric.”

  “And of Gwendoloena,” Myrddin pointed out.

  Artio bit his lip as he considered.

  “Agreed. We may have to split up for the task. You, Myrddin, may take Carannog and Cadell and search for her. I and the rest will look for Cynric. Each party will make their own way in case of trouble. And each party must place the success of its own task before any other consideration. If one party gets into trouble, the other must continue. We must have no useless sacrifices.”

  “Agreed,” Myrddin said.

  “Then,” Artio glanced up at the darkening sky, “let us be about this work.”

  XI

  They crossed the river just after dusk. There was a brisk current to it and Cadell recalled that in his father’s day it was called Fram, which meant “briskly flowing”. All Artio’s men were good swimmers and there was no problem to the crossing. Once on the far side, they divided into the two parties, the quicker to traverse the river bank in search of the entrance to the conduit.

  It was Cadell, appropriately enough, who found it. A tunnel opening straight into the river under a small outcrop of rocks. The only way one could gain entrance was to climb into the river and swim into its dark, cavernous maw. The entrance was not large; indeed, it was only big enough to take two men abreast.