The Mammoth Book of Merlin

by Mike Ashley

  Myrddin and Cadell went first to make a reconnaissance.

  The smell from the effluence was putrid and almost took away their breath.

  “We need a light,” muttered Myrddin as he tried to peer into the black depths of the entrance.

  Cadell offered to swim back and see if there was something which could be used.

  He returned after what seemed an eternity to Myrddin, who was waiting in the darkness, waist high in cold water.

  “I have a brand torch,” Cadell whispered, “Artio had several made in case they were needed. I am holding it above my head. Round my neck, to keep it out of the water, is a bag of flints and tinder. Do you think you can strike a light?”

  Myrddin, his eyes having grown accustomed to the gloom, waded across to the man and took the bag. He had seen some sort of ledge to the side of the entrance, just above the water level, and he waded towards it and felt its surface. It was dry enough and so he placed the flints and tinder on it and managed to strike a light quite easily. He enkindled the brand torch and held it up high.

  It was the conduit right enough. A channel had been cut through the rock and earth leading upwards towards the fortress on the top of the hill. It was no bigger than four feet wide and the same measurement in height. The incline was steep. To one side, a deeply grooved channel showed where the waste was pushed down into the river, while to the other side, on a slightly raised area above the channel, was a paved way whose incline was softened by steps every so often.

  “Perfect,” breathed Myrddin. “All we have to do is follow this path upwards. Cadell, fetch the others, and tell them to bring the other brand torches in case they are needed.”

  Myrddin heaved himself out of the river water and onto the dry path.

  He was suddenly aware of a squeaking noise and of black shapes darting hither and thither along the pathway. He held up the torch and shivered. Rats. He might have known. He hoped that the light would scare them from the path.

  It was a few moments before Artio and the others came crowding behind Cadell.

  “There is only room for one man at a time to move up the path,” Myrddin said. “So we must go in single file. I propose that I go first, next Cadell, and then you, Artio, and your men.”

  The young warrior hesitated as if to object but Myrddin was already moving upwards and Cadell was hauling himself out of the water behind him.

  There was a pause while another torch was lit and then the file of Britons were moving up the ancient conduit towards the heart of the fortress.

  It seemed a long and tiring journey. Every so often they were forced to pause, so steep, and sometimes so slippery, was the pathway. The conduit was evil-smelling and nearly choked them with its foul odours.

  Eventually, Myrddin signalled a halt.

  “I think the entrance is just above,” he whispered to Cadell, telling him to pass the information back to Artio and the others.

  Myrddin moved forward carefully. The conduit had reached its starting point. It was a cold, granite-slabbed room without light and full of refuse and waste of all kinds. Myrddin moved across to the entrance of the room. It gave on to a corridor, lit with flickering torches.

  He turned back as Artio joined him.

  “We’ll extinguish our own torches now. This is a main corridor within the heart of the fortress. We will have to find our separate ways from here.”

  Artio compressed his lips.

  It had sounded all right in the planning, but now it seemed an impossible task. How were they to find Cynric’s chamber or, indeed, where Gwendoloena was imprisoned, from here? How were they to make their way through the complex corridors of the fortress, to find the right rooms, without raising the alarm?

  However, Artio was not a man to change his mind without good cause.

  “Very well. Remember, each man for himself. If either party be discovered, it is up to the other one to succeed in their task. Is that understood?”

  Myrddin signified his agreement.

  “Good. You, Cadell and Carannog go first. Which way will you go?”

  Myrddin shrugged.

  “One way is as good as another. We’ll take the left branch of the corridor.”

  He extinguished the torch and signalled to Carannog and Cadell to follow him.

  Cautiously, with swords drawn, they moved away from the conduit room. Myrddin made careful mental notes of which way they went in relation to the room for soon they might have to return there in a hurry and make good their escape.

  The area of the fortress they were in was obviously used for storage, and soon cooking smells came to Myrddin’s senses. Wherever Cynric’s apartments were they would surely not be placed too near the kitchens. He gently tugged on his lower lip as he tried to consider what best to do.

  There came the sound of a footfall.

  It was Cadell who seized his sleeve and pulled him back into a darkened alcove off the passageway.

  An elderly man, weighed down under the weight of a full side of beef, which he carried on his shoulders, came shuffling along the corridor. The man was clearly a slave for he wore an iron collar around his neck.

  Myrddin pressed back into the shadows as the old man passed by and entered a doorway a few yards away.

  Luckily the old one was too absorbed in his task to notice the three armed men shielding themselves in the dark recess. Or perhaps he did not care?

  A thought suddenly occurred to Myrddin. He turned to the others and whispered: “I mean to question the slave when he comes back. Help me.”

  He turned back to the corridor.

  The old man, divested of his side of beef, had left the room and was shuffling back along the corridor, eyes downcast and without apparent interest other than placing one foot in front of the other.

  Myrddin decided to gamble on the attitude of the other. The man was a slave and his instinct was to obey. Myrddin stepped into the path of the old man and said in harsh Saxon: “Come with me!”

  The old man hesitated, but he did not even raise his eyes to Myrddin. He obediently shuffled after him.

  Cadell and Carannog fell in behind, not believing the simplicity of the situation.

  Myrddin turned into an empty room which he had previously noticed further down the corridor. The old man followed with Cadell and Carannog on his heels. Carannog swung the door shut behind them.

  “I want you to answer me some question, old one,” snapped Myrddin, still speaking in Saxon.

  The slave coughed nervously, but did not raise his eyes.

  “At your command, my lord,” he mumbled.

  “Where does Cynric keep his prisoners? I mean the prisoners he has recently taken in raids?”

  “He does not, my lord. They are either sold as slaves, like me, or else slain.”

  “Then do you know of a female prisoner recently brought to this place? She was recently taken and is a Briton.”

  The old one shrugged.

  “I have heard nothing of such matters.”

  Myrddin swore softly.

  “Then we must go and ask Cynric personally,” he muttered, half to himself. “Tell me, old one, where are Cynric’s apartments?”

  “On the floor above this one, lord.”

  “You must take us there.”

  “I am a kitchen churl. I am not allowed out of the kitchens, lord.”

  “I am ordering you, slave!” snapped Myrddin.

  “I can only obey the overseer of the kitchen slaves, lord. It is more than my life is worth to leave this level.”

  Myrddin gave an exasperated sigh.

  “Very well, how do we reach the floor above?”

  “There are stairs at the end of this corridor, lord.”

  “Listen, slave. You will remain here until someone releases you. If you cry out then I will return and kill you.”

  “Yes, lord.” There was no emotion to the old man’s voice, just a quiet resignation.

  They found the stairs easily enough but the corridor above was not so
deserted as the one below. Warriors strolled up and down it with weapons drawn. Cynric was a careful monarch.

  Myrddin crouched with Cadell and Carannog in the shadow of the stairwell wondering what to do.

  As if in answer to his thoughts a door along the passageway opened and an imperious but familiar voice called out.

  “Guard! Bring the girl to me. I will see her now!”

  Myrddin had no difficulty recognizing the voice of Cynric.

  A guard jerked to attention and then went hurrying away, his leather-soled shoes slapping on the stone flags of the corridor as he sped to his task.

  Myrddin exchanged glances with Cadell and Carannog.

  There was still another guard standing outside the door from which the man had called. But if they were quick they could cross the corridor and get into the room facing them. Perhaps there was a way through to Cynric’s chamber from there. Myrddin conveyed this idea to the others tersely. They nodded agreement.

  Myrddin went first, swung open the door and prayed there was no one inside. There was not. It was an empty room. He turned and waved the others across and closed the door behind them.

  Cadell had crossed to the window.

  “A sheer drop to the valley below,” he muttered. “We are deceptively high up here. But . . .” he suddenly leaned out of the window and peered along, “come and see. There is a small ledge which runs from this window along to the other rooms. It might be just big enough for a man to edge his way along.”

  Myrddin glanced out and saw that Cadell was right. Nevertheless, one false step and there would be no reprieve. It was certain death to fall from the wall of the fortress down into the valley below.

  There was a noise in the corridor outside.

  Myrddin crossed swiftly back and inched the door open only a fraction.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  The dishevelled figure of Gwendoloena was being dragged along by two grinning Saxon warriors. Her dress was torn, her hair in disarray and there was a smudge of blood on her cheek. Yet she held her chin defiantly and there was no hint of tears on her face. Myrddin’s heart went out to her.

  Then she was gone from his sight.

  He turned back to the others.

  “There is no choice but to go along the ledge. I am not asking you to do so. I will do it and, when you hear that I am in need of you, try to fight your way along the corridor to me.”

  Carannog grinned and shook his head.

  “Where you go, Myrddin, we will follow. I have never felt such confidence in a leader before, unless it be young Artio. You have not only led us safely into Cynric’s fortress but we stand yards from Cynric himself.”

  Myrddin laid a hand momentarily on his shoulder.

  “Then let us not waste time.”

  He sheathed his weapon and climbed out on the ledge. It was twelve inches in width and to move along it one had to stand, back to the wall, and ease along. The wind whispered and whipped at his clothing and hair. It was Myrddin’s gift that he had never known a fear of heights, even as a small boy when the Venerable Fychan used to take him up to the inaccessible mountain peaks of the west, the better they might commune with the ancient powers and the gods and goddesses which peopled the purple peaks of the Gwynedd.

  He moved cautiously only because moss and other growths made the ledge a little slippery.

  He paused when they came to a window and listened for a moment, wondering if anyone was in that room. There was a silence and so he moved on. A second window and a second room was passed. Thankfully, these were also empty.

  Myrddin heard a sudden gasp to his right, a scrabbling noise and the falling of stones. He turned his head, fearing the worst.

  Indeed, Cadell, following him, was hanging by one hand on the ledge. Carannog was not far away and even as Myrddin looked, the man had sprung into the room over the window ledge and was reaching out to drag Cadell by the one arm upwards and into it safely. Had Cadell slipped in any other position along the ledge there would have been no way that Carannog could have aided him.

  Myrddin let out a sigh of relief as he saw Cadell’s legs disappear over the ledge into the room.

  He eased himself back to the spot and followed.

  Cadell was standing trying to recover his breath, panting as he realized just how close to death he had been.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  Myrddin did not respond.

  “I think Cynric is in the next chamber,” he said, “But it might be hard to surprise him coming in from the window.”

  He saw Carannog grin and he raised his eyebrow in silent interrogation. The warrior pointed.

  “Then why not use a door?” whispered the warrior.

  Myrddin turned towards the wall that he had indicated.

  Indeed, there was a wooden door separating this chamber from the next one. Myrddin realized that this was probably Cynric’s sleeping chamber for there was a richly tapestried bed in one corner and a few other items of furniture as well as rugs which indicated what use the room was put to.

  Myrddin went to the door and pressed his ear against it. The door was of thick oak and while he could hear voices rising and falling he could make no sense of the words.

  He glanced down at the iron ring which secured the latch, gave a warning glance to the others and then carefully turned it. It turned silently and he gently drew it open a fraction.

  So concentrating was he on opening the door without noise that he let the latch fall with a clatter.

  It seemed an eternity in which there was a deathly silence in the room beyond.

  Everyone must have heard the door being opened.

  Then there was shouting. A door crashed open in the room beyond.

  “My lord, my lord, we have cornered a band of armed slaves by the gates!”

  “Slaves?”

  “Yes, lord. Who else could they be but slaves in revolt? But we have them. They are not a large force.”

  Myrddin gave a startled glance to Cadell and Carannog.

  Artio and his party must have been discovered and mistaken for rebellious slaves. He felt the urge to run to their aid. But it was each man to his own task. Artio had said so.

  “Send the guards there and disarm them,” cried a voice. “I do not want them killed. Bring them to me. How can my fortress be threatened by armed slaves? I shall want explanations. The commander of my guards will suffer for this indignity to my honour!”

  Cynric’s voice was almost hysterical with rage.

  “Yes, lord! The girl, lord? Shall we take her back to her dungeon?”

  “No! I am man enough for a girl. Go, go quickly and rouse all the guards! Let no one escape and let no one be killed. They say all die slowly! Go! Go!”

  The door beyond slammed.

  Myrddin was unable to believe the service which Artio had unwittingly paid him.

  “Now, you stubborn bitch,” Cynric was saying, “my patience is at an end. You have spent several days in my dungeons refusing food. The choice whether you now live or die is yours. I offer you the honour to be my concubine and you spit at me. Either you come willingly to my bed or I shall turn you over to the male slaves to occupy themselves with. Speak!”

  Drawing his sword, Myrddin motioned to the others and they pushed into the room.

  In a split second Myrddin’s eye took in the entire scene.

  This was undoubtedly the reception room of Cynric of the West Saxons. Cynric believed in pampering himself. Soft draperies covered the walls, and fine upholstered chairs and couches graced the rug-strewn room. A fire blazed in a hearth before which, sprawled on a rug on the floor, was the figure of Gwendoloena.

  A man stood above her, feet astride, hands on hips. He held a short whip in his hand and had obviously been ill-treating her. It was Cynric.

  Now he glanced up in surprise as Myrddin and his comrades entered; his mouth opened, but Myrddin simply presented the point of his sword towards his throat and the cry for help was stillborn.

&n
bsp; “Cadell, secure the door. Carannog, stay by the other one.”

  Gwendoloena raised her head at the sound of his voice and a mixture of expressions chased each other across her features.

  “Myrddin!”

  Myrddin reached down with one arm and drew the girl to him. She did not resist the intimacy of his embrace but clung joyously to him.

  “Thanks be, you have come!”

  “So?” There was a sneer in the Saxon’s voice. “We meet again, Myrddin. You are, indeed, a skilful enemy. How came you here?”

  He did not seem alarmed, merely surprised. Cynric was confident in his own fortress.

  “Easy enough.” Myrddin’s smile held no mirth. “Has he abused your honour, Gwendoloena?”

  The girl blushed but shook her head.

  “Thanks be, no. But he has harmed my dignity right enough. Him and that Centwine . . .”

  “Have no fear of Centwine,” interrupted Myrddin. “He is already dead.”

  Cynric’s eyes widened, for the first time there was a tinge of fear in them.

  “You have murdered Centwine?” he breathed as if unable to believe his ears.

  “I objected to Centwine holding a knife at my throat. So I slew him. There was also the matter of his branding iron to take into account.”

  Cynric glanced around quickly as if expecting his guards to come to his aid.

  “You will never get out of this fortress alive, Briton.”

  “As we entered it, so shall we exit,” Myrddin assured him without humour.

  “We should hurry, Myrddin,” warned Carannog. “His guards may come back any moment.”

  “Indeed, and when they do we will use you as a roast upon the spit,” threatened Cynric.

  “We must do as Artio planned as well as rescue the girl,” Cadell said. “Let me do this, Myrddin.”

  Myrddin bit his lip. He had little stomach for it. Yet he had promised Artio.

  “No, it is my responsibility.”

  He motioned to Cadell to take the trembling girl from him.

  Cynric was watching Myrddin’s eyes and read what was in his mind.

  With a wild cry like an animal, he leapt across the room and seized a lance from the wall, whirling it over his head so that Myrddin was forced to back away.