In this step Merlin sat on a stool near a small grinding wheel. He spun the wooden handle by hand while his father guided the blade, dipping it in water every so often to cool it. This step revealed how excellent his father’s hammering was, as very little excess metal needed to be removed. Two different grindstones were used, the second one finer and flatter. After this his father smoothed the blade by hand with two small, flat rocks, one limestone and the other agate.
“Only one small spot where my hammer mark shows, but in spite of that, it’s one of my best swords.”
“May I hold it?” Merlin asked.
His father gave him the long, round tang. Even though the blade wasn’t fully sharp, it was still dangerous, as the wolf discovered when Merlin killed it. He held the sword carefully and felt its heft, smooth metal, and bevels. “Beautiful.”
“Now for the hardening. Bluster them bellows, and we’ll be done in no time.” His father put the blade back into the coals and pulled out three glowing pokers, which he had placed there earlier. The familiar hissing sound filled the room as the pokers were pushed into the slim barrel of quenchant to warm it in preparation for the blade. His father used a recipe for the hardening quenchant passed on secretly by Elowek: sheep fat mixed with beeswax, salt, and snake blood.
When the blade had been heating for a while, his father asked him, “Would you get the hardening stone? It’s about time to test the blade.”
Merlin let go of the bellows and turned to the stone wall behind him. Feeling with his hands, he found a small, squarish rock about waist level. Working it out of its hole, he reached into the crevice, grabbed the wire inside, and pulled out a small metallic stone threaded onto it. Here was their secret lodestone, which his father employed to judge the proper time of quenching so the blade would be as strong as possible. This was another trick Elowek had taught them.
The lodestone was a miracle in that it was attracted to the iron like a thirsty horse to water. And only when the blade was at its perfect heat did the lodestone stop being drawn to the metal. Elowek had bought it at great price from a blacksmith in Lundnisow, and Merlin was never allowed to take it out without his father’s permission.
Merlin handed the lodestone to his father, found the bellows again, and resumed lifting, pressing down, lifting, pressing down until his father called to him.
“We’re ready. The lodestone says the quenching should happen now.”
Merlin backed up against the wall and waited, because this step was dangerous to both the blade and anyone standing nearby. Once, flaming grease had exploded from the barrel and caught his shirt on fire. He never forgot the burn or the word-whipping from his father.
And sometimes a blade would crack or bend beyond repair. His father suspected either uneven heating prior to putting it in the fat or an inner fault of the iron, which was shipped in from Brythanvy especially for their swordsmithing. Merlin remembered that once a blade had shattered into eight pieces when quenched. Holding his breath, he sent a prayer to heaven on his father’s behalf.
“Here we go …”
A great sizzling and a smear of flames shot out of the darkness of the barrel. Bitter smoke of burnt fat and wax swirled around Merlin. After several moments, the flames died down, and his father pulled the blade from the barrel for a quick inspection before returning it to the fat. “Perfect. No cracks. No warping,” After a longer wait, his father tested the hardness of the blade with a file, and then whooped. “Done!”
“Before we temper it, can you tell me what happened to Mother in Atle’s sinking boat?”
His father sighed, set the sword down, and pulled his stool close to Merlin. “The tide headed out as I watched from some brambles. To save her I left my sword and armor behind, and, with only my dagger for protection, I ran out past the warriors and dove into the waves.”
“Didn’t Atle and his men try to stop you?”
“In those days I was a fast swimmer,” Owain said.
Merlin could hear the pride in his voice. It made him proud too, to imagine his tas speeding through the water to save the woman he loved.
“By the time they retrieved their bows, I had swum too far away, and they didn’t have any boats nearby. I climbed in, unbound your mother, plugged the leak as best I could, and she and I both bailed. We had neither oars nor sail, so we drifted for two days.”
“Atle didn’t come after you?”
“Yes, he did, but a fog rose on the water. His men searched for hours, rowing and sailing back and forth. Sometimes they were so close we could hear their oars strike the water — but they didn’t find us. It was a tense time, but we eventually escaped and struck land. We came upon an abbey, and a good monk gave us shelter.”
His father paused, and the light of the forge lit up his eyes. “We were married … sweet Gwev and I. Yes, we were married … and lived there in hiding for a year. You were born in that abbey.”
“Now I understand why you fled south, to Kernow,” Merlin said.
“We couldn’t stay near Atle, and I couldn’t show my face to Uther or my father. So you’re right. Kernow was as far away as we could get without going to the Eirish lands of Lyhonesse.”
Merlin looked toward his father with awe. “You saved her. You —”
“No! I just postponed her death. I … I failed her. At the lake, she …” He broke down and fell to his knees. “Dear God.”
Merlin wrapped his arms around his father’s heaving chest. “I know, Tas. God showed me in a vision. You did your best. It was the Druid Stone that killed her. The Stone, do you hear? It was at the bottom of the lake.”
His father became still. “The Stone?”
“Yes.”
Owain roared as he rose, breaking Merlin’s grip. “We must stop this. Mônda and Ganieda are still there, worshiping it. We’ve got to get them away from it.”
“But Tas, she tried to have you killed.”
“No, she just doesn’t want me to leave her. And by God’s strong arm, I won’t!”
“Tas, you need to leave her. She’s Mórganthu’s daughter, and she’ll never change. Save Ganieda, sure, but with Mônda it’s hopeless —”
“Drop such talk. I have to try. Once when you were young, Mórganthu tried to convince Mônda to sacrifice her life and blood to these pagan gods, and I stopped it. I can’t abandon her now, and I won’t fail her like I failed your mother. Get your staff. We’re going.”
“But the sword —”
“We’ll finish it when we return. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 20
THE ARCH DRUID
It comforted Merlin to have his father lead him as they walked through the darkness to the village green. And through that slight touch on his father’s shoulder, Merlin sensed some excitement in Owain’s stride. The indecision was gone. Even if Merlin didn’t think Mônda would leave the druidow, he was happy his father wanted to try. And his father was proof that a person could be transformed. Who knew what God would do?
The bright smear of a bonfire appeared to his right, and voices drifted across the field.
“I don’t know what everyone is doing at this hour,” his father said. “I thought it would be quiet.”
“Do you see Mórganthu?”
“Too many people around the Stone to tell, but I would guess he’s here. The monks are just inside the gate. Let’s head in their direction.”
Merlin followed a step behind as they passed through the wooden gate. As they approached, his father hailed Dybris and explained how he had regained his faith.
“That gives me strength … for my task tonight,” Dybris said. His tone was cheerful, but with a hint of apprehension, and he proceeded to explain how he’d come up with a plan to Christianize the Druid Stone.
The more Merlin heard, the more alarmed he became. He reached out to Dybris, found his shoulders, and gripped them tightly. “You mustn’t try it!”
Dybris stiffened. “I’m not afraid.”
“There’s something deeper I don�
�t understand about the Stone. It’s evil.”
“How do you know?” Dybris asked, breaking Merlin’s grip from his robe.
“I’ve touched it. You must trust me when I say your plan is reckless.”
“Don’t you care about Garth? The others?”
Merlin’s face grew hot. “My back is still sore from my flogging. Don’t tell me —”
Someone stepped in between them. “Peace, Merlin … I think our enemy will bury us all if we don’t stick together.”
Merlin steadied his breathing and turned toward the voice. “And who is this?”
“Crogen, our new abbot,” Dybris said.
“May God bless your leadership,” Merlin said, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead.
“And may God give us all wisdom tonight.”
But was Dybris’s plan wise? Merlin weighed it in his mind, and it continued to gnaw at him. When he had touched the Stone by accident, he’d encountered a depth of evil and darkness he hadn’t known was possible. The Voice’s words still echoed in his memory. What would the Stone do to Dybris? Prontwon certainly hadn’t foreseen its power.
“Dybris?” Merlin asked. “Since you are firm in your decision, who is going with you?”
“No one.”
Crogen cleared his throat. “This is Dybris’s plan, and his alone. The others are more careful of the Stone’s power. And from what you say, rightfully so. As their abbot, I will stay with them, and we will pray.”
Merlin took a deep breath and looked at Dybris. “Then I’ll go with you.”
“What? You’re against this.”
“Even if it’s dangerous, you shouldn’t go without support.”
“But there’s no need. You couldn’t —”
“Help? My blindness is exactly why I want to come. I can’t see the Stone, and that makes me safe from its enchantment. You might need someone like that helping you.”
Owain took Merlin’s right hand. “Are you sure about this? I need to find Mônda. I had hoped you’d come with me. Help me know what to say.”
“Come with us, Tas. We’ll find her afterward, together.”
“I don’t dare.” His father’s voice quavered. “The Stone’s hold over me is still too fresh. Go with Dybris, and I’ll find Mônda. With the bonds broken, I’m strong enough for that.”
Shouting rose from the crowd across the field, and Merlin listened carefully. “What’s happening?”
“It’s Tregeagle,” Merlin’s father said. “He’s laughing as he walks from the Stone, and he’s holding a gold platter the size of two horseshoes.”
“Who are the warriors?” Crogen asked. “The High King’s men?”
Dybris pointed. “The tall one there that Tregeagle’s talking to is Vortigern —”
“I guess battle chieftains must be grim,” Crogen said. “But Tregeagle giddy? Never witnessed such from him.”
Dybris stepped forward. “I shouldn’t delay. Merlin, are you sure you want to come?”
Merlin paused. Was he sure? Like large black spiders, revulsion for the Stone crept up his legs. He wished he could forget the Stone and these people. He and his father could move away and start a blacksmith shop somewhere else. What had these people done that he should risk his life for them? Look how well that had turned out with Garth.
He wanted to refuse. The words were on the tip of his tongue. But all around the pasture, the druidow began chanting, then the voices of the villagers joined in. And the drums beat.
Merlin could feel it. Change. Change that would sweep across Britain, erase the name of Christ from the people’s memory, and bring suffering and bondage in its wake. There was nowhere to run. Bosventor was the place this unholy fire could be stamped out, and he might be the only one who could confront its flames.
So did Dybris’s plan have any hope?
Very little, Merlin guessed. Yet even a sputtering candle stub of hope was better than none. If the plan failed, then their actions would still make a statement. And for that alone, Merlin would take the risk.
He cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Yes, I’m certain now.”
Owain watched Dybris and his son walk off in the direction of the crowd. How had Merlin grown so much? One day he was no higher than Owain’s belt, and the next he was a man. How many years had they lost in between? True, they’d worked together all that time, but Owain had pushed his son away on every level. Now he understood part of the reason, and he determined not to let the precious time they had left slip from his hand.
As Merlin and Dybris approached the outer edge of the mob that worshiped the Stone, Owain longed to rush after his son and support him. Yet he dared not go near the Stone — at least not yet — for its memory still burned in his mind.
He turned away. He needed to find Mônda. But anger toward her flared up in his heart like buried coals exposed to the air. Mônda had kept his spirit tied up — away from God — and as Merlin said, she had immediately run to her father’s side. Didn’t she deserve her fate?
But something nudged his heart. He had been guilty too. He’d pushed God away ever since Gwevian had drowned and so had made his heart ripe for Mônda’s plucking. Did he deserve God’s love?
Owain thrust his anger away. He had been given a second chance, and his shame was consumed in the heat of that love. God’s love. Merlin’s love. Now it was his turn to reach out.
Sending up a short prayer that he’d find Mônda at some distance from the Stone, he circled the throng and watched for someone with the dark, flowing hair of his wife, being vigilant to avoid any sight of the blue flames.
Passing by Uther’s warriors, he overheard Tregeagle and Vortigern talking.
“Did you ever see the like?” Tregeagle boasted. “This plate was tin! Made right here on the moor. But see it glitter now.”
Instead of answering, Vortigern sniffed the air through his moustache and turned to face the Stone. His eyes became glassy, and a leer spread across his face.
Owain turned away lest his own gaze be drawn toward the Stone.
He walked past the two men and saw Mônda standing near the back of the crowd. He called, but she didn’t answer. He stepped next to her and gulped at his mistake. This was some black-haired druid wife, toothless and dour. Her arms and face bore many scars, proof she’d partaken in many rituals. Owain shuddered as he realized this could be Mônda’s fate, or worse, if he failed to bring her back.
As he strode away, someone tapped on his arm.
He spun but immediately dropped his defensive stance. My Ganieda! She looked up at him, her pretty nine-year-old eyes filled with fear. “Mammu is sick. She’s over by the meeting house. Please hurry!” She turned and sped away.
Owain sprinted after her as she ran to the south edge of the pasture. She darted past a small cluster of men and approached a campfire that had collapsed into embers. There Owain found his wife sleeping fitfully on a bed of dried grass. Her face was pale. Too pale. He bent down and felt a burning fever on her forehead. “Mônda, it’s me … Owain.”
She opened her eyes halfway. “Wha’?”
“I’m here.”
She turned her head, and her hair fell near a live coal that had tumbled from the fire. “Owain?” she sputtered.
He scooped her hair back and flicked the coal away. “I came to take care of you.”
“It hurts.” She pulled up her left sleeve, and the skin was bloody where her covenant band had circled her arm. Pus wept from the sores.
Merlin held on to Dybris as they stepped through the now chanting crowd. How the villagers had learned this gibberish, Merlin could only guess.
Reaching behind him, Dybris handed Merlin a bag. “Can you carry this and hand it to me when I tap you?”
“Sure. Let me put my hand on your shoulder so we don’t get separated. Is it much farther?”
“Twenty paces.”
Merlin took a few careful steps. “Is Mórganthu near the Stone?”
“No.”
M
erlin peeked past Dybris, and a blur of blue light shone from inside the Stone. “If possible, don’t look at it,” Merlin said.
“I’ll try not to.”
“And don’t touch it.”
“I won’t.”
“And —”
“Shah! We’re almost there.”
Someone stepped in front of them. “Halt! Why do you approach the Druid Stone?”
“We come to worship,” Dybris answered.
“A monk? Do you think I’m a fool?”
“We’re here to worship. Let us pass! Are not all welcome?”
The man paused, then shrugged his shoulders and waved them on.
“I didn’t say whom I was going to worship,” Dybris whispered as they stepped closer. “We’re before it now. Let’s bow and pray to our God. I won’t look until I have to.”
Merlin dropped down and kept his eyes shut so he wouldn’t see even a glimmer of the Stone’s fire. Alternating waves of heat and cold flowed through the ground under his knees, and he realized with rising panic how close the Stone lay. Remembering his last encounter, he brought his hand to the back of his neck and prayed for Dybris.
He also prayed that Garth and the villagers would have their eyes opened. That God’s Spirit would halt the mockery of the Stone. That Christ would be exalted.
Dybris double-tapped on Merlin’s knee.
Unstringing the bag he’d been given, Merlin reached in and drew forth a sealed ceramic pot and placed it, cool and heavy, in Dybris’s waiting hand. Next he pulled out a brush with a short wooden handle and passed that forward as well.
Standing on the outside of the circle near the drummers, Mórganthu spied a monk and Merlin wending their way through the crowd toward the Stone. Whatever that boy is planning, he shall pay dearly for the attempt.
Garth tugged at Mórganthu’s robe. “I’m all done with stackin’ firewood, Ard Dre. Am I free now?”
“More. More wood.” Mórganthu reached out to push Garth’s insistent hand away, but he missed as his gaze followed the two intruders.
“But Ard Dre, I’ve already gotten enough. The pile’s a great heap!”
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