“What are your thoughts?” he asked the men.
“I say we do something. Like drop it in the marsh,” Dybris said, “but Owain thinks I’m hopeless.”
Merlin’s father slapped the table. “I never said that.”
“Both of you, wait,” Merlin said. “On our own this cause is hopeless. But if we had help, we might destroy the Stone.”
“But who would help?” his father said. “All I want to do is save Mônda and Ganieda.”
Merlin put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “We can do both, Tas. What if the High King’s men planned to attack the druidow tonight?”
“Shah, then,” his father whispered. “You’re telling us something you shouldn’t.”
Dybris clapped his hands. “That means we’re free. If Uther attacks, we need only wait.”
Merlin sighed. “I wish it were so. Vortigern arranged it so he leads, while Uther guards his family.”
“Do you lack confidence in him?” Dybris asked. “Surely the High King’s battle chief —”
“Vortigern can’t be trusted,” Natalenya interrupted, and her words were woven with fear. “I overheard him speaking with my father, and I doubt his loyalty to Uther.”
Merlin took stock of this new information, confirming his own suspicions. “The truth is this: we can’t rely on Vortigern to destroy the Stone. So we need a second plan.”
Merlin’s father slid his bench closer to the table. “What do you suggest?”
“You and Dybris should go to the circle of stones, and as soon as Vortigern scatters the druidow, steal the Stone in the confusion. Then we four will destroy it. We must act now, or we’ll forfeit the chance. It wants to enslave us all … or kill us if it cannot.”
Dybris made a humming sound, as if in thought. “And if Vortigern doesn’t show? If you can’t trust him —”
“In that case, we’ll have to figure something else out.”
“And how will we take it away?” Owain asked.
“We can cover it,” Dybris said, “with the same skins they use. That way we won’t see it or touch it.”
“And Merlin and I can bring your wagon,” Natalenya said, “and wait for you.”
“Let’s not forget Kapall,” Merlin’s father said. “He’s still limping. I doubt he could hobble that far.”
Merlin sighed. “We’ll need to find another horse to pull the wagon. Can we trust Allun? His mule would be perfect if he doesn’t need it for milling tonight.”
“Sure,” Dybris said. “I’ve spoken with him recently, and if there’s anyone besides Troslam who has his head on straight —”
“Do you think he’d let us?” Natalenya asked.
Owain leaned back and tapped the wall. “I’m sure he would.”
“What worries me,” Dybris added, “is how to avoid getting caught.”
Everyone sat in silence. The druids guarded the Stone, and it would be difficult to get close without being discovered. To take it away would be even more difficult.
“What if you disguised yourselves?” Natalenya asked.
Dybris laughed. “To look like druidow? What would Crogen say?”
“And how to you propose we pull that off?” Owain asked. “You want us to cut blue scars on our arms? Without those, we’d be dead. We couldn’t even wear long sleeves, because they don’t hide their scars.”
“It’ll be dark … What if you painted them on?” Merlin said. “Surely Troslam and Safrowana have blue dye.”
His father got up and paced. “Sure, and we’ll learn the secret druid talk in the next hour too —”
“We have to do something, Tas!”
“And what if Vortigern takes us for real druidow? I don’t want a sword through my neck.”
Dybris patted his partially bald head. “I’ll just show my tonsure and vouch for you. No worries.”
“If you think you’re gong to save me with your bald spot, I have plenty of worries.”
“The plan isn’t perfect, Owain, but I can’t think of anything better. We’ll go to Troslam’s to dye our arms while Merlin and Natalenya borrow the miller’s mule. Let’s try.”
Merlin’s father resumed his pacing.
Just as Merlin prepared to speak again, a twig cracked outside the window on the other side of the house. His father ran, knocking his shin on a stool. He slammed open the door and sprinted outside, Dybris close behind.
Someone yelled, and then silence. After awhile the two men trudged back inside, and Merlin’s father swore. “Slipped in the mud and let him get away.”
“Was someone spying on us?” Natalenya asked.
“Yes.” Owain pulled off his mud-slicked tunic.
“He must be fast,” Dybris said. “I didn’t even see him run into the woods.”
Merlin took the tunic and laid it near the hearth. “Who would eavesdrop on us?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t see very well either time, but he was wearing brown. Maybe a monk …”
Natalenya took hold of Merlin’s arm. “A monk? Why would a monk spy on us, and how much did he hear?”
Dybris sat down, and his bench squeaked like his voice. “I can’t answer that. I can’t answer that. Let’s pray.”
As the druidow finished their evening meal, Mórganthu and one other druid passed like dappled shadows through the gray-skinned trees until they arrived at the glade where the circle of stones lay. Mórganthu paused, gazed at the Stone, and wrinkled his brow deeply.
The druid tapped him on the arm, but Mórganthu slapped his hand away.
“Ard dre, you have not answered me yet. We are ready now for the wicker fires of Beltayne. Shall I proceed with your plan?”
With a crooked finger, Mórganthu wiped a tear from his cheek. “Yes, yes. So sorry for my silence. Gather half our number, and do not stray from my words.”
The druid nodded, then headed back the way he had come.
Striding from the eastern side of the field, Mórganthu stopped six feet from the Stone and glanced around to verify his solitude. Then, jingling his wand of seashells, he circled the Stone southwise to follow the course of the sun. His gaze was always fixed upon the Stone, and he chanted in the druid tongue.
After passing five times around the Stone, he stopped, pulled a fish from a bag, and set it on the Stone. Then he knelt. “O great Belornos, I give you this offering and beseech thy counsel. Allow me to approach thy Stone of Abundance!”
A blue flame emanated from the Stone, engulfed the fish, and consumed it.
Mórganthu crawled forward until only inches separated his hands from the Stone. “O Stone of Abundance, I ask to touch thee and receive the counsel of Belornos!”
The blue light radiated even more brightly before him.
Mórganthu closed his eyes and carefully placed a hand on each side of the Stone, where they immediately stuck as if frozen. He chanted again, but the words slurred as his mind faded into the flames.
The blue glow pulsed, and Mórganthu jerked his head up, eyes wide and pupils dilated.
“That is not the agreement I made with him,” he yelled.
Instantly a few flames burst from the top of the Stone.
Mórganthu cried out until they faded.
“I will perform part of thy command. They will all be killed, but not her. That was the bargain!”
Flames burst forth again, and Mórganthu shrieked. When they subsided and he could breathe again, he asked, “You, you would make me break my potent oath to such a man of consequence?”
The flames leaped even higher, and Mórganthu screamed. “Mercy! Mercy, please, I relent. As you command, O Voice, they will all die!”
Flashing blue fire exploded from the Stone, scalding Mórganthu’s hands and nearly igniting his hair before flinging him onto his back.
Garth dashed from the woods, knelt beside Mórganthu, and cradled his head. The boy flicked away blue cinders that burned in Mórganthu’s hair.
“Ard Dre, are you all right?”
Mórganthu groan
ed and tried to sit up. He would have failed if Garth’s hands hadn’t been there for support. “My son. My only son, you are here …”
“Sorry to disturb you, but as I get no midmeal, which is right cruel in my ‘pinion, I was sent to say he wants to see you.”
Mórganthu blew on his bleeding hands. “Who?”
“The warrior wearin’ black an’ such —”
“What? What is his name?”
Garth rubbed his stomach. “He’d have come himself, but he’s stuffin’ his cheeks with loaves an’ chicken. I asked him for a bite, but he —”
Mórganthu struck Garth across the face, leaving a red welt. “What is his name, you fool!”
Garth yelped and jumped away. “An Eirish warrior. McGoss.”
“Help me … Help me to stand.”
Garth drew near to support the arch druid as he found his balance but flinched when Mórganthu’s hands reached out to him.
“Belornos told me I would need him for this task, and he already comes?”
“What did you say, Ard Dre?”
“Nothing. Nothing! Ignore an old man’s wandering tongue. Now fetch him. Tell McGoss I am ready.”
As Garth ran off, Mórganthu called after him. “And when you have told him, be a kind son and bring the long rope from my tent.”
That sea rat McGoss! I don’t even get a bite o’ food for runnin’ his message, and the brute twists my ear purple until I promise not to tell anyone about his secret meetin’ with Mórganthu. Garth’s left ear felt twice the size of the other.
And he still had to get the rope for Mórganthu. Then he could hide from those evil eyeballs of the druid wives.
His stomach growled as he unstrung the flap to Mórganthu’s tent, a place forbidden to him ever since he’d joined the druidow. But Garth knew special delicacies lay inside. After the previous evening’s meal, Mórganthu had brought out a small barrel of dried strawberries and passed them around to his inner circle. Did poor starving Garth have a sweet strawberry plopped into his mouth? Not even one sliver.
As he stepped into the warm tent, he peeked out at all the druidow sitting beyond the campfires laughing and talking. Garth grinned as he tied the flap closed again, his stomach near to rolling in anticipation.
As he turned around, his gaze was drawn to the drooping tent’s ceiling. There hung hundreds of bones, each etched with the same kinds of lines Garth had seen on a few of the standing stones around the circle. One of the druidow had told him the writing was called ogham, but he didn’t understand a lick of it. Some of the bones were old and gray, while others were yellow with pink ends where flesh had been cleaned off.
A wind blew over the tent, causing its cloth roof to wave and sending the bones clinking into each other. Garth stuffed his thumbs in his ears and ducked toward the center of the tent, only to run into the head of a white bull and its rolled-up hide. The dark eye sockets glared at him, and the sharpened horns pointed at his throat like daggers.
Recoiling from the bull, he found the pile of rope on the right side of the tent, which he’d bring to Mórganthu soon enough. For now, he ran to a wooden chair at the back of the tent, behind which sat a number of barrels. The chair itself was carved with fanged, winged, and scaled beasts. One of them was a snake with horns.
Pulling his gaze away, Garth reached for the largest barrel and pulled off the lid. Inside he found nothing but wooden stakes and scraps of torn tent cloth. Opening the next largest, he discovered it to be empty except for a smattering of dried oats in the bottom.
Kneeling down, he picked up a smaller barrel and felt its weight. Garth smiled. This one must have the strawberries!
He opened the lid, and a terrible smell belched from the barrel. He wanted to close it immediately, but he wondered if some strawberries had gone bad. Waving the lid made the smell dissipate a little, so he peeked inside. He was surprised to see a white-haired animal skin on top. More of the bull’s hide? Reaching in, he took hold of the hairs and pulled it out.
And then Garth screamed.
CHAPTER 29
THE SECRETS OF THE TOWER
Uther picked Myrgwen up and placed her in the boat next to Colvarth. Oh, how she’d grown. Just last harvest he could still throw her in the air and catch her, to her squeals of delight. But since he’d returned from his military campaign, he realized the days were numbered for such play.
Igerna smiled at him as he passed her a basket of food. She sat there in the back of the boat next to Eilyne — they were both so pretty. Arthur sat between them. Uther couldn’t have been more proud of his son. What a warrior he’ll make! Descended from two High Kings, he would grow wise and proud. Uther looked forward to teaching him how to fight and how to lead.
Finally ready, Uther was about to push the boat out into the water when Vortigern walked down to the bank and held out a draught skin.
“Here,” the battle chief said. “The last and best mead. Caught Rewan sipping it and thought you could … enjoy it while you’re on the island.”
“My gratitude!” Uther smiled as he tucked the skin under his arm. It would do him good against the chill. “And do not forget. After you scatter the druidow, take the Stone to the fortress and occupy it. I want Tregeagle powerless in the morning.”
“Already planned. What will you do with him?”
“Evict him. He can lick the chunks of his broken Stone for all I care.”
Vortigern clucked his tongue. “Eeh. He won’t like that.”
“I don’t care. That fool of a magister is lucky to still have his neck.”
“True.”
“We’ll stay on the island till morning, but have Sydnius row over with word of your success. I’ll be glad when this is over.”
Vortigern rubbed his hands together. “Ah, let me push you.”
Uther climbed into the boat, and Vortigern shoved the prow away from the boggy shore. As the craft floated off into the marsh, Uther took a sip of mead and watched his battle chief ascend the bank to the join his already-mounted men.
“Good-bye, brother,” Igerna shouted. “May God fill your horn with every blessing!”
But Vortigern must not have heard, for he didn’t turn or wave.
Garth sat, shaking and staring into the face of a man’s cut-off head. He began to scream again, but at the last moment muffled it with his sleeve. He didn’t want to be discovered going through Mórganthu’s things. Because no matter how much he wanted to drop the head, his fingers wouldn’t let go.
And he recognized the face. Old Trothek!
On the man’s right cheek lay the same large mole Garth remembered. And even with his face puffed hideously green, his beard cut short, and his jaw slack, the man’s identity was clear.
Trothek had opposed Mórganthu, true, but he had seemed kind, even caring. Why would Mórganthu have his head in a barrel? Had the arch druid killed him?
Garth despised that evil High King for cutting off Anviv’s head. Didn’t this make Mórganthu evil too? Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.
The wind blew again, and the bones noosed to the tent roof jangled their ominous music. Garth’s hand shook, and he almost vomited as he set the head back in the barrel.
Good-bye, Trothek.
No sooner was the top in place when a voice called outside the tent.
He chucked the barrel behind the chair, swabbed his hand on the grass, and ran to the rope. Flinging himself under the side of the tent at the back, he yanked out the coil of rope and tried to make himself as small as possible.
“Who’s there? Who be shouting?” the voice called again from the other side of the tent.
Garth saw the fabric quiver, but then he realized the man was walking around the tent. Garth froze. The dark shape loomed near the corner. All Garth could think of was his own head in a barrel, and he fainted.
Bedwir kicked his horse in the flanks to catch up to Vortigern.
As the most recent war chieftain chosen by Uther, he calculated the risk of angering Vortige
rn by questioning the man’s obedience. Bedwir could lose his position, even his place as a warrior. Maybe even his life.
He’d seen how Vortigern punished those who had crossed him. But how could he ignore the High King’s clear command? Deal with the druidow and then destroy the Stone, they’d been told. So why did Vortigern skirt around the mountain and head to Bosventor? The druidow weren’t in the village tonight.
Finally reining up near the battle chief, Bedwir shouted, “Vortigern! Sydnius says the druid camp is across the stream. Where are we going?”
“To the Tor. Uther said we take the Tor first.”
“What?”
“We’ll leave the horses there!” Vortigern shouted. “You think we can sneak up on the druidow riding horses?”
“Who said we should sneak up on them?”
Vortigern pulled his sword and chunked out a small chip of wood from Bedwir’s shield. “No more questions.”
Bedwir fell back, swallowed his anger, and checked his damaged shield.
Riding up the long path through Bosventor, the warriors approached Tregeagle’s house. The magister had just climbed into his wagon while his wife stood at the door of their house instructing a servant. Vortigern rode ahead, had a quiet word with the magister, and pointed to the fortress on the hill.
Tregeagle pointed as well, a sly smile on his face.
A few more words were exchanged, and then the magister squinted, nodded at Vortigern, and called his wife to join him.
Vortigern backed his horse up and looked at his men.
What is Vortigern’s game? Bedwir knew Uther planned on ridding the village of Tregeagle in the morning, so why engage the traitor in friendly banter? He wished he’d been there the night before and met Tregeagle himself.
Bedwir and his men rode their horses to the side of the path, allowing the magister to thunder past with an impenetrable look on his face.
Vortigern raised his arm, and the men followed him up to the fortress, where a guard stood by the open gate.
From where Bedwir sat on his horse, two-thirds down the line, he saw Vortigern dismount and speak with the guard, who stood up as tall as he could and thumped the ground with his spear. They appeared to be arguing fiercely.
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