Then three things happened at once.
First, panic set in among the villagers and druidow. The guardians next to the wicker cages ran to join the battle, but not before dropping their torches into the tinder. The flames ignited the wood and began to spread.
Second, Vortigern attacked Mórganthu, who picked up the sword of the High King and fought back. So deft was Vortigern, however, that Mórganthu would have died if not for the arrival of a brightly dressed Eirish warrior. With gray-streaked hair and a long beard covering a silver torc, the warrior swung at Vortigern from the side. Realizing his danger just in time, the battle chief parried the blow and backed away.
Last, a druid in a green cloak and blue tunic appeared at Owain’s side with a long iron blade of good quality. Owain’s body tensed as the sword hovered over him.
“Get it over with,” Owain said. “Your dark arts can’t touch my soul.”
“Shah,” the man whispered. “I’m just trying to see the ropes. You want me to free you or not?” He sliced off the cords binding Owain’s arms.
“What are you doing?”
“Cutting your bonds. Name’s Caygek.”
A thrill went through Owain. Freedom!
“Hold still. By Crom, these are tight.”
“You don’t even know who I am …”
“You’re Owain, the village blacksmith, and Merlin’s father. I know that much. And I, like some of the other druidow, know these sacrifices are wrong.”
Owain looked to the wicker cages. The flames had climbed high on one side, while the other smoked and hissed. Dark forms moved nearby. “My son! And the monks — are you freeing them?” he shouted.
“Your son is sitting up over there, and yes, we have water. Now quiet,” Caygek hissed. “You’ll bring death upon us all.”
Owain spotted Merlin near a large rock. To Owain’s joy, his son stood up shakily and began to make his way toward the Stone — just as another man ran toward them from the crowd, clutching something to his chest.
Owain jerked his head, expecting Mórganthu or one of the robed druidow, but it was Tregeagle. The magister bowed next to Owain and shoved Uther’s body off the Stone. With shaking hands, he spilled hundreds of coins onto its glimmering surface. “Chance to … get … gold. Gold!”
Free at last, Owain thanked Caygek. He got up on one knee and tried to stand, but his limbs felt wooden.
Dybris ran to him through the crowd, dodging warriors who mistook him for a druid. Merlin followed close behind.
“Owain, the Stone!” The monk tore his tunic off and threw it over the top.
Tregeagle yelled.
Owain kicked the magister in the side, sending coins spinning through the air like overweight moths. Tregeagle himself flipped onto the grass beyond the edge of the leather tarp, which was still under the Stone
Owain had wanted to do that for some time. He pulled a Romanstyle blade from the stunned magister, fancy looking but of poor steel, and tucked it into his own belt. Together, he, Dybris, and Merlin unfolded the tarp, hefted the Stone, and took off toward the woods. For its size, Owain had expected the Stone to be heavier, but it swung between them easily, and they made good progress.
As they passed through the first line of trees, a cry arose behind them. Tregeagle stood amid the torches waving his arms and yelling.
“They’ve taken the Stone. Stop them!”
The three dodged under pines as they loped toward the road. Behind them people shouted, and Vortigern’s battle horn sounded.
“Faster! They’re following us,” Dybris called.
“Where will Natalenya be?” Merlin asked.
“The road? I don’t know!”
Natalenya finished hitching Plewin to the An Gof family wagon and then pulled herself up into the seat.
Taking the reins, she called, “Hy-mos!” and the mule began plodding forward at what felt like a snail’s pace. Can’t she go any faster than this?
She snapped the reins harder, and Plewin jolted forward, but the wagon gained little speed. I guess she’s just slow.
As she was passing the village green, Natalenya saw something ahead on the road shimmering. All she could see was a dark shape coming toward her. Then the darkness lifted, and she saw a cloaked man waving at her. He had white hair, and he was holding a harp. Uther’s bard!
“Colvarth!” she called.
The dark figure hobbled toward her. “God be praised, young lady! No time … to explain, but Uther’s been taken, and Arthur … is missing.”
“Taken? By whom?”
“Eirish warriors, I think … sent from Vortigern.”
“But those warriors are bound to Mórganthu.”
Colvarth shook his harp in anger. “In league, then! God … save Uther. But Arthur was taken from them to safety, and I … must find him. They spoke of … a Garth who protected him.”
Natalenya’s heart jumped. “Garth!”
“You know him? Where … is he?”
“If he’s turned away from the druidow, I don’t know where he might be.”
Colvarth’s white hand gripped the side of the wagon. “Can you help me find him? I have the … two daughters of the king hiding in the bushes, and … I must find Arthur and get them all to safety.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no time. Merlin is trying to destroy the Stone and is waiting for me. Troslam, the weaver. He’ll help you … And he can hide the girls.” Natalenya quickly gave the bard directions to their house.
“What does their crennig … look like?”
“It’s the oldest house on the mountain, so the wall around their field is higher than the others, almost a full eight feet tall for protection. If you don’t find help there, go farther down the road until you see the chapel.”
“I go! Whatever breath I … have, I pray.”
Natalenya reached out and grasped the old man’s hand for a moment, and then she was off.
Holding tightly to the leather tarp, Merlin ran as fast as he could without tripping, while the mad shouts drew closer. But his heart was divided, and only necessity had forced him to leave Uther’s body behind. Merlin hadn’t stopped Vortigern, and now Uther had been murdered. Merlin had failed, and with every step he wished he could go back and defend the king once more.
When the trio burst out of the trees and onto the road, Merlin fell to the ground, and this set his head to throbbing again. Owain pulled him up while Dybris straightened the tarp and looked around frantically for the wagon.
“Natalenya’s not here.”
But Merlin heard a faint whinny. “That way,” he called. “Horses!”
Southward they ran down the empty track, full of shadows, with the swinging bulk of the Stone between them.
After turning a bend in the road, Merlin followed along as Owain and Dybris changed their direction.
“The magister’s wagon is here,” Owain said, “and Trevenna’s at the reins.”
With the shouting in the woods growing louder, they dashed toward her.
“Trevenna! We have the Stone!” Dybris called. “We need your wagon to take it away and destroy it.”
But Trevenna was weeping and didn’t seem to hear. Merlin looked back just as the torches of the druidow burst onto the track.
Dybris called once more. “Vortigern has slain the High King! We need your help.”
“Vortigern? Slain the —”
“Yes!”
“Take it. Go!”
They heaved the Stone into the back of the wagon, and Dybris climbed in after it.
Trevenna stepped down and stood helplessly on the side of the road.
“Come with us!” Owain implored as he helped Merlin clamber to the front seat.
“I follow my husband,” she said, and she walked off into the dark forest, away from the oncoming torches.
An arrow whizzed past Merlin’s ear as Owain turned the horses southward, then slapped the reins on their haunches. Off they bolted, but Dybris yelled as a druid grabbed the back of the w
agon and pulled himself over the rail, clunking into the box.
“He has a knife.” Dybris called. “Do something!”
“Take the reins!” Merlin yelled.
“I’ve never driven horses!”
“Then here’s a blade. Take care of him.”
“Me?”
There was no more time for talk as the druid climbed forward and raised his flashing knife toward Owain’s back. Then the wagon hit a hole and lurched to the side. The long steel blade jabbed into the padded wooden seat.
Merlin smashed his elbow back and connected with the druid’s stomach while Dybris tried to wrest the knife from the man’s hand.
But the druid pulled free and raised his knife for another strike.
Owain leaned forward. “Get him!”
“God forgive me!” Dybris called as he plunged Merlin’s dirk into the druid, who screamed and fell backward onto the covered Stone.
The road snaked downhill, and Owain slowed the horses so they could manage the first curve. “Throw him out.”
Dybris hesitated. “I should help him.”
“We need to go faster,” Merlin said, for even with his weak eyesight, he could see the dark woods and hillside floating with scores of torches.
“Not fair … they’re not taking the road.”
Owain gave a short, dry laugh. “What’d you expect? Throw the druid out.”
Merlin climbed to the back and helped Dybris heft the body over the side of the wagon.
“Will we make it?” Merlin asked when he returned to the front.
Owain snapped the reins faster. “If we get to the bridge first. Do I smell smoke?”
At the back of the wagon, a sizzling sound rent the air. Merlin turned and saw the tunic covering the Stone catch fire.
“Y-mo!” Owain shouted and whipped the horses into a frenzy as they descended the hillside for the final run leading to the bridge. Smoke trailed behind, and more flames began to shoot from the Stone.
Merlin gripped the rail. “The wagon’s burning!”
“As long as we make it to the smithy.”
“The smithy?” Dybris asked.
“Where’d you think we were going? We’ve got to break the Stone.”
“But we’re —”
“Hold on, here comes the bridge!”
With a shock, the wagon hit the wooden planks and began vaulting over the bridge. Merlin’s head pounded as the ancient timbers groaned, and one of the wagon’s wooden rear wheels came down with a shattering crack.
The horses pulled the wagon beyond the bridge and a few paces more, but the wheel was broken and sent spokes and splinters flying. They tipped, and the horses plunged to a halt.
Behind them, the hillside swarmed with torches.
Natalenya thrashed the reins until Plewin moved again, as fast as she would go. Eastward Natalenya traveled until she rounded the bend toward the road that led to the ruined abbey. From there she descended toward the stream. Below her, the hillside across the valley was filled with torchlight.
She tightened her grip on the reins. She wanted to turn the wagon and go back, but Merlin was counting on her, so she flogged the mule until the wagon bumped down the slope.
Wait! Was that a bonfire on this side of the bridge? No, it can’t be! It was her father’s wagon on fire, and the horses were running off. Merlin and Dybris were waving at her.
But do they have the Stone? Yes! It was at the center of the flames, and the wagon was broken.
“Natalenya!” Merlin shouted as he and Dybris ripped a board from Tregeagle’s wagon. “We have to get the Stone into your wagon. Circle around and drive Plewin alongside.”
“Where’s Uther?” she called.
Merlin choked out the answer. “Vortigern killed him.”
In shock, Natalenya directed Plewin to circle up to their wagon.
“They’re coming,” Dybris yelled.
Natalenya looked back at the hillside, and a multitude of torch bearers approached, calling to one another as their din grew louder.
Owain ran over to help Merlin lift a sideboard off the magister’s wagon.
“Dybris, we need to lever the Stone over!” Merlin called.
The wagon shook beneath Natalenya, and she smelled burning leather as the Stone rolled into the back. The sounds of shouting grew as Merlin climbed in beside her.
Dybris and Owain dove into the back of the wagon.
“They’re at the bridge. Go!” Owain shouted.
Natalenya snapped the reins.
The mule, chewing grass beside the road, refused to budge.
CHAPTER 35
HAMMER AND STONE
His feet weary and his arms aching, Garth sat down on a rock at the edge of Lake Dosmurtanlin and placed Arthur on his knee.
The child gazed up at him with wide, dark eyes.
Such a quiet kid — he rarely peeped — but Garth could tell what he was thinking just by looking at his stiff lips and upraised eyebrows. “I know yer hungry too. An’ since yer barl’s et up, you must be famished. There’s food back at the druid camp, but you don’t want to go there, oh no!”
Shifting on his rock, he looked out to the misty water. “Aww-wn, Garth! What’ll you do now? No friends. No tuck. Nothin’.”
Arthur’s little hand reached out and pinched Garth’s cheek.
“You sure do that a lot. Why, only last week a grandmum here in Bosventor did just that. Pinched my cheek, she did, an’ called me a Ker-onen! As if I was a crock full o’ honey, I guess.”
Memories interrupted his words — memories of the first time he and Merlin visited her house. Like a distant tune piping over the mountain, the smell of her rich broth with mushrooms, leeks, and lamb filled his head. A soup pot. A friendly fire. Bread baking in a little pan. Rose vines climbing the stones outside of her stout little home. The old lady smiling like he was her long-lost great-grandson. And her big thumb and finger pinching his cheek.
Well … he could do without the pinch.
“Arth, yer onto somethin’! Kyallna was her name! Maybe she has some soup on her hearth! Said I could stop by any time I wanted. Now there’s a real friend!”
Standing up, he pulled little Arthur to his chest and set off with a bounce in his steps toward the mountain. Working his way around the western side, he arrived on the outskirts of the village and hiked to the upper road.
But the town was not as he’d left it. All of Bosventor was silent, and the only sound he heard was the neighing of many horses coming from the Tor. No one was on the road. No one stood at any of the doors. No light could be seen. Even the hearth fires had died.
“Somethin’ odd, Arth.” He walked down the road past empty crennigs that leered at him with dark, weasel-eyed windows.
“Here, this is her place, Arth, but it doesn’t seem like anyone’s home.” He walked down the rosebush-lined path, and his pants caught on a thorn. Freeing himself, he stepped to the door and knocked, but no sound came from within.
“Not home. Now what are we gonna do?”
Then he smelled something more wonderful than roses. And it lingered on the air for just a moment.
“Food on someone’s hearth, an’ no mistake!” Garth stood up tall and sniffed. Not detecting anything, he walked back to the road to get away from the nose-numbing flowers. He cradled Arthur’s head at his shoulder and turned around a few times, inhaling.
“This way.” And off he marched westward. The next house was dark and quiet, but the following crennig’s chimney wafted faint tufts of smoke.
Garth remembered. “Sure, an’ this is the weaver’s house.” Marching up to the door, he rapped on it loudly. “Anyone,” he yelled. “Open up!”
A heavy bar was lifted and the door swung wide.
Garth peered into the darkness and was met by the tip of a spear thrust through the collar of his tunic.
“And who are you?” said a deep voice.
Merlin could only stare at the coming wave of torch-bearing druidow as the mule
snapped up more weeds and chewed.
“Give me the reins!” his father shouted from behind. Natalenya stretched them out, and Owain pulled hard to lift the mule’s head.
But the beast kept crunching her prize.
Pounding feet echoed across the old bridge.
“Get your blades out,” Dybris called.
Merlin bent his head in prayer but had only a moment before sparks from the Stone showered him. It was as if its dark malice knew of his call to God and was trying to stop him.
Numerous embers bored into his neck and hair, and the pain bit deeply even after he brushed them away. He pulled Natalenya down as more flickered past. One flaming cinder landed on the mule, and in terror she dug her hooves into the ground and jolted the wagon forward at such a startling pace that Merlin’s father fell next to the Stone. The last of the sparks blew upon him, and he yelled.
“They’re here,” Dybris shouted. “Owain, get up!”
Running feet beat the ground next to the wagon, and Merlin turned to see the advancing men.
“Keep that mule moving,” Owain shouted.
Some druidow pulled themselves into the wagon, and Merlin drew his dirk to protect Natalenya.
“Don’t wrestle ‘em, Dybris. Throw ‘em out!” Merlin’s father called.
“I’m trying!”
A piercing yell split the night.
“One down!” Merlin’s father called. But his voice became choked. “Dybri —”
“Jesu, help us,” Dybris called.
Frustration rose in Merlin as the confused shadows of his father, Dybris, and the intruders mingled behind him.
A thud, a pounding of feet, and another yelp.
“He was one of Vortigern’s warriors,” his father called, his voice shaky. “He would’ve sliced my gut if you hadn’t come to my aid.”
The wagon raced toward the village, and despite the rushing wind, the smell of smoke pricked Merlin’s nose.
“It’s happening again!” Dybris yelled. “The wagon’s on fire.”
Garth jerked back and yelled, causing Arthur to cry.
The man pulled the spear away. “What’s this?”
Garth gaped like a dumb fish as a little crowd of people peered out at him. Beside the man with the spear stood an old and wizened man. And there was the weaver’s wife, Safrowana, holding a rush light. Behind her stood three girls — as well as Kyallna, the soup-mum!
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