Merlin's Shadow

by Robert Treskillard

  It fell quickly, slicing across his left cheek and hand.

  Hatred and anger boiled up in Merlin. This time it was neither wild wolves scratching him — or even her wolves. It was Ganieda herself.

  His hands accidentally smeared the blood up into his eyes. Redness, shadow, and the dizzying, ghostlike form of Ganieda filled his gaze. He fell to the stone floor and everything went dark.

  Merlin felt himself falling, falling, spinning, and tumbling through the air as the lights of countless stars rushed past. It was cold, and he knew nothing more until he found himself standing upon a wide, bouldered plain surrounded by hills, and beyond them, mountains. A wind arose and then died after touching tufts of grass that had dared to lift their brown, stunted heads from the sand. No bird could be seen, or any other animal, and a profound silence filled the land.

  He stood, sensing something wrong, some doom approaching.

  The ground shook, and he heard cracking behind him.

  Merlin turned to see a roof and thick timbers breaking up through the soil. Sand slid down the roof as they thrust up to a neck-bending height of sixty feet. The ground fractured, and black walls shoved up and clacked onto the timbers. Massive stones skittered across the ground and formed an arch just as the planks of a huge door rattled from the soil and latched into place.

  The clouds overhead rumbled, and Merlin shivered. From the distance came the sound of marching feet, and then a voice, strong and deep:

  Rash, ram — crash and slam;

  Ache, axe — break your backs;

  Slack, slink — clack and clink;

  I am Taranis.

  A man rode a steed over a low hill, and he led warriors in the thousands. His arms were like oaks, and he held in his hands a large bronze pot and stone hammer. His skin was golden, and his plated armor gray. The horned helm upon his head that hid his face had been fashioned of a darker metal.

  The horse below him had a coat the color of ashes, with a black mane. Smoke rolled from its nostrils, and its furred hooves sent sparks into the patchy grass, lighting it on fire.

  The man hammered upon the pot, and lightning burst from its surface — skyward in a great arc. Thunder, in turn, beat upon the earth like a drum. The army marched closer, and the man called out again:

  Bake, blast — snake and asp;

  Thick, thunk — split your trunk;

  Snip, snap — trip and trap;

  I am Taranis.

  Merlin hid behind a boulder as Taranis rode closer. The hammer smashed again upon the pot and lightning struck out once more, riving the ground and sending the clouds into a roiling tumult. Now only twenty paces away, Merlin shrank in terror, for Taranis was five times taller than any man he had ever seen. The horse he rode was truly a monster, with swelling muscles, pulsing veins, and teeth that could pluck Merlin’s head as if he were some weed.

  Gnash, gnaw — croak and caw;

  Bleed, blood — spill a flood;

  Nick, neck — pare and peck;

  I am Taranis.

  When he dismounted, his metal-shod boots sent cracks through the rocks. He set down the pot and hammer and pulled a large axe from his belt. The house that had risen from the sand shook as he walked toward it, and he unlatched the wooden door. With the groan of timber cracking, the portal swung inward and Taranis entered.

  With the man’s back turned, Merlin prepared to flee, but realized that the army, of shorter stature than Taranis, had begun to surround him. Each of them had spears with long golden blades, and they beat them in time on their gray shields as they marched. Golden nose rings had been driven into their nostrils, and from each ring hung an iron chain down to their belts.

  The only escape now lay beyond the house, and Merlin ran, his legs shaky and his breath forced.

  But Taranis reached out from the door and snatched Merlin by his tunic and swung him up into the air. “Our business with you isn’t finished, little trespasser.” He carried Merlin into the house and slammed the door with a booming crash. Merlin was flung onto a high table, and the man leaned over to peer at him through the eye slits of his helm.

  Merlin’s head spun as he tried to pick himself off of the rough wood. He had just sat up when Taranis reached up to his helm, snapped it into two pieces, and pulled it off.

  Merlin backed up, his pulse racing — for Taranis had the face of a bull. The red-tipped horns entered his skull just above the bovine ears, and his luminous eyes burned fiercely.

  Taranis laughed through his stunted snout, saliva dripping from his lips. “You must pay me for trespassing on my land!”

  Only then did Merlin notice a huge balancing scale standing a few feet behind him. In one wide pan sat a large pile of gold coins, and the other lay filled with the heads of men.

  Taranis dumped both pans out and brushed the contents off the table. The heads fell thudding to the floor even as the coins scattered and rolled away.

  Merlin felt for his sword and found it missing. He had dropped it when he was with Ganieda, and now he couldn’t defend himself. He ran to the edge of the table and looked down, considering his options. But many of Taranis’s warriors had now entered the house and surrounded the table.

  “You can only get away, little man, after you pay my tax.” Taranis banged his meaty fists on the table, and the shock sent Merlin to his knees. “Whom shall it be?” he asked, and he lifted up to the table a cage, and within it stood Merlin’s companions. Colvarth, his black cloak torn and his arms covered in welts, held Arthur, who screamed. Garth’s face was white, and his lip had been split and bloodied. Caygek’s beard had been ripped out.

  Natalenya was also there, half hidden behind Caygek. Upon her cheeks lay a black rash, and she glanced at him, looked down in sorrow, and then covered her face.

  Taranis clinked into the left pan the largest gold coin Merlin had ever seen. “Which shall you sacrifice to pay me? One should be enough to equal the weight of this coin.”

  Merlin hesitated.

  “Or shall it be your head?” He hefted his axe, and swung it downward. Merlin jumped to the side just in time, and the notched blade nearly split the tabletop, sending huge splinters flying in his face.

  “Which head shall it be, little man?” Taranis said, bringing his noisome snout down to Merlin’s face.

  “None!” Merlin yelled, and he grabbed one of the splinters and drove it into Taranis’s oily nose.

  The beast yelped as blood poured onto the table. He swiped at Merlin, who ducked and ran to the cage, trying to free his friends. But he could find no lock or mechanism to open it.

  The shadow of a giant hand fell upon Merlin and slapped him away from the cage. Merlin flew back, slamming into the pans of the scale and slumped to the table. His head buzzed, and the world faded and reappeared. He felt the rough wood to assure himself he was still alive, and then slowly climbed to a sitting position.

  “I will overlook your insolence, and give you one last chance to choose my payment.” Taranis picked up from the floor another cage and banged it onto the table.

  Merlin blinked at the person standing alone in the new cage.

  It was Ganieda.

  She stood there, her small hands trembling upon the bars. Her hair was knotted, and tears streamed down her bruised face. “Help me, Merlin,” she called. “Don’t let him kill me!” She fell sobbing to the floor of the cage.

  “Whose head shall be my payment?” Taranis said, holding his axe between Merlin and himself. “Choose.”

  Merlin looked to the faces of his friends, desperate, and pained. He could never choose any of them for death at the hands of Taranis — not even Caygek.

  Then Merlin looked at Ganieda. She had tried to kill — nay, was trying to kill him. If she were dead, then he might live. Live to carry Arthur to safety. Live to see Natalenya home with her family.

  The sad remembrances of his childhood with Ganieda flooded back to him. Memories of her screaming at him for nothing. Of her spitting in his face when he wouldn’t obey her
. Of her cruelly tripping him in his blindness. In all these things Ganieda imitated Mônda, her mother and Merlin’s stepmother.

  Mônda, the daughter of Mórganthu, hated God whom Merlin clung to — and she had made it her goal to make her stepson’s life miserable whenever his father’s back was turned.

  Merlin felt his face flush with anger. He wanted to say the words, “Kill her … kill my sister” — but he couldn’t. Despite her cruelty, she had also been like a shadow to him all his life, following him, needing his help, running to him when she was scared. Even needing his protection. Did she not deserve it now? Had she not been deceived by Mônda?

  How could Merlin abandon her? How could he even think such a thing? He prayed for forgiveness, even as he prepared for action.

  “Enough. What is your answer, little man?”

  Another splinter lay nearby, and Merlin jumped and snatched it up, shouting, “None! I won’t give you anyone!”

  But Taranis only snorted.

  Merlin lunged at him, hoping to drive the wooden spike into a chink in the armor at his waist — but Taranis swatted him away.

  Merlin rolled across the table, his skin stinging and ripping. He slid to the edge and began to fall, grabbing the lip just in time and hanging on.

  The warriors below screamed for his blood.

  Using all his strength, he slowly pulled himself up and onto the table.

  But it was too late. Taranis had ripped open Ganieda’s cage, and she lay on the table underneath his hand, screaming. He raised his axe and looked at Merlin. “Since you will not choose, little man, I have chosen, and she is mine!”

  The axe fell.

  Merlin collapsed at the sight, every fiber of his being in shock. He beat his fists and wept — wept until his vision failed and the cruelty faded.

  Ganieda laughed at Merlin, who lay in the dark like a lifeless eel. She scratched him again, feeling the power of the fang and the weird new strength in her arms. Where had her might and new determination come from? She did not know, but she silently thanked the Voice — who had chosen her.

  Merlin seemed to stir. Maybe it was the blood dripping from his scalp, or maybe the kick she had given him in the ribs. Ahh, he was reaching for his blade, the lout. She stepped upon it, hoping it would snap, but it did not. He slipped it from under her foot as she cursed him with all the wicked words that her mother had ever taught her.

  He raised the blade and looked at her, a fierceness in his eyes that she had never seen before. She tried to rip him again, but he feebly blocked the blow with his blade.

  She spit at him. She was the strong one, and he would not stop her. For she was Ganieda no longer, but rather Gana the great. Yes! She would call herself, in the Eirish of her grandfather and mother, Mór-gana — High servant of the Voice, True Master of the Stone, the Fang, and the Orb — and Merlin could not prevent her from returning the rule of Britain to the Voice.

  But her brother did something altogether odd. He flung his blade away, and with a look she had never seen in her life, he leapt at her, grabbed her wrists, and held them at her side. The two were now face to face, and she strained against him with all her will. Although Merlin’s grip was strong from years of work in the blacksmith shop, she was stronger.

  Gritting her teeth, she broke one wrist free — and then noticed his eyes. They were weeping. He blinked to clear his vision and said the last thing she expected.

  “I love you!”

  His voice broke, and he sobbed. Letting go of her other wrist, he hugged her.

  An uncanny wind arose in the tunnel, fresh and clean, and it blew upon her, sapping her strength, her power. She slowly shrank and became as she once had been.

  Ganieda the little.

  She pushed Merlin away, slipped from his grasp, and ran down the dark tunnel. Flying past a startled man who hid at the entrance, she burst into the cold night. From her own eye, a single tear fell.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE BETRAYAL

  Bedwir would have been slaughtered on the spot if it hadn’t been for his horse.

  Having been in many battles during his years in Uther’s war band, his bravery had won him the slim torc of a chieftain. Yet there he had sat — his legs unwilling to even kick his horse. Normally, flanked by fellow warriors, they’d face the enemy together. Here he was utterly alone, with death on both sides.

  Sure, he’d raised his spear and aimed it at the blue-painted war leader bearing down on him, but the slicing screams of the Pict had filled Bedwir with such fright that his wits had flapped off into the night.

  And with Vortigern hurtling toward him from the other direction, he’d just frozen up.

  Thankfully, his horse had better sense.

  It bolted back across the stream to the circle of stones and clambered up the mound until they reached the summit. From that vantage, he turned in his saddle to see the war leader of the Picti slow down, knot his brow, and peer through the fog. It was then Bedwir realized the man had thought Bedwir his personal challenger. As if he was leader of the High King’s armies.

  Hah! And when Bedwir’s horse turned tail and ran, the brute couldn’t make sense of it.

  Vortigern, however, realized the dire position he and the few with him found themselves in — and he took his great horn from his belt and blew it. Bedwir had often admired this horn, gilt with ancient runes from the house of Vortigern’s grandfather, and even in the darkness Bedwir could see it shining above the battle chief’s head. All of Vortigern’s remaining warriors rushed down the field as he shouted his battle call.

  “Havoc … havoc! To battle, men of valor!”

  The Pict now spied Vortigern and charged his chariot directly at him. They met with a crash of weapons — Vortigern’s shield shoving the spear to the side, and the Picti leader blocking the carefully timed chop with his torch.

  But after they passed each other, the Pict’s chariot hit a large stone, and his wheel separated, rolling off into the fog. The man jumped down, bellowing a Pictish curse, and turned to face Vortigern.

  Vortigern ignored him. He scanned the field of battle and saw what Bedwir saw — that their men, though far outnumbered, fought bravely. Not only were they taller, stouter, and better armed, but they had more men horsed, bringing strength and speed to their attack. None of their own had gone down yet, though many of the enemy had fallen to the foggy ground, bleeding.

  Vortigern finally detected Bedwir perched up on the mound. He shouted at him, snatched up an enemy spear, and spurred his horse upward.

  Bedwir turned his mount, intent to dash down the other side — and found six Picti racing up at him, their spiked shields foremost. Six? He turned back to Vortigern, leveled his spear, and went whooping down. If he died, then none would ever warn Colvarth of Vortigern’s treachery. But what if Vortigern died? Aha! Bedwir smiled as he sped his horse downward.

  He had the high ground. He had the longer weapon. Vortigern would perish under his bright lance, and then Bedwir would reveal the treachery to all. He would hang Vortipor’s headless body on a tree and restore Arthur to safety.

  Bedwir the great, they would cheer. Bedwir the faithful!

  But then his horse lost its footing. In one step, its right foreleg sunk into the rain-soaked earth of the mound, the beast rolled, and the world flipped. When next he looked, Vortigern’s horse had thundered upon him, and the man drove his spear into Bedwir’s side. At first, it felt like a hammer had rammed into his thick leather armor, but then the blade ripped through and pushed on his rib. The pain seared every fiber of his body, burning and burning. And yet harder Vortigern drove the spear, until the evil tip sliced through his skin and out of his side — and struck his faithful mount. The horse screamed, bucking and chomping.

  Bedwir clamped his eyes shut as pain racked his body.

  Merlin’s wounds stung. He pulled the stopper from his waterskin and washed the blood from his face as best as he could in the dark. Putting the stopper back, he found his way back down the pass
ageway. As he passed the tunnel where the others hid, he could hear Arthur crying, and Colvarth trying to comfort him. Merlin called to them. “It’s just me … I’m going to Caygek now.”

  Colvarth’s voice spoke from the darkness. “That scream has awoken Natalenya and scared Arthur. Who was it, my Merlin?”

  “We’ll talk later. We’re safe.” But Merlin wondered if it was true. With Arthur crying, their hiding place was in danger of being discovered.

  Moving down the main tunnel, he found Caygek crouching to the left of the door.

  Caygek jerked his blade at him. “Don’t scare me,” he said.

  “What’s to be scared about?” Merlin said, feigning ignorance.

  The moon lit up the fog outside, and Caygek studied Merlin’s face in the half light. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I had a little tussle back there.”

  “The witch?”

  Merlin shook his head. “My sister.”

  “Your … sister? Here in Kembry? Here in this tomb?”

  “She’s Mórganthu’s granddaughter … you tell me how she got here.”

  Caygek cursed under his breath. “I wasn’t a follower of Mórganthu. I don’t pretend to know his arts.”

  “But you’re a druid.”

  “Not all druidow are alike. I am a fili, and a follower of the arch fili until Mórganthu cut him from this world. We opposed Mórganthu and his plans for a human sacrifice. It’s been against our laws for the last ten generations of the druidow.”

  “Tell me,” Merlin said, “why do you think human sacrifice is wrong?”

  Dew drops hung from Caygek’s brow, and he shook them off. “Life is sacred. The soil, the trees, the animals, the gods. The knotwork of nature re-creating itself, and man is part of that in a mysterious way, if you will. One of our brihemow has said:

  The Sky and the Blessed Earth bear witness,

  The Sun and the Sated Moon bear witness,

  The Rocks and the Wildish Wood bear witness,

  The Living and the Loyal Dead bear witness!

  Without a blade — from foulness we climb,