Within moments another warrior stepped up and swung a heavy hammer. Merlin spun to get away, but not quickly enough. The hammer slammed him in the left arm just above the elbow. Something cracked, and Merlin fell to the ground in agonizing pain.
Bedwir had just killed a warrior when the man with the hammer slipped behind him.
Merlin yelled to warn him.
Bedwir ducked, but he hammer still gave him a glancing blow, and he collapsed.
Merlin tried to use his left arm, but something had broken in the elbow, and the intense pain shot to his shoulder and down his ribs. Where had his sword gone? He realized he had lost it in the dark. The muscles in his left hand began to cramp up, so he used his right to reach for the bag where his knife was hidden.
Ten more warriors jumped into the fray. Two of them disarmed Caygek. Garth and Peredur lay on their knees with their hands on the backs of their heads. Loth appeared out of the darkness, a sneering scowl on his face, and put the tip of his sword to Merlin’s throat.
Merlin let go of the bag’s knot. He would have to trust to his ruse now. There was no other hope.
The cold fled away, for the darkness was deliciously warm for Ganieda. It enfolded her. Held her. And its blackness was like the locks of her mother’s hair. Her family’s hearth appeared, and her mother was there, taking a loaf of honeyed bread from the fire. It smelled so delectably fresh, and the warm, soft bread slid down her throat to fill the emptiness.
Ganieda smiled at her mother. She was so beautiful. Even the druid scars that laced her arms and hands like spiderwebs added to her attraction. Most of the druid wives didn’t undergo the scarring process, but her mother had. As the daughter of the arch druid, this was her right, and she had taken it.
Ganieda touched one of the blue lines and traced it upward toward her mother’s sleeve until it swirled and knotted with another line. Ganieda became lost in the knot, and followed the line upward until she was lifted into the sky, and still the line plunged onward. Stars whirled above her, forming a shape. A wolf.
She heard a howl all around her. Deafening. Something breathed heavily nearby. Wetness dripped upon her cheek. More howls. She covered her ears.
The beast had returned.
She glanced upward, and its yellow fangs hung right above her, the horrid, black lips sagging over its blood-covered gums.
She screamed and closed her eyes. It was about to eat her, and she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t get away. Her running was over.
The wolf licked her. Again.
She opened her eyes and realized this wolf had a white muzzle. It was her wolf, Tellyk. He’d found her, after all this time.
He whimpered and nudged her again.
She sat up, and with her last ounce of strength pulled herself onto his back. Tellyk loped forward effortlessly. The snow stung her face, but she gripped his warm fur as they passed through the pines, through the trees, and to a tent where the light of a small fire shone upon the fabric walls. An old, cracked stump sat outside that she recognized. This is Grandfather’s tent!
Tellyk barked as Ganieda slipped off.
“Grandfather …” she called, falling on the ground before the door.
“My daughter’s daughter, is that you?” He untied the flap, and soon he had it all the way open, displaying a face full of surprise. He helped her up, and she stepped in.
Tellyk made a move to follow her.
“I won’t have that wolf in here. Out! Out!” he yelled. He tried to kick Tellyk, and the wolf backed up with a slight growl. Grandfather hastily tied the flaps again. “I’ve … I’ve been worried. You’ve been missing so long, I had almost given up hope.”
Ganieda wished Tellyk could come in and feel the warmth of the fire, but she didn’t have the strength to protest. And besides, she saw the wolf lay down and lean his body against the door, leaving an impression on the tent wall. She could always reach her hand out and pet him if she wanted to show appreciation for her friend. Tellyk had helped her so much.
Grandfather threw on a few logs and warmed up some oatmeal for her.
“So … so where did you get that torc?” he asked as he stirred the little pot. “I have not seen its like before in Britain, or in all of my travels.” He touched the heads of the dragons; first the red one, then the white one. “Is this … is this …”
“A gift for me — from the Voice,” she said, and her words sounded cold in her own ears. It was strange — her heart wanted to weep because of the torc, and the emotions welled up within her. But somehow that part of her had turned mute. No tears would come.
“From … from the Voice?” her grandfather asked. “You have seen the Voice?”
“I’ve been with him an eternity. I see him all the time. He appears, and I speak with him. He is powerful and beautiful in my eyes, Grandpa.” Her mind could still see the Voice. He was her father now, and he had always loved her. Oddly, she loved him and would do whatever he wanted of her. Had she felt that way before? She couldn’t remember.
The wind blew against the tent then, and the bones hanging from the ceiling clinked into each other. Grandpa handed her the pot of oatmeal.
She wanted to eat it right away but instead took a moment to fill her lungs with its goodness before digging in her spoon. Oh, how the oatmeal gave her strength, and how the fire warmed her life and limbs. She laid her head down on the oxhide and slept for awhile, finally waking to see her grandfather sitting on his carved chair.
“You have slept long, my daughter’s daughter, while our enemies await their doom!” His lone hand held the orb engulfed in a violence of purple fire. The fang was not in sight.
Ganieda leapt up to see the images flashing in the orb, and Merlin was there. A hatred for him, pure and delightful, burned deeply in her. He was being forced to bow before an old man upon a windswept mountain that she had never seen before. And someone held a sword at Merlin’s throat, a man who looked much like Merlin did, with his long black hair and handsome nose, but without the scars. The man scowled at Merlin, and this pleased her. Perhaps he could be useful to her. Useful to the Voice.
“He is Loth,” her grandfather said. “I have heard his name spoken in another vision the orb gave to me. He is —”
“Most helpful!” Ganieda finished. The man was young and strong, and there was a certain spirit about him, opposite of Merlin’s, that thrilled her.
And there stood little Arthur. The child whom her grandfather hated. Whom the Voice hated. Whom she now hated most deeply. His hands were bound, and he stood upon an altar covered in clotted blood. The old man held the rope in one hand, and a long knife in the other.
Grandfather laughed. “See … see! Both Merlin and Arthur will soon be no more!”
CHAPTER 38
THE SCARS OF FAILURE
Merlin gagged, for a horrible smell wafted up from the blood-soaked ground where he knelt.
Atle stood before him, his legs wrapped in furs, and if Loth hadn’t had a sword at the back of Merlin’s neck, he would jump up and …
Merlin sighed. His sword was gone, and his bag had been snatched from him and thrown in a heap with the rest of their things about ten feet away — his hidden knife within it.
And even if Merlin did get away from Loth and attack Atle, it would be more likely that Atle would kill Merlin first, for Merlin’s left elbow was indeed broken. The joint sent waves of cramping pain so intense that he couldn’t do anything with it except let it hang limp. And the old man was stronger than he looked. Merlin had learned that when they’d sparred over the candlestick in the king’s private chamber.
The king cleared his throat. “Look up to me, O Merlin. For Kensa has, beyond my amazement, arrived at de last moment to preserve her own life … andd dat of yers as well.”
“Preserve my life? You mean she betrayed me.”
“Betrayed you? No, dat is not my mother’s intent, for she loves you more dan you know. You are de son of my daughter, Theneva Gweviana, as Kensa most
ardently reminds me, andd therefore ye have de right to participate by blood in de rite that is about to be performed.”
“I don’t care —”
Atle kicked Merlin hard in the mouth. “Listen, O Fool! I hadd chosen to withhold dis from you because of your mother’s disobedience, but now dat you are here, I will give ett, at Kensa’s behest, if you are nott impudent andd presuming.”
“Give what?” Merlin slurred, spitting out the blood that had begun to gather.
“I offer you nothing less dan undying strength, eternal youth, andd joy. I offer ye a place en me family for eternity.”
“I only want Arthur free,” Merlin said.
“Ah, but ye don’t understand properly. Lett me help ye before yerr choice es no longer possible.” He held the rope so Arthur’s hands were lifted upward, and he cut a thin line down Arthur’s chest with his knife. The child cried out, squirmed, and tried to get away, but Atle held him fast. He let the blood to trickle downward and caught some on the tip of his knife.
“Here, feel and desire de gift I offer you, for ett es amazement.” With these words, he let Arthur’s blood drip into an old pool of gore at his feet. Then he grabbed onto Merlin’s hair and hauled him forward until Merlin stared into the liquid. In the murky mirror, a vision appeared.
Merlin saw himself rising upward, strong and hale. In the vision the years passed, and he began to age a little, until another ninth year approached when he needed to renew the blood sacrifice to make himself young again. For an eon the cycle raged, and each time Merlin matured more quickly until he, too, grew old by the ninth year — like Atle. But Merlin could still live, couldn’t he? Yes, it was true. For as long as the sacrifices were renewed.
Something else caught his attention. In the vision, his scars had vanished completely from his face. Utterly gone.
Natalenya could love him. His heart could trust her. Trust that she wouldn’t abandon him when she tired of looking at his ugly visage. Trust that she wouldn’t regret her marriage to him.
Did Atle really offer him what God had denied him? Could it be true? And all he had to do was say yes. He could look like Loth. They could be brothers. Two alike, friends, and handsome forever. Every part of him longed to say the word. Every part of him screamed at God for the injustice of his disfigurement. Why hadn’t God taken his scars away? Protected them during their journeys? Why?
“Vat is your answer?” the king asked. “Vill ye partake in de blood of de little one?”
Merlin looked once more at Arthur. His dark hair was disheveled, and his wrists raw from the rope. But he was just a child. Not even capable of real speech. Wasn’t the world filled with uncountable children? Did it really matter if one was slain so that Merlin could be free of his scars? No one would even miss Arthur’s passing. The boy’s parents were dead. Perhaps it was best for Arthur. This way, he would never know the anguish of loneliness. The world was cruel, was it not? His suffering would end, and in that end he would also relieve Merlin’s suffering.
Atle gave a wheezing chuckle. “I see your thoughts, andd ye are right. A little suffering ferr everlasting profit. Perhaps one day everyone in de world can benefit from de blood of de little ones. You vill join me, yes?”
Merlin wanted to agree. To nod his head. To whimper out the word. But then he beheld Arthur’s eyes, and saw fear, confusion, pain, suffering. All these emotions and more, accusing Merlin. But an accusation only had weight before a judge. Was God a judge? Would God judge Merlin?
Yes. For it was God who had formed Arthur in Igerna’s womb. God who had fashioned the boy in mystery and fear. God who had planned his days before any of them came to pass. And God would hold Merlin accountable for his blood.
Do not murder, the Scriptures said, and so Merlin spit into the pool of blood and sent the horrible vision rippling away. He would stay the same. Merlin the scarred. Merlin the unloved. Merlin the despised. Merlin the dead — yes — but better dead in God’s righteous hands than alive and hale in the devil’s filthy ones. So be it.
“No,” he said. “Take your bloody knife and kill me as well. Get it over with.”
“Dat I shall. Each o’ you will be sacrificed after de child dies. Too bad you don’t appreciate me hard bargain: yerr freedom for Arthur. Now ye lose both.” And he plunged the knife deep into Arthur’s gut. A scream ripped forth from the child, his face turned red, and he began to thrash in agony. Arthur’s blood poured down onto the altar, and Atle smiled in triumph.
Ganieda rubbed her hands together as she watched Merlin through the orb. He was considering his fate, bowed with his gaze intent upon the strange vision in the pool of blood.
And when he finally spoke his answer, and Atle plunged the knife into Arthur, she clapped. Yes — their family’s vengeance was nearly complete! When the Stone still had its power, Uther had killed her grandfather’s son — Ganieda’s uncle — and now Uther’s son was dead. Merlin’s death would soon follow.
Mórganthu got up from his chair and began to dance around the tent, the orb a streak of purple light as he giddily jumped about.
Ganieda joined him, holding on to his waist.
Around and around they twirled in celebration, until a sound echoed from the orb. A man’s scream. It sounded like Merlin’s voice.
Mórganthu knelt on one knee, and together they looked once more.
CHAPTER 39
BLOOD AND DARKNESS
Merlin struggled to rise, yelling. If he had two good arms, he could —
Loth viscously kicked him in the small of his back. “Stay down, dog head. Ye’ll have no part in this.”
As Merlin fell flat on his stomach, he lifted his head to keep it from dropping into the bloody snow, and so the tip of Loth’s sword cut into the nape of his neck. The pain tore a yell from his throat — yet he kept his eyes fixed on Arthur, who was in the throes of death.
Like sparks from a fire, a crackling darkness burst out from Atle’s knife where it had sunk into Arthur. A stain upon the air, it climbed Atle’s arm and engulfed his whole being. Kensa grabbed his belt. All around Merlin, the people of Atle’s household stepped up and held hands, making a direct connection to the king. Then others — natives of these islands — joined as well.
And the darkness spread.
The sword slipped away from Merlin’s neck, and Loth’s boot eased its pressure. Merlin spun savagely around and lifted himself into a crouch. Pain surged from his broken elbow, and he had to prop it on his thigh as best he could.
All around him, a black undulating web covered the people — everyone but his friends, who were cowering down in shock. The torches took on an eerie, red glow in the hands of the people, frozen in position.
Atle himself began to change. Taller he grew, and less stooped. The deep lines of his face smoothed. His arms and legs solidified with muscle. His hair lengthened, thickened, and the gray disappeared.
Merlin panicked. He had only a few moments. Atle’s youth would soon be complete and Merlin would be overpowered. He leapt at the pile of their belongings, but the weapons weren’t there. They had been left in the woods, no doubt. With no time to look for them, he dug, found his bag, and opened it with one hand. There was the map! He pulled the rolled-up leather out and dumped the knife to the ground.
He froze before taking the knife. A strangely familiar lump lay in the bottom of the bag. He opened it wide. It was the Sangraal. The very bowl he had flung into the ocean. The bowl he’d rejected. How did it —? Why —?
He looked from the knife … to the bowl … and back to the knife.
He had to choose.
Black smoke swirled inside the orb, and then lit up with a soft purple radiance. Soon the image cleared and Ganieda spied Arthur crying out in pain and kicking his legs. She felt like a happy pig, wallowing in his death.
And Merlin, her poor, poor brother — hah! — did that little slice to the neck hurt? Soon Loth would thrust the blade right through his heart, and Ganieda wouldn’t even shed a tear.
&n
bsp; A black, bubbling web began to cover Atle, and all the people with him. The king began to get younger, and Loth as well — yet in the midst of the changes happening to his body, he forgot to keep Merlin pinned down.
“Stop him!” she cried out, but Loth couldn’t hear.
Her brother escaped and dove to his bag, his left arm hanging like a broken branch. He dropped a roll of leather from it and shook a knife from the center. Then he opened the bag wider to reveal a wooden bowl.
Strange. Why would he care about a bowl at such a time?
But the bowl grew larger and larger inside the orb, its grain and edges beginning to glow. Soon the bowl became a white blaze, which stung Ganieda’s eyes. She continued to look, but the light became so bright that she fell backward, squinting until she could stand it no longer.
The orb began to burn in Grandfather’s hand and he dropped it, yelling.
The light faded and the orb cooled, and he tried once more to see Merlin, but the only image to appear was of the sky and the bright sun shining down from the heavens. It refused to show Merlin or anyone else with him.
She grabbed onto her grandfather’s arm. “What’s happening? What’s wrong with it?”
He shook his head. “Perhaps the orb is wounded. Perhaps afraid.”
“But I need to see. I want to see Arthur die. I need to see Merlin die!” She screamed at him and stamped her foot.
“Perhaps, my daughter’s daughter, you can travel there and see for yourself. Then come back and tell me.”
She glimpsed fear on his countenance, and she pondered this for a moment. Had she ever seen real fear in him before?
“Why do you wait?” he said, holding out the orb. “Remember … remember when you visited Vortigern on the boat? And the Pictish chieftain in the valley? Do it again!”
He handed it to her, and a delight buzzed up her arm as its warm, soft flesh filled her palm. She called upon the orb to take her to Merlin.
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