by Jack Whyte
Pleased that I now knew how I would proceed, I set about the selection of my deadly tools. I set aside one ceramic, lidded box of the green poisoned paste first. That was my sine qua non, my most essential element: the death I had selected for both Ironhair and Carthac. They would both die consumed by inner fires, as had the warlock Caspar. After that, I laid apart the rolled ribbons of cloth that held the finger joint long poisoned thorns, each placed beside its neighbour with great care, the deadly points thrust through the cloth for safety and for ease of carrying. As I progressed, the choices became more difficult. Vials of liquid of varying colours, each of them deadly' enough to empoison an entire army, if added to the water that they drank. Boxes of powders that, mixed into food or drink, could produce frothing, convulsive, agonizing death within mere moments. Clusters of fibrous stuff that , thrown into a fire, produced a sweetish, sickening smoke that stupefied all who breathed it.
One substance gave me no concern at all, and that was the large box of combustible powder that I thought of as fire powder. I would not have considered leaving that behind. Another substance, this one a reddish, crystalline compound evidently crushed with mortar and pestle, affected me similarly, and my sole regret was for the paucity I had of it. This substance, when ingested, brought paralysis. Years before, I had dissolved a tiny pinch of it in water and then fed it to a rabbit, which had quickly died in a spasm, board stiff. I had set the poor dead tiling aside, holding it by its rigid legs and meaning to burn it later, after I had completed my notations on the day's activities. But when I looked again, perhaps an hour later, the "dead" rabbit had revived completely and went bounding from the table when it saw me move. Astonished more than I can say, I had repeated the procedure with another rabbit, with the same results. The paralysis was total, but reversed itself within the hour. The second time I carried out the test, I watched far more closely, and observed that the little creature's eyes did not glaze over as they would in death. In fact, they seemed alert, though motionless. I brought a taper close, and the pupils contracted, indicating an awareness of the light. I could not, of course, be certain, but I believed the animal had not lost consciousness but merely the ability to move. If that were true, it might apply to men, as well. I set the reddish crystals aside, checking with care to see that the lid still fitted snugly on the small box that contained them.
My final selection was no selection at all, but rather the careful removal from its packaging of the amazing, hair crowned human mask that fitted me as though shaped to my face. Then I repacked both large chests and locked them , dragged them deep into the trees, covering them first with a leather sleeping tent, and then laying branches over them. It was almost completely dark by then, and I carried my selected treasures into the hut, where I piled them carefully in a corner before lighting the fire in the iron basket against the wall at the foot of the bed.
The following morning, I returned briefly to Camulod, avoiding everyone and merely visiting my quarters to collect the long robe that Lucanus had left there. I was back in my valley long before nightfall, and in the course of the evening I repeated the entire procedure I had rehearsed the previous day, having discovered that Luke's pocket rich garment would hold far more than I had suspected. It was heavy, when I picked it up to put it on, but it hung easily, once donned, and when I had distributed the contents to remove the chinking sound of vials knocking on each other, I found that I could walk silently while wearing it. I then spent another entire day teaching myself which substances lay hidden in which pocket, so that soon I could reach for each package without thought.
I was prepared.
PART THREE
Verulamium
SEVENTEEN
The sentry stiffened as I lunged, but before he could begin to shout or move I had clamped my fingers over his mouth and nostrils and jerked him back against me, my dagger point pressed against his exposed neck. I hissed into his ear.
"You should be dead, my friend, but friend I am. I am Merlyn Britannicus. Nod your head if you believe me and can hold your peace." I felt his head move in my grasp, and I released him and stepped back. He turned to face me slowly, his eyes wide with fear. I did not know him, but I saw the recognition come into his face.
"Comm—" he began, but I silenced him with a chop of my hand.
"Who commands the guard tonight? And keep your voice down."
"Commander Falvo, sir."
"Good. Bring me to him."
Benedict was with Falvo in the command tent, and their jaws fell open when they saw me step in. They both leaped to their feet with cries of welcome, but stopped short as their eyes took in my whole appearance. I knew I was a sight well worth beholding, but I had no time to waste on niceties. This was a large encampment, filled with men and horses, and I had penetrated it without difficulty, making? my way through the outer guards simply by walking in the shadows, cloaked in my black robes.
"Benedict, Falvo," I greeted them, nodding to each in turn. "Your security is weak. Your guards are useless. None of them saw me walk in here. No one challenged me and I made no attempt to hide. Is Ambrose here?"
Benedict answered me. "No, Ambrose rode off late this afternoon with Derek and a hundred Scouts. We fought a battle here, today."
"And now your guards have earned the right to sleep on duty? I know you fought today. I watched it from the mountain top to the north. But you fought inconclusively. Their shield walls thwarted you. They gulled you into following' them on to their chosen ground, and then they outfought you with Roman tactics. You achieved nothing. Will you' offer me a cup of wine?"
There was an awkward silence as they absorbed my rebuke, but then Falvo said, "No, but we have mead, will ; that suffice?" I nodded. Falvo looked unhappy, but he said nothing more and moved at once to pour me a cup of mead.:
I knew I had been harsh, and that after a separation of ! long months he might perhaps have expected me to be more friendly, but everything I had said was true. The Danes had held the higher ground that day, and they had used the tortoise formations of the ancient legions to frustrate our cavalry, holding their big, round shields in overlapping rows that formed a solid front against our horsemen, who were thus forced to charge uphill to reach them and might as well have been attacking the towering sides of floating ships. The battle had been broken off after a useless spell of wasted hours, without victory going to either side. I had watched it from afar, discovering it by merest chance, and had been angered by the confusion I had witnessed, as much as by the fact that there was nothing I could do to influence any of it.
Falvo offered me my mead and I took it from him with a nod of thanks and drank the half of it, feeling the fiery, honey sweet bite of it exploding in my mouth, throat and chest.
"My thanks, Falvo. When is Ambrose due back? Or do you, too, call him Merlyn nowadays? Everyone else does, it appears. " I knew I was being unpleasant, but it was as though someone else had control of my tongue.
Falvo gazed at me, opening his mouth as though to answer me, then turned to Benedict, who had been sitting watching me with a peculiar expression on his face. Benedict turned his head slightly to catch Falvo's eye, then shrugged.
"What is it? Why do you look at me like that, Falvo?"
Benedict grunted. "He thought you dead. We all did. "
"Well, it's not so, as you can see. Why did you think that?"
Falvo spoke up. "Word reached us from the south that your body had been found burned and mutilated. "
I shook my head. "That sounds to me like someone's wishful prayer. It's author will be disappointed. "
Benedict evidently found no humour in my comment. "Aye, well, that was months ago, and no one has seen or heard from you since then. We have mourned you. "
"Arid Ambrose has taken my name. Why so? The word is everywhere that Merlyn of Camulod leads this army. "
Again they exchanged glances, and this time it was Falvo who shrugged his shoulders. "It was his wish and his decision. He says that Merlyn is a name to con
jure fear. Merlyn is known, and Merlyn has the respect of Cambrian warriors, so Ambrose fought and campaigned as Merlyn right from the start of this campaign. No one remarked the difference. Then, when the word arrived that you were dead, he swore that while he lived, you would never die." He paused, and stuck out his jaw. "Your brother thinks highly of you," he said then, his tone implying that not all men did.
I heaved a short, sharp sigh and sat down in one of the chairs before his desk. "Aye, well, I dropped from people's sight, but not from life. I have been occupied as much as any of you, here in Cambria. Have you heard tell of Merlyn's Vengeance?"
Benedict's head jerked up. "Aye, everyone has, though we know not what we should make of it. We hear tales of rampant death and sorcery, of slaughter without bloodshed and of nightly terrors without end. It seems the Danes, and all their other allies; now live in fear of nightfall and the creatures that prowl there, among the shadows."
"That's true, and so they should. They live in terror of the night, and I have worked to make it so."
"You have worked to make it so?" Falvo's eyes showed a spark of curiosity. "Are you responsible for all of this, this sorcery?"
"Aye, and for the fear of it. I am. I've been moving openly among them for almost three months now, spreading terror by night."
He hesitated. "Why are you dressed like... that?" He nodded at my clothing.
"Because it helps conceal me, when I move through the dark. In daylight, I wear different clothing."
Benedict's voice was calm. "What can you tell us of this star thing, then? Is that your doing?"
"Aye. They call it the star of Merlyn's Vengeance. I work among them, posing as an idiot and doing menial tasks. I carry water to the cooks and do those things that warriors will not stoop to do, yet cannot live without. And in doing them I poison drinking water, and I poison food, and often wipe out whole encampments. Each time I do that, and can arrange my message without fear of interruption, I leave a grouping of eight corpses round a fire, their heads in the ashes so that they burn, their feet all pointing outwards to form an eight pointed star.
"At other times, I murder guards, or drunken men I meet among the woods at night. Those, though, I kill with poisoned thorns, leaving the unmarked corpses to be found by whomsoever might next chance that way. My purpose is, and has been, to spread terror. And to that end I have sometimes appeared in bursts of smoke and fire, frightening drunken men "who have already frightened themselves by talking of my deeds. Then, at those times, I tell them who I am, that I am Death, bearer of Merlyn's Vengeance."
Benedict laughed aloud, but the sound was strained and nervous. "By the Christ, Merlyn, you almost had me believing you, there..."
"Wait you."
I rose and walked away into the shadows of a dark corner, passing a small fire that burned in an iron basket upon the bare earth as I went. There, standing with my back to them, I reached into my robes and withdrew the warlock's mask. I placed it over my face, throwing the tangled locks of its wig over my head, and pulled my cowled hood up and forward to throw my face into shadow. That done, I reached again into my clothes to find a pinch of fire powder, then turned around and walked towards the fire, head down. I threw the powder in the fire. When the blinding flash of flame and sparks had died and all the space within the tent was. filled with roiling smoke, I stepped forward again and let them see my face.
Both men were rigid, straining away from me, petrified with shock and gazing at me in utter horror, seeing only the hideous visage of the mask. I stood silent for a moment, then intoned "I am Death", bearer of Merlyn's Vengeance!" in sepulchral tones. Finally I threw back my hood, pulled off the mask and opened the tent flaps to their widest, allowing the acrid, sulphurous smoke to dissipate. Neither man' had moved when I returned and their eyes were still staring in shock.
"Of course," I said, "you know me well, both of you, so you would not be fooled. But these Danes are pagans, terrified of insubstantial things and beings they cannot hew with axes. They believe in demons and in creatures that dwell in awful darkness. And so I feed their fears and sap their confidence in their invincibility. It is mummery, but it is effective."
Benedict appeared to have relaxed slightly, but when he spoke his voice was tight. "Aye," he muttered. "Mummery, perhaps, but it reeks of sorcery, and murder, too. What was that... that flash and all that smoke?"
"It was produced by throwing a certain powder upon a flame. No more than that." :
Falvo released his pent up breath in a long hiss. "Well,"! he said, "you've made believers out of us, with that display ... And you've been doing this now for three months, you say?" He snorted, almost managing to sound amused. "The Danes are either braver or more foolish than I thought. I would have fled long since, pursued by such demons. But did you come here merely to tell us this?"
"No, I came because I have had no news of Camulod for three months now. Is all well at home?"
"Aye, it is. No problems there," Benedict said, his voice sounding stronger. "Everything's peaceful, according to the last report we had, two days ago, and life is as it should be. "
"Good. And what of Germanus and the debate at Verulamium? Have we heard aught of that?"
"Not a word, " Falvo said, shaking his head. "It will be over now, long since. Germanus should be back in Gaul by now. "
"Bishop Enos. Has he passed this way, or sent word of any kind?' I saw their heads shake in unison. "And Arthur. What of him?" I had to fight to keep my face expressionless as I asked this, greatly fearing the answer I might receive.
"Arthur is here, " Benedict said. "Or he was, until today. He rode out with Ambrose. "
My heart leaped with relief. "How is the boy, is he well?'
"Better than well, " Falvo laughed. "And he's a boy no longer. He is a full Commander of Cavalry now, as big as you are, easily. Huge, he is, grown like a big, strong thistle, and beloved of his men. You will be proud of him, when next you see him. "
"Thank you for that, " I said, slumping in my seat from the intensity of my relief. 'Those are the finest tidings I could hear tonight. I have been terrified that something might have gone amiss with him. He was with Llewellyn, you know, when Horsa's Danes landed. "
Benedict nodded. "Aye, but they came straight to us when we arrived, and Arthur has been with us ever since. He is a sweet fighter, that lad. " '
"What happened to Llewellyn? Is he not here with Arthur?"
"He was, but he went back to be with Huw Strongarm. Will you have some more mead?"
I shook my head and rose to my feet. "No, I must leave now. I want to be far from hoe by morning, exacting Merlyn's Vengeance as usual. But before I go, I need more information. Where is Ironhair quartered, do we know? And where is Carthac? They seem to have no means of communication between their armies, save at the highest levels. Certainly none of the fools I meet have information on the whereabouts of their commanders."
Falvo stood and moved to the open flaps of the tent, his hands on his hips as he stared out into the darkness of the camp. "Ironhair is everywhere, according to reports. He never seems to stay in one place long enough for us to find out where he is. Rufio calls him the Man of Wind, since he passes like wind, and in the passing makes much noise and leaves a lingering unpleasantness..." He leaned forward and closed the flaps, shaking them loose from their ties, then turned back to me and moved to sit at the guard commander's table, where he tilted his chair back and crossed his feet on the table top.
"Carthac, on the other hand, is close by now. He has a well established camp, in a mountain valley eight miles from where we sit now, to the west. It's a natural fortress and we can't approach it—not with our horses. We have to wait until his animals come down to us. They have seven or eight ways in and out, but they all feed into three narrow approaches, higher up, and those are heavily manned and guarded at all times.
"His men think he is immortal and he has become a demigod of sorts, albeit a malign and twisted one. Every excess, every atrocity that you
may name is his indulgence, and the creatures that he leads revere him for his lusts. They throng around him in hundreds, fanatical in their adulation of the imbecile. We cannot come near him—" He paused, abstracted, then continued. "And even if we could, I seriously wonder if we could kill him. He is... elemental. A terrifying, overwhelming presence. "
"Horse turds. He's a man, Falvo, and he must die. I intend to kill him, painfully and slowly. That is why I am here, doing what I do alone. But in order to kill him I must find him, and when I've found him I must come close by him. Once he is dead, your task will become much simpler. " I moved to leave, adjusting my hood about my face. "Please pass on my greetings to my brother... Merlyn... and tell him that. Tell him that Carthac's death is my prime task. " I smiled very slightly. 'Tell him I will do nothing to contradict his identity. Tell him, too, if you will, that I think of him daily, with love, as I do Arthur, and that I hope to meet them both again some day soon, when this is over. Farewell. "