The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2)

by C. M. Gray

  They reached the protective cover of the woods, and as the first drops of rain began to fall they made their way through the dim, still twilight of the interior. It was as if the forest had held its breath it was so still, just the sound of dripping water descending, drop by drop, leaf to leaf, from all around. It was cold amongst the trees, and a thin mist was rising from the rich earth and fallen leaves of the forest floor accompanied by the rich, earthy smell of life and decay. The warriors passed through in silence, aware they were walking close to the veil between this realm and the Shadowland and they were fearful of disturbing the fragile balance.

  When they emerged, it was still raining. They quickened their steps, happy to be through the trees, anticipating the shelter by the boats and fires to warm themselves and dry what could be dried. As they came into sight of the camp where the boats were anchored by the bank of the river, they saw the warriors left there to guard the vessels had constructed several small communal huts and shelters. Smoke was rising through the loose thatch. The small community held the promise of warmth and shelter, so they quickened their pace once more, running and laughing towards it through the long grass when cries rang out from the sentries, and a horn was blown announcing that the King had returned.

  Unfortunately, the huts quickly became cramped with the return of the King and his party. They were draughty and the thatch let in streams of water in several places, but this was to be a swift halt upon their homeward journey, so for the short time expected they settled in. Woollen and hemp tunics, cloaks and britches were draped close to fires to dry and soon the draughts were beaten back, and each hut became hot, stuffy and noisy. The ground both within the huts and paths outside between them were churned to a sticky mud as warriors walked between them, and supplies were taken out to the boats to be stored below deck as they made ready to depart.

  One of the female warriors pushed through and caught Uther's attention, raising her voice over the noise. 'The Druid, Merlyn, is by the boats, King Uther. He had me come request your presence so that you might prepare with him.' She shrugged her shoulders. 'He has some rafts he wants tied behind the boats, or so he says…'

  'He has rafts with him? Uther stood. 'So I, the King, am to come at the call of the Druid, Merlyn? I think not, not this time. I am still not best pleased with him; he can wait.' Sitting down once more, he returned to the map he was trying to make with the help of Sir Ector and several others. Although he had no intention of ever returning to the Isle of Erin, he had thought it wise to record all the details he and the others could remember should the need some day arise. It may possibly be a wasted effort, but should Arthur or one of his descendants ever have need to come this way, then they might be a little more prepared than this quest had been. They were discussing the coastline that they had sailed past before sighting the high peak of Mount Killaraus, the settlements, cliffs, and estuaries when an extremely wet and bedraggled Druid pushed his way through the crush of warriors and crouched down beside Uther.

  'We leave soon?'

  'Uther turned around and smiled when he saw how wet the Druid was. Somehow it made him feel better seeing that Merlyn was suffering a little. His beard hung in wet clumps, and his woollen robe lay soaked and heavy upon his skinny frame. However, for some reason, he seemed far too happy for the way he appeared.

  'Yes, Merlyn, we are leaving as soon as the boats are loaded.'

  'Good, good.' Merlyn used his staff to heave himself up. 'The stones are ready. It will be a quick and simple task to…'

  'What do you mean the stones are ready?' Uther rose and put a hand on the Druid's shoulder, turning him around before he could walk away. 'You got the stones? How can you possibly have brought the stones down from the mountain?' But it was Merlyn, so he decided it may be so… 'Are they in the boats? And they haven't sunk yet! This is ridiculous, if you have managed to get them in the boats there won't be any room for us. Merlyn, did you think at all that…?'

  Merlyn was giggling, it was annoying, his shoulders were rocking, and his face creased up in delight.

  'Uther, I told you we would bring the stones and we are doing just that. It was a simple enough task,' - he winked and held up a bony finger - 'simple enough that is if you are a Druid.' He started to walk off again but turned once more. 'Simple anyway, for a very special Druid.' He pushed back into the throng of warriors cackling in delight.

  'Oh, spirits. What has he done?' Uther followed as the old man passed through the hall, out into the cold rain, and then down to where the boats were moored. It was getting darker, despite still being early in the day, and the rain seemed to be falling even harder. Uther glanced up at the greyness above him and shivered; it would be better to stay in the overcrowded hall than risk setting sail in this.

  Close to the boats, a few miserable warriors were standing sentry huddled under a temporary thatch, he raised a hand to them and then glanced about for Merlyn. The Druid had clambered up onto the deck of the closest and was now peering down into the water to the other side. He turned as Uther approached and pointed down into the water, jabbing his finger in different directions.

  'One hundred and sixty-two of them,' he did a little dance, 'one hundred and sixty-two and all brought down by a little old Druid!'

  Uther grabbed hold of the wet timbers of the boat, hauled himself up and went to join Merlyn on the other side of the vessel. The river beyond the boats was filled with what appeared to be shallow rafts just breaking the surface. They were tied together with stout rope, the waves of the river breaking gently on their sides with the occasional larger wave rolling over them.

  'But… Merlyn, stones don't float. They just don't.'

  'Shhh, not so loud. The stones don't know they aren't meant to be floating.'

  Uther looked down at Merlyn's smiling face and shook his head.

  Morgana's growing exasperation forced her to break her silence. 'But stones really don't float… are you trying to tell us that you just pulled the stones behind you, and they floated across the sea?'

  Uther opened his eyes. He hadn't realised he had been speaking. Oh, spirits, he had a headache, and his throat felt dry again.

  'There was nothing simple about bringing them back.' He tried to focus. He could see the dark shape of Morgana; she was holding a cup out to him. Craning his head forward he sipped, then felt the infusion flow into him bringing relief to both his throat and his head. Maude was sitting at the bottom of his sleeping pallet behind Morgana, also wearing a look of confusion, but she didn't appear to be angry, Morgana seemed angry.

  'Floating stones… incredible, but I have always maintained that the Druids of old were gifted beyond all our understanding,' said Maude to deflate the tension.

  'Amen to that,' said Morgana. She was obviously irritated that she had broken his concentration and had stopped speaking. She was frowning as she offered the cup again, and Uther sipped. His eyes were able to focus now, and the infusion was helping to clear the tension from his head.

  'So my father was branded a coward, you floated the stones by some insane miracle and brought them back here, and then what happened?'

  'You make it sound so easy, but our troubles weren't over; Merlyn insisted that we set sail as soon as possible. He refused to see that we should wait until the weather cleared, but we could all see the weather was getting worse. I suppose, looking back on it, that his magic may have had limits and he was worried that if we waited, that the stones would stop listening to his mutterings and persuasions and would begin to sink. Whatever it was, and I am still not sure how he convinced me, but convince me he did, we broke camp that same afternoon and set sail into the storm.'

  Chapter 14

  The Wrath of Lir

  What little daylight there had been as they made ready to leave had turned to near darkness before the boats had lost sight of the land and the storm was upon them. Rain lashed the Britons in stinging torrents driven by a gale that whipped the waves into a frenzy about them. The seafarers had little shelter an
d could do little other than surrender themselves to the torment and try to endure. Beneath the boats, an angry sea rose and fell as mountainous waves pounded the vessels. It flung them around as if one of the Gods was toying with them like a child playing with straw boats, raising them to the heavens and then, with little warning, dropping them back down, the deck falling out from beneath the warriors' feet leaving them floundering, to hold on as they crashed back down into the turbulent sea and icy seawater that washed over them. The planked hulls flexed and buckled, groaning under the stress of the ordeal, water already streaming in through weaker seams as warriors bailed it back out with chains of leather buckets.

  Uther's thoughts were constantly with the stones that he was all too aware were trailing behind the boats, unseen somewhere out there in the darkness. He waited, bracing himself each time the boat dropped away, expecting it to land upon a stone and smash itself to bits. And each time when they had fallen to the bottom, between waves, with the next growing over them, he would look up at the angry sea rising like a mountain and expect one of those colossal grey shapes to appear, rearing up over them before dropping out of the sky to crush them. It was worse knowing that if it didn't happen this time, then the chances were it would surely happen the next.

  Thunder boomed, and lightning flashed and crackled overhead sending many of the warriors cowering under the rowing benches in superstitious terror while others battled the sea and bailed its waters. For far worse than the threat of the storm and the possibilities of colliding with the huge stones trailing behind them, was the certainty that an angry sea god had risen and was trying to kill them.

  'Tis, Lir,' shouted Merlyn over the noise of the storm. The wind was whistling and howling through the shortened sail and past the mast sending vibrations shuddering through the boat. 'Lir… the sea God, Lir is angry that we have taken the stones from the Isle of Erin, but don't worry, he is angry, but an old God, he will tire soon enough.'

  Uther stared at Merlyn; the Druid's face illuminated by lightning as if it were in clear daylight. Rainwater poured down Merlyn's face, but the same silly grin was still in place as he shook his fist in Uther's face.

  'He cannot have the stones; they are ours now!'

  And then as if in answer to Merlyn's words, the boat dropped away once more sending both men stumbling against the side. Uther watched in dismay as he held on, but Merlyn was picked up by the wash of the wave and dragged over the side within an instant to vanish in the inky depths of the storm.

  'Merlyn! Someone get a rope…' He turned to see that nobody had heard him above the roar of the storm, so he scrambled down under a bench where earlier he had seen a coiled rope. After a few moments groping in the darkness, his fingers closed around it. Struggling to his feet again on unsteady legs, he held onto the end and hurled it overboard, desperately hoping to feel the solid resistance of the old Druid catching hold and clinging on… but there was nothing. He hauled it back in again, bracing himself against the side, hanging on to the slippery wood, nearly falling overboard in the process himself as the boat crashed into another wave, the wash of water soaking him to the skin once more before the deck lurched up into the night.

  'Merlyn!' As they readied to crash down again, Uther stood and threw the rope, watching in the flickering light as it snaked out across the waves, but he couldn't see the Druid, and again, nothing took hold of the rope. He slumped down against the side and tried to ignore the feeling of loss and desolation that suddenly overwhelmed him. Merlyn was annoying at the best of times and infuriating most of the time, but he had been with Uther every step of his rise from village boy to King of all the Britons. He had to be alive, confound him, he was Merlyn!

  Uther stood and gripped onto the side, wiping the spray and rain from his face, he stared out into the darkness waiting for the next flash of lightning. There was a solid boom and then almost immediately a shrieking crack as a jagged streak flashed across the sky. It was so bright that for one long moment, everything stopped as if unmoving, lit in the brilliant flash. The boats, some rising and some falling, the trailing lines, several stones rising, huge waves caught at the instant that they were breaking in sprays of foam, each drop of driven rain momentarily halted. It was all captured in that one brilliant, still moment and within it, Uther saw the grey rags of something floating between the next vessel and his, it had to be Merlyn.

  Tying the line about his waist he beckoned the closest warrior to come to him. The man didn't want to leave the protection of the bench he was cowering under; he realised that it was Gerlois, and he was shaking his head.

  'Uther screamed at him over the noise of the storm, 'Gerlois, come here…now!' The Duc glanced about and then with obvious reluctance, crawled out. He got to his feet and slipping awkwardly, his arms held wide for balance, made his way over until he was gripping the side next to Uther, his face a picture of distress.

  'Tie this to the bench and when you see me raise my arm, pull me in.' Uther grabbed for the side as the boat heaved upwards and looked again for Merlyn. Gerlois was still holding the rope, but not moving, just holding on, staring over the side at the roiling sea.

  'We should cut the line… the stones are holding us.' The Duc took a knife from his belt.

  'Nooo, leave the stones. The Druid has gone into the water… I need your help… '

  'He is dead,' - Gerlois glanced over the side - 'he's gone, and soon we will be too.' He made to return to the shelter of the bench and Uther grabbed him again.

  'No, he is not dead, and we are not going to die either. Now take this and tie it to the bench or Merlyn really will die… do it!' Uther handed him the rope and pushed him towards the bench and the Duc finally did as he was told, tripping and then crawling to the bench as the boat rose up beneath them once again.

  Turning back to the sea and holding tight to the ship's side, Uther waited for the next flash of lightning, it came moments later; he saw what he had thought was Merlyn once more and leapt head first over the side.

  The moment he dived, the boat was pitched up, and the side of the ship caught his ankles a hard blow that tipped him so that he landed in an untidy splash of thrashing limbs. For a moment, he was enveloped in hissing, bubbling confusion, in near silence compared to the roaring madness above. Forcing his arms to move, he did his best to ignore the pain in his ankles and clawed his way upwards in search of the surface. The rope about his waist was both a hindrance with its weight, but also a welcome security helping him find the right direction for the surface. He kicked and swam, dragging himself up through the water until he was finally drawing in a gasping breath of air. All around was howling confusing, but another flash showed the dark shapes of two vessels some way off and then when he glanced back to see the boat he had left, blinding lightning flashed behind it, and he just managed to clamp his eyes shut in time.

  'Aaahhh.' He turned once more and kicked out in the direction that he hoped Merlyn would be in, it was so confusing, but there was no time to think about it or get any help from the boat. Trying to ignore the howl of the wind and the crashing of the ships as the next flow of waves caught them up, Uther began to swim, dragging himself through the water.

  He felt the sea rise as the next wave picked him up and he stopped swimming and tried to see, but his eyes were stinging from the saltwater, and the flashes of light were too brief, so he swam on. Another crack of thunder moments later was followed by a flash of lightning, and once again he was at the top of a wave, he rubbed at his eyes and stared around, then realised he was looking at the bundle of rags he had seen before, it was Merlyn, and quite close, but he was floating face down.

  'Merlyn!' Uther tugged on the rope trying to get more freedom of movement, it gave, and he swam on, kicking out, swimming hard, but with his head raised, the rope a constant weight trying to draw him down, yet he swam, desperate to catch sight of the Druid again. The boats were passing him, he could feel them, and when the next explosion of lightning hit, it confirmed that they were now a good distanc
e further on through the swells, he began to feel a wave of panic, they were both going to die out here alone, yet the line was still about him, so he kept going and then he saw him again, 'Merlyn!'

  Feeling a renewed surge of hope, he swam hard, then managed to catch hold of the limp body; he struggled to turn him over. The Druid was limp and unmoving. He held Merlyn's chin up with his hand to keep his face out of the water, and tugged hard on the rope, lifting one arm above his head and waving in the hope Gerlois would begin pulling them in, but the line was slack, and the boats were moving on. If there were any close, they were lost in the awful madness of the storm, but surely one of them must be near? He pulled on the rope again, and it still remained slack, if that cowardly bastard, Gerlois had…? His legs kicked as he trod water and then, without warning, something hit him and pushed him along, and he realised it was one of the stones! The top was almost at the same level as the surface of the sea and the line pulling it was right beside him, they were being dragged along, so he pulled Merlyn close and then hauled himself up on top, somehow managing to heave Merlyn up after him.

  Sitting high on the rising stone, Uther began shivering violently, he turned Merlyn over and put his face close to the Druid's mouth, but he couldn't tell if he were breathing or not. There was so much noise and movement that it wasn't a surprise, but he hoped he must be living. He needed help; he pulled the rope in, arm over arm until the loose end skittered across the surface towards him. He held it up and felt the end; it had been cut.