Merlin's Blade Read online

  Merlin’s

  Blade

  ROBERT TRESKILLARD

  In loving memory of my mother,

  with thanksgiving for her life and love.

  Psalm 65

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE: THE DRAGON STAR

  PART ONE: GUILE’S DUST

  CHAPTER 1: AN ERRAND GONE ASTRAY

  CHAPTER 2: A PATH FOR WOLVES

  CHAPTER 3: THE TRIAL

  CHAPTER 4: THE JUDGMENT

  CHAPTER 5: HUNTED

  CHAPTER 6: FEVERED VISIONS

  CHAPTER 7: THE STONE

  CHAPTER 8: NOTHING TO HOLD ON TO

  CHAPTER 9: THE NIGHT OF DECISIONS

  PART TWO: SHACKLE’S POWER

  CHAPTER 10: STRANGE MEETINGS

  CHAPTER 11: A GIFT AND A PROPHECY

  CHAPTER 12: TOUCHING FIRE

  CHAPTER 13: STANDING STRONG

  CHAPTER 14: A CHANGE OF PLANS

  CHAPTER 15: THE GALOW GOLM

  CHAPTER 16: THINGS FORGOTTEN

  CHAPTER 17: SHACKLED SECRETS

  CHAPTER 18: HIDDEN PLANS

  CHAPTER 19: REVELATIONS OF THE HEART

  CHAPTER 20: THE ARCH DRUID

  PART THREE: BLADE’S EDGE

  CHAPTER 21: THE HIGH KING

  CHAPTER 22: THE MOST CHERISHED GIFT

  CHAPTER 23: THE BLADE STRIKES

  CHAPTER 24: OATHS UNTAKEN

  CHAPTER 25: MYSTERIES UNBIDDEN

  CHAPTER 26: ADVICE UNHEEDED

  CHAPTER 27: CONSEQUENCES

  CHAPTER 28: THE WORDS OF THE STONE

  CHAPTER 29: THE SECRETS OF THE TOWER

  CHAPTER 30: THE PLOTS OF MEN

  CHAPTER 31: BELTAYNE

  CHAPTER 32: A DANGER UNFORESEEN

  CHAPTER 33: AN END UNIMAGINED

  CHAPTER 34: A LAMENT UNSPOKEN

  CHAPTER 35: HAMMER AND STONE

  CHAPTER 36: THE FORGE OF SUFFERING

  CHAPTER 37: THE SURRENDERED LIFE

  EPILOGUE

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  GLOSSARY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  PROLOGUE

  THE DRAGON STAR

  BOSVENNA MOOR

  IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 407

  The pine trees mocked his youth, their thin, green fingers fretting in the wind. If he didn’t move fast, they would betray him — he just knew it — and the deer would get away … again. Arvel wiped his brow, stole across an expanse of dead pine needles, and crouched behind a bush strangled by bindweed and its poisonous red berries.

  Holding his breath, he nocked an arrow.

  The three deer chewed and sniffed.

  Arvel’s throat tingled and his body tensed. He parted the leaves at the side of the bush with his arrow as shadows danced on its pewter tip.

  The deer twitched their ears and turned their heads in unison.

  Arvel drew back the bowstring — and winced as the wood creaked.

  Instantly, hoofs jerked and legs tensed.

  He sped the arrow toward its mark, and it pierced the buck deeply. Even as the does vanished into the forest, the antlered one fell.

  Arvel whooped, and the sound echoed across the rock-strewn hills and faded into the deep forest. He stretched his shoulders to ease the tension as he inspected his prize. The meat would feed his family for many days. At only fourteen winters, he had downed his first deer.

  A spring gurgled only a stone’s throw away, and he longed to drink the pure water. But did he dare leave his kill? In answer, the wind sighed and clattered a branch behind him. He pulled out his knife as he turned to study the bushes. Thieves hid nearby, he was certain, ready to creep out and steal his meat.

  With wary eyes he cleaned and skinned the buck, daring to imagine the celebration his family would hold that night. His little sister would prance and play, and his mother would stir the stew pot and praise his skill with the bow. He grinned at the thought. Ah, and they would have smoked meat all through the winter if his hunting went like this, enough to share and hopefully boast about. After all, wouldn’t he be the best hunter on the moor — just like his father?

  His grin faded. His father had been taken as a slave by raiding warriors. Arvel drove the knife deep into the buck’s haunch and waited for his vision to clear. When he finished cutting up the meat, he placed it inside the folded deer hide. Then, just as his father had taught him, he knifed holes along the edge of the pelt. Through these holes he threaded twigs to seal the meat well enough for the hike back to his borrowed boat and the long row home.

  The sun reddened as Arvel axed down two saplings and roped the hide-bound bundle to them for a makeshift sled. The job done, he hefted the poles and made his way through the trees with some difficulty. Finally out on the open moor, he spied his boat — a large coracle — in the distance, tied up along the shoreline of the marsh.

  He crossed the moor, struggling due to the weight of the sled, and finally reached the marsh’s edge. Panting, he loaded his meat into the boat’s hull, then took his seat. The wood groaned under the pull of the oars, and the boat rocked as he glided away from the shore. Arvel’s stomach soured. He trusted his own booted feet more than a jumble such as this. Glancing back at his precious venison, he wondered why he had borrowed this boat.

  From the branch of an alder that stood among the sedge grasses, a red-legged raven swooped down and snatched up a frog. The bird flew to the prow, looked at him with menacing eyes, and then ripped the frog to pieces, gulping down its wriggling legs.

  “Get away, you!” Arvel swung an oar at the bird, and it flapped away.

  Twilight descended as he rowed. The stars appeared, but they refused to reflect off the turgid water. The moon raised its leprous head through the trees, casting anxious shadows on the reeds that rattled against the boat.

  Lifting, dropping, and pulling the oars, Arvel felt as if someone was watching him. Closing his eyes, he listened but heard nothing except the clicking jaws of insects … the croaks of frogs … the calls of a few birds … and the greasy splash of the water. The impulse to turn around pressed upon him. Did someone lurk in another boat or on an island?

  Ah, foolishness — not at this time of night. But the desire to look grew stronger. Hairs rose on Arvel’s neck, and a chill slid down his tunic like a cold snake. Someone was watching him.

  He turned, surprised to see he’d made so much progress. On his right stood the tip of Inis Avallow, the largest island in the marsh, and far down its length he spied the old, crumbling tower. As he rowed, the shadowy ruins and scattered descendants of an ancient apple orchard slid past him. But he felt no malice there.

  He turned the other way and scrutinized the waters along the shore. The dark mass of a mountain, the Meneth Gellik, rose to his left. Soon he’d be at Bosventor’s familiar docks and the safety of home. No need to worry.

  Then he beheld the Dragon Star.

  Arvel stared in awe. Across the southwestern sky floated a ball of blue flame with two tails, one straight and the other curving upward. Though these tails had inspired the star’s draconian name, Arvel liked to think of the shape as an arrowhead. The star had appeared near the end of summer, and, fixed there in the sky each night, the mysterious blaze slowly moved westward toward the setting sun as the season changed.

  He shook his head. It couldn’t be. And yet the instant he looked away and back again, he knew the Dragon Star watched him like some bulbous blue eye. Was he going mad, like his grandfather?

  Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling. His throat closed up, and he wanted to leap out of the boat and swim for sho
re. But he forced himself to sit still, because a hunter mustn’t give in to such panic. Certainly not the best hunter on the moor.

  As he’d trained himself to do when hunting the tusk-boar with his father, he bent his fear and strung tight his courage. Picking up his bow, Arvel slowly readied an arrow. When he could wait no longer, he aimed right at the Dragon Star and let the arrow fly with a satisfying zip.

  As the arrow splashed into a distant part of the marsh, Arvel smiled in triumph and turned away from the star to grip the oars.

  But when his gaze met the horizon, he saw something unexpected.

  The marsh lit up as if the full moon had burst into flame. Bright and brighter, an orange light flickered along the boat’s rim.

  A tremendous roaring filled the air, and a ferocious mass of living fire shot over his head. It descended with deadly power just beyond the marsh and struck a low hill. Chunks of earth and a white-hot blaze exploded outward.

  He shrieked as his hair ignited and his eyebrows singed away. His clothing and skin smoldered, and within moments the boat’s wood and leather caught fire like kindling.

  The marsh and open water churned in liquid convulsion. The boat spun and was thrown into the air, just as a crushing wind shattered all the trees and sucked Arvel’s lungs empty. The aged boat ruptured beneath him, and he fell into the watery chaos.

  His hands flailed at the venison as the waves roared over his head. He saw the beloved face of his mother and the face of his missing father.

  But they faded, and a shadowed vision arose in their place.

  Arvel beheld the clans and peoples of Britain gathered together. And each one — young and old, farmer, craftsman, warrior, chieftain, and king alike — worshiped the Dragon Star. Yet even as the people bowed, the Dragon Star betrayed them and blazed forth blue flames of destruction. All through the land it raged, along with swarming invaders who slaughtered, enslaved, and pillaged.

  Death. Death and destruction.

  The souls of many wept, and above all a woman’s voice called:

  Woe! Woe to Britain!

  For the Dragon Star has come,

  and who will save us?

  PART ONE

  GUILE’S DUST

  BIRTHED AS FLAME, THE DRAGON STAR FALLING;

  WRAPPED IN WATER, THE DEAF ONE CALLING;

  CIRCLED IN SHADOW, THE BOUND ONE WEEPING;

  MALICED EVIL THE BANKS ENTOMBING;

  HIDDEN ON HILL, THERE THE DEEP LAKE LIES.

  CHAPTER 1

  AN ERRAND GONE ASTRAY

  THE VILLAGE OF BOSVENTOR

  SPRING, IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 477

  Merlin frowned. He didn’t know what he wanted more: to talk with Natalenya or to hide. After all, how many young men walked past the house of the girl they admired while pushing an overstuffed wheelbarrow? And how many were accompanied by a boy wearing a too-big monk’s robe who insisted on playing bagpipe?

  Wasn’t the rope, wooden tub, bundle of herbs, and sack of oats quite enough to fill the barrow? Did Garth really have to add a squawking hen and a young goat too?

  Merlin turned his half-blind gaze to the bobbing boy with red hair. “You told me, ‘Not another thing to deliver,’ and now look what we’ve got.”

  Garth’s lips let go of the mouthpiece, and his bagpipe squeaked out a long last note. “How could I say no?”

  Merlin tripped on a large stone, nearly rolling the tub out of the wheelbarrow. “You’re supposed to warn me when a rock is coming, remember?”

  “I forget those eyes o’ yours can’t see much. You’ve been gettin’ along so well.”

  “Not since you added two extra things, and they don’t just lie in the wheelbarrow. No, they cluck, bleat, and leap out every twenty steps.”

  “But they’re for the abbey. We’ll drop ‘em off on the way and —”

  “They’re for your Sabbath supper.”

  “Hadn’t thought o’ that.” Garth kicked a rock away from the path, and it skittered down the hill.

  “When they were offered, you said, ‘A nice dinner for the brothers at the abbey’ and ‘Thank you very much.’ Hah!”

  “All right, so I thought it.” Garth halted. “Ho, there, wait a bit. I saw somethin’ move.”

  Merlin stopped pushing the wheelbarrow. “What now?”

  Garth knelt down and advanced into the bushes on all fours.

  Merlin could see only a smudge of Garth sticking out from beneath the green leaves, and then a colorful blotch flew out above the boy’s head.

  “I found me a tuck snack!” Garth bounced up and placed a warm egg in Merlin’s palm.

  Merlin judged the egg’s size to be about half of a chicken’s.

  “Three of ‘em!” Garth said. “Oh, but how can I carry ‘em? The goat’ll eat ‘em in the barrow, and I can’t hold ‘em and play me bagpipe too.”

  Merlin reached out, felt for Garth’s hood, and dropped his egg to the bottom. “How’s that?”

  “Perfect. Yer clever at times, you are.”

  Merlin held out his hand for the other two eggs and set them beside the first.

  Fuffing up his bagpipe with air, Garth resumed playing as he marched down the hill.

  Merlin followed, and as the hill leveled out, he was better able to keep the barrow steady. But that was when his heart started wobbling, because he knew by the big blur of a rock coming up that they were about to walk by —

  “Look at that house,” Garth said, stopping to take a breath. “A big house … behind those trees. Didn’t notice it on the way up.”

  In vain, Merlin shook the black hair away from his eyes. He wished he could see if Natalenya was home. “You’ve only been here a month … but you’ve heard of the magister, haven’t you?”

  “Sure. The brothers at the abbey pay taxes to the ol’ miser.”

  “He’s not old, and his name’s Tregeagle. “He and his wife have two sons and a daughter.”

  “Those the boys that called you ‘Cut-face’?”

  “Yeah.” Merlin scowled at the memory. The hurled insults had been followed by a goodly sized rock, which had only narrowly missed his head.

  But Natalenya was different. She never mentioned Merlin’s scars. During worship at the chapel, she was always polite and asked him questions now and then, almost like a friend. So when Merlin’s father had asked him and Garth to get charcoal with the wheelbarrow, Merlin suggested that Garth get a tour of the fortress too. The fact that they’d pass Natalenya’s house twice was a small coincidence, of course, even if it was out of their way.

  The problem was that an empty wheelbarrow was just too inviting, and practically everyone had given them things to deliver. And now they had the goat and chicken as well. Out of embarrassment, Merlin almost wished Natalenya wouldn’t be home.

  “What does the house look like?” he asked. “Tell me what I’m seeing.”

  “Ornate kind of … Bigger than the mill, I’d say, an’ made o’ fancy stone. The roof’s got lapped bark with a real stone chimney, not jus’ a hole for smoke.” Garth paused. “Why does the magister’s door have a bronze bird on it?”

  “It’s the ensign of a Roman legion. An eagle, or an aquila, to be precise. His family’s descended from soldiers on the coast.”

  “Huh. Why’d the Romans come here? Nothin’ here but hills, woods, an’ a bit o’ water.”

  “For the tin and copper. A little silver,” Merlin said. “None of the brothers explained that?”

  “Haven’t had time for history, what with fishin’, seein’ you, workin’, and eatin’ o’ course.”

  “Do you see anyone at the Magister’s house? Maybe a daughter?”

  “Nah … no girl. Nothin’ but a little smoke.”

  The sound of horses’ hooves clattered toward them from farther down the hill. Merlin had just turned in the direction of the sound when Garth shoved his shoulder.

  “A wagon!” Garth cried. “Out o’ the road!”

  The driver shouted as Merlin scrambled to pu
sh the wheelbarrow off to the side.

  “Make way for the magister,” the man shouted. “Make way!”

  A whip snapped and the air cracked above Merlin’s head.

  The wheelbarrow hit a rock, and Merlin felt it tilt out of his control just as Garth ran into his back, causing him to fall, with a chicken flapping against his face. Merlin removed the feathered mass in time to see the blur of the goat leap over the tub and everything else tumble out of the barrow.

  The wagon rumbled by and came to an abrupt stop in front of the magister’s house.

  Merlin sat up and rubbed his knees. He felt around for the bag of oats and found it spilled on the ground — a feast for the chicken and goat. At least it would keep them nearby.

  The passengers climbed out of the wagon, and amid the general din of everyone walking toward the house, Merlin heard a soft, lovely voice and a gentle strumming. “Garth, is that a harp?”

  “A small one, sure. A lady is holdin’ it.” Garth rose and brushed off his knees. “The magister ignored us, him in his fancy white robe. But did you see those boys? They’d liked to have kicked us.”

  Merlin pushed the goat away from the oats and knelt to scoop what grain he could find back into the bag. “How old?”

  “Oh, the bigger one weren’t more’n yer age, an’ the other’s about fourteen, I’d say.”

  “That’s do-nothing Rondroc and Dyslan. I meant the one with the harp. Was that the mother?”

  “Oh, no,” Garth said. “Must be the daughter … but a lot older’n your sister. She held herself straight and ladylike. Does she come to chapel?”

  “Natalenya and her mother came two weeks ago. Tregeagle doesn’t let them come every week.” Merlin had never heard the magister’s daughter sing so sweetly before.

  Garth tapped him. “Hey, look at those horses!”

  Merlin rubbed his chin and closed his eyes. “Pretty?”

  “Very! That yellin’ wagon driver tied ‘em to a post an’ —”

  “Must be Erbin.” Merlin chuckled and swatted Garth. “But I’m talking about Natalenya. I don’t remember what she looks like. Is she pretty?”