Merlin's Shadow Page 14

  “He is their shaman … their witch doctor,” Colvarth said. “The druidow of ages ago were thus, or so is whispered in our rare-spoken lore.”

  Scafta stepped over at Necton’s call and studied the tapestry, his feet tense and ready to jump as if it would strike him. The wind blew, and the tapestry flapped a bit, causing Scafta to grab a spear. With a cry the witch doctor drove the point through the image’s chest, and he danced around it shaking his stick, warning all the warriors of its danger.

  When this ceremony was done, Scafta threw the tapestry into a nearby fire, and Merlin was glad to see the near likeness of Vortigern go up in flames.

  There were exceptions to Necton’s theft, however — for apparently the Picts had a love of music. Necton let Colvarth and Merlin keep their harps, since Necton was unable to play them himself.

  When Necton pulled the sack with Garth’s bagpipe out of the pile, however, Scafta’s eyes lit up, and the witch doctor started pawing the leather bag, its drone pieces, and the chanter.

  Garth stepped forward, his cheeks red, and he tried grabbing it from them. “Leave that alone, you … I’ll not lose it again!”

  Necton, still gripping the bagpipe with one hand, slipped his new blade from his belt and pointed it at Garth.

  With the blade threatening him, Garth let go and jumped away. “I mean … I mean … you can have it … if you insist!”

  Necton sheathed his blade, and then tried to put the bagpipe together. He dropped some of the drone pieces, however, and couldn’t figure it out. With a bark, he motioned for Garth.

  Garth, puffing his cheeks in and out, put it together. And when he was finished, Necton yanked it away and tried to play it. When only squeaks came out, he threw it on the ground and lifted his foot to stomp on it.

  Rage rose up in Merlin. Would this Pict ruin everything dear to them? Garth prized nothing if not his bagpipe. Before Necton’s foot came down, Merlin leapt forward and pushed him back. Necton slammed Merlin in the chest, knocking his breath away and sprawling him in the mud.

  That was when Scafta intervened. He pulled from his bag a single, shiny gold piece and offered it to Necton, who shifted his eyes from Garth, to Merlin, and then back to Scafta and his coin, now spinning between the man’s fingers like a toy.

  “Keep’ive foir song magic,” Scafta said, and he stepped on Merlin’s fingers, which happened to be resting on a sharp rock.

  Merlin wanted to shout but had to suck air instead.

  Garth dropped to his knees and begged Necton to let him keep it. “Please, sir … I’ll play it for you, promise!”

  Necton pushed Garth away, shook his head until another gold coin joined the first, and then took both, allowing Scafta to scoop up the bagpipe and walk off with it, a wicked glint in the witch doctor’s eyes.

  Garth wept.

  Merlin pulled himself up, cradling his bleeding fingers, and saw warriors had brought a set of slave collars. Every fiber in Merlin’s body wanted to resist, but surrounded and weaponless, he had no choice.

  Each collar had been made of two pieces of wrought iron, joined at the back by a bent pin. The left side of the collar ended in a small link. The right side ended in a large link and a chain attached just before it. The small link was threaded through the large link, and then the chain was threaded through the small link, securing it. The chain was then slid onto the next slave collar. Thus they were chained together into two groups; Colvarth led the first, followed by Natalenya, and Caygek. The second group was only Garth and Merlin — or so he thought.

  Garth, in particular, looked down at his slave collar a long time as if there was something funny about it. Merlin tried to ignore him.

  Necton dragged forth another man with long black hair. His face was swollen, bruised, and bloody from a beating, and he lay there, dazed. His eyelids puffed out grotesquely, and he could barely open them.

  As Necton ripped off the man’s deep green cloak, Merlin spied there a brooch — the golden boar that Uther’s warriors all pinned on their cloaks.

  He was Vortigern’s man.

  Necton also stripped him of his shirt of iron scales and put it on himself. The stranger bled from his side — a sword or spear had sliced near his ribs. The blood had dried down his tunic onto his breeches. If the wound was deep, the man would probably be dead within a few days.

  And then Merlin recognized him. He was the warrior Merlin had battled on horseback, as well as on the fishing boat. He alone of all Vortigern’s warriors had been taken by the Picti.

  Necton clapped a thrall ring upon him just ahead of Garth, and the man groaned, trying to pull it off. For this he was beat with a stout club until he collapsed to the ground, his legs jerking. They locked it by bending a thick iron pin with a massive hammer.

  A little later the man awoke.

  Merlin helped him sit up and asked his name.

  “Bed-dwir,” the man said, his tongue thick, and then Merlin truly knew him. He wasn’t just a warrior, but rather one of the war chieftains underneath Vortigern. Merlin had met him at Uther’s war council held in the king’s tent. But Merlin had been blind then and hadn’t seen his face. Uther had asked for their advice in dealing with the villagers’ disloyalty, and Bedwir had recommended holding a dance with music and mead to win over their hearts — clearly the kindest approach given by one of the war chieftains.

  So here before Merlin sat a man who’s heart brimmed with grace and forgiveness — but also dauntless courage, for Bedwir had been the first to attack Merlin twice. Was he loyal to Arthur … or Vortigern?

  “I’m Merlin. I met you in Uther’s tent, and we’ve fought twice near Dintaga.” He half-expected Bedwir to become enraged, but instead he grasped Merlin’s hand and squeezed.

  “Is … Arthur safe?” he asked, his head lolling to the side.

  Merlin motioned for Garth to hand Arthur to him, and he placed the boy in Bedwir’s lap.

  Arthur eyed Bedwir silently and folded his small hands, not knowing who the strange man was or why he should be put in his grasp.

  Bedwir kissed Arthur’s head, and tears streamed from the slits of his eyelids. “He’s here … O blessed God, he’s here!”

  Colvarth stepped close now, Natalenya and Caygek chained behind him. “Follower of Vortigern, do you know me?”

  Bedwir reached out and found the bard’s shoulder. “Colvarth, I do know you — at least your voice — and I doubt no longer your loyalty to Arthur.”

  “We fled from Vortigern and his blade.”

  “Justly, for this n-night I finally overheard him plotting … with Vortipor to k-kill Arthur.”

  Bedwir swooned, and Merlin steadied him. “Are you all right?”

  “Vortigern speared me, but I think my ribs saved my life.”

  “If God has saved you,” Colvarth said, “there is a blacker thing than death at hand.”

  The sun rose, red as blood, and Merlin yanked at the slave collar once again, hoping beyond hope that it would loosen and he could slip it off. But it was not so. Indeed, the thrall rings were heavy, and Merlin’s had already begun to chafe his collarbones. He tugged at it again, feeling the iron with his fingertips to find any cracks or flaws in its forging, but there were none. He studied the chain likewise but found no hope of breaking it without tools — and being the son of a blacksmith, he would know.

  Necton stepped over and pulled Arthur from Bedwir’s hands. Holding up the boy, he studied Arthur for the first time, almost like a trinket he might keep or throw away. Arthur’s lips pouted, and the boy was about to cry, his legs wiggling so high above the ground.

  Setting Arthur between his feet, Necton pulled off the boy’s shirt and then whistled for a warrior to come over. The warrior brought a leather satchel and untied it. Necton knelt down, dipped his fingers in, and smeared greasy woad paint over Arthur’s chest.

  The warriors around him shouted and shook their spears. “Chrithane! Chrithane! Now ish boiy an Chrithane Mor!”

  Merlin cringed. Nect
on intended to raise Arthur to be a Pict, a warrior of the mountainous north — and unless Merlin could free them somehow, Arthur would fight against his own people.

  And even though the boy was given back to Garth to be cared for, Merlin worried how long that would last.

  Merlin saw among the Picts the same horses they had set free in the dark. These were prized because they helped the warriors carry home more plunder, and Scafta-big-hair took the honor of doling them out to certain warriors that pleased him. Necton didn’t get one, but he traded with one of the lucky warriors for it. Caygek’s sword was part of the bargain.

  A moan escaped Caygek’s lips as his blade disappeared into the mass of warriors.

  During this time, Ealtain reattached a wheel to his chariot with a hammer.

  They marched when the sun rose above a distant hill, and their pace was brutal. Merlin was grateful for his position at the back of the line because it allowed him to see the needs of those in front — and pray for them.

  Natalenya — she could barely handle the walk and stumbled often. Merlin longed to help her but was glad when Colvarth allowed her to lean upon his shoulder.

  For Bedwir, the man had trouble keeping up at first, but rallied to prevent Necton’s spear from jabbing another slit in his side.

  Garth, the saint that he was, carried Arthur most of the time and tried to keep him happy. Between all of Garth’s funny faces and his alternating sad and cheerful demeanor, the two had clearly bonded.

  “Arth, you’re better’n a bagpipe, that’s for sure,” Merlin overheard him say. “But it’d sure be nice to have both. I’d teach you to be a piper like me father, that’s what I’d do.”

  For the most part, the Picts ignored them, but now and then Merlin, at the back, would get rammed by Scafta with his witch doctor stick. He would lean over his chariot, leering, and say foul things, spittle slipping from his dirty teeth.

  From the position of the sun, it appeared they were heading northeast, and Merlin pled with God that a band of warriors from Kembry would accost the Picts and set he and his friends free. During the warmest part of the day they rested and drank in a deep forest. Necton ate fish and smoked meat but only offered his slaves dried bread.

  Before they left again, Ealtain came up. “Joined us yiu an right time. Now go back’idh north we are to homes — and begin we an thrail taking.”

  “This is a common practice,” Colvarth explained to them later. “Raiders sweep down from the north, pillaging as they go, but don’t take any slaves until they turn back toward home.”

  They marched for five more hours that day, and it was mercifully cut short well before dusk. All of them had held up well except Natalenya, for by the end she had to be helped by both Colvarth and Caygek. Merlin ached to help her, but Necton’s spear kept him bringing up the rear.

  They retreated into the woods again, and the warriors seemed tense, sharpening their spears and chatting in low, excited whispers over their meal.

  Colvarth, with the sharpest ears for their strange tongue, told them what was being said. “Ealtain has requested to attack a nearby village. To decide the matter, Scafta has studied the flight of birds to and from the otherworld — or so he says. Because of this, he has authorized the attack. The birds tell him it will not rain … apparently he does not consider fighting in the rain to be auspicious. And the men hope for treasure and to add new slaves for the journey home.”

  Merlin shifted his slave collar. “Do you think there’s a force in Kembry large enough to stop them?”

  “Perhaps if many villages banded together … but that is unlikely since most have gone to fight the Saxenow on the coast. The High King will not return there to lead them, sadly.”

  “Yes he will … but the torc of the king will be worn by Vortigern.” Merlin regretted saying it, but it was the truth.

  Colvarth sighed. “My great failure, yes … O, God, I did not see the scoundrel, even while he was nesting in my beard!”

  “At least our heads won’t be on his spears.”

  “And for that, let the Lord be thanked.”

  “I wish the Romans were still here keeping the Picts in check. I never dreamed they raided this far south.”

  “Ah but the Pax Romana is gone, and do not wish for it again, for it was really nothing but the Pretium Romana, the Bribes of the Romans … and so now the Picts take by blade what they’d been given by the Romans to keep the peace. What we need is a strong High King to prevent such brazen attacks.”

  “We must find a way to free Arthur.”

  “Yes.”

  Necton stepped up to them. The scale armor he’d stolen from Bedwir was now smeared with blue woad, and some of the paint had mixed with Bedwir’s dried blood. Next to him stood a smaller warrior holding a spear with a barbed tip. “Watch’idh guard yiu while attack-i we this village. Stay’ive here yiu, or slit’idh guard yiu.”

  They figured out Necton was leaving to attack a village, and a guard — who looked like a shorter, younger Necton — was going to watch them. Soon the warriors formed up a long line, and after crashing their spears together, they raced off through the woods due west.

  The guard tossed his red hair out of his eyes and laughed. To reinforce his new power over them, he ripped Merlin’s tunic with the end of his spear.

  Ganieda screamed, her back to the rock wall of the crennig.

  Strangers surrounded her, peering at her. Ah, they tried to smile, but she could see through it — their quick glances and their smirking faces told all. That cruel man had hit her grandfather, the only family she had left, and had stolen her away.

  He stood in front, with thick, fox fur boots wrapped over his brown pants. The man’s tunic was woven finely with many different colors, making up a plaid she hadn’t seen before. His big hands still held his spear, and Ganieda could tell he was just waiting to skewer her with it. He had a red-yellow beard, and she could see his sneaky eyes just under his dark eyebrows.

  Next to him stood a woman, her hair hidden in a striped white-and-orange wrap. Her hands were stained a light brown, and she had a long wooden spoon in her apron. Behind her peeked out three girls. One was younger than Ganieda, one was about the same age, and the tallest was older. Those frog-eyes, why wouldn’t they look away?

  The woman stepped over and knelt before her.

  “Tellyk,” Ganieda screamed. If he were here, he’d rip them with his fangs, he would —

  Fangs? How could Ganieda have forgotten so quickly? She slipped her hand into her bag, and pulled out her long fang.

  The woman reached out to her. “There’s no need to be afraid …”

  Ganieda scratched the woman’s arm, and a stirring of power climbed up Ganieda’s spine.

  The woman screeched and pulled back.

  But Ganieda wasn’t through yet, and she leapt forward, raising the fang.

  The man, however, bent down and seized her wrist, bending her arm away from the woman. “Imelys, get the rope. I told you she was wild!”

  Ganieda pulled the man’s hair. “Let go! Where’s my wolf, and where’s my grandfather? I’ll kill you!” But she realized she had spoken in the tongue of the druidow, and these foolish people wouldn’t understand her.

  The man twisted her hand holding the fang until her elbow and shoulder burned. She tried to get her hand free, but unable to do so, she let go of his hair, and tears began pouring down her cheeks. She didn’t want them to see her tears, and tried to brush the wetness away with her sleeve, but the man wouldn’t let go.

  “That hurts,” she screamed.

  One of the girls brought a thin rope, and the man grabbed it and wrestled Ganieda until he had tied her left wrist.

  She shrieked.

  “Troslam, don’t do this!” said the woman.

  He wound the rope around the other wrist and yanked it tight. “We have no choice.” The man finished with a messy knot, and then bound her feet with the remaining length.

  The rope burned her skin. Ganieda thrash
ed her body and pulled to get free, but couldn’t. She tried digging the fang into the rope to cut it, but the man snatched the fang from her grasp. So quick, and it was gone. She screamed. “Give it back — give it back!” She would kill him if she got free. He would regret this. They would all weep in their regret.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE KNOCK O’ BHAIRDS

  Merlin thought they would all get to rest while the warriors were off raiding, but he was wrong — very wrong. The guard forced them all to a nearby stream where clothing had been strewn around in piles.

  The guard commanded them to start washing the clothes in the stream, and then he sat on a rock with his sharp spear across his lap.

  Merlin looked at the clothes and realized why they needed washing. They were soaked in blood — all of them. The clothes had been stripped by the Picts from their victims, whose blood had dried onto the cloth.

  Merlin glared at the guard, who pretended to gut Merlin with the tip of his spear. The thought of attempting to escape flitted through Merlin’s mind, but he let it go. There were five other warriors left in the camp, and he and his fellow prisoners would never make it. So submitting, he bent down, and began scrubbing a horrific, bloody tunic, whose previous owner had been stabbed three times.

  The rest followed his example, picking up whatever cloth lay near. Before Garth began, though, he set Arthur down in the grass with a piece of bread, and the boy alternated sucking on the bread and playing with the stalks, here and there pulling them up in fistfuls.

  This went on for an hour, and with each garment, Merlin began to despair a little more — for their future, and for the future of the villagers who were being attacked by the Picts. He wanted to pray but found it hard, what with the red-stained brook slowly flowing past and the slave collar noosed around his neck.

  Natalenya began to sob.

  Merlin looked over, and in her shaking hands lay a little tunic. Some boy, maybe three winters and not much older than Arthur, had been slain by the Picts, and then stripped of his clothes. Her tears fell upon it, and she tried to scrub it, but could not control her trembling.