Merlin's Shadow Page 15

  Merlin wanted to comfort her, but did not know how without angering the guard. Then an idea struck him. He dried his hands on his pants, pulled his small harp from its leather satchel, and began plucking a hymn he’d learned at the chapel in Bosventor.

  The guard stood and watched Merlin intently, but then sat down again on his rock and listened.

  This is what Merlin sang:

  O great Father, dark in thy thunder,

  Come now, forgive us, turn wrath aside.

  Thee do we worship, thy strength a wonder;

  Come now and help us, thy hand a guide.

  Colvarth knew the song, for he joined in, and Garth must have heard it at least once, for he tried to sing a little. Natalenya sucked in her sobs and, breathing hard, paused as if listening to the words.

  O high, holy Son, red in thy blood,

  Come now, forgive us, cover and save.

  We are thy people, drown’d in the flood;

  Come now and pull us from death’s dark wave.

  It was hard to trust God while wearing a slave collar, so as he played and sang, Merlin tried to think of God’s goodness and of his own need for forgiveness. Thankfully Natalenya finally found her voice, and raised it shakily on the last verse.

  O sweet, blessed Spirit, high in thy halls,

  Come and forgive us, from deepest shame.

  Wash us, cleanse us, for we are but thralls;

  Come now and free us, whisper our name.

  Even with the verses sung, Merlin still played the tune, humming it to himself.

  Natalenya nodded to Merlin with a thankful expression, and he returned the gaze, allowing himself for a moment to enjoy the beauty of her eyes again.

  But he had to look away or his heart would melt, and so he focused back on the harp. And just when he thought that he, as well as Natalenya, had found the strength to continue scrubbing the awful, spear-ripped clothing — Scafta arrived.

  Apparently he’d come back early from the raiding and had heard them singing. In particular, he’d heard Merlin singing.

  “Yiu doig with scars,” he said, pointing at Merlin with his witch doctor stick. “Yiu stop!”

  But Merlin defied him and kept on playing, if only to gall the man.

  “Yiu think yiu am bhaird?” he yelled as his nostrils flared and the veins pulsed on his neck. “Airson challenge-amsa yiu before our wiarr-band for am Knock o’ Bhairds.”

  Hitting Merlin over the head, he stumped off.

  Merlin looked to Colvarth for an explanation, but the bard only hummed while he scrubbed a blood-soaked scarf upon a rock.

  “Colvarth? What was that all about?”

  The man stopped his humming, sat up, and bit his lip. “You have been challenged.”

  “And …?”

  “And you and Scafta will each stand on opposing hills … knocks, as they call them. There the war band will judge between you and Scafta. This is an old practice of one bard challenging another.”

  “Judge us?”

  “Yes. Judge as to which of you is the better bard.”

  “But I’m not yet a bard, how can I …”

  Colvarth frowned. “You have a strong, bardic voice, and you will be a bard after many years, God willing, but I regret that I’ve taught you precious little in these few days we’ve had together. I hope your innate wisdom is enough.”

  With one eye on the guard, Merlin picked up another bloody tunic and began scrubbing it. This one had a hole in the side. Then he whispered to Colvarth, “Can’t you take my place? Why’d he pick me?”

  “I am old and threaten him little. You, however …”

  “What?”

  “The Picts fear you.”

  “Necton sure doesn’t.”

  “Ah, but he does. Have you not heard the whispers of the warriors, and seen Necton’s glances at you?”

  Merlin leaned closer to Colvarth. “No, I …”

  “Your scars mark you as a great warrior, fearless in many battles, and to them your harp marks you as holding the secrets of the other world. And Scafta, too, fears you. He fears for his position, and he hopes to make you out to be a fool. Every Pictish king requires a bard, and Ealtain has chosen Scafta, but could just as easily choose another.”

  “If I were Ealtain, I wouldn’t choose Scafta as my bard.”

  “Ah, but you don’t understand. A Pictish king requires a bard to make the people afraid. Without Scafta, the king would lose his authority. The people fear Scafta, and therefore fear Ealtain. Take the bard away from a Pictish king, and you chop off his right hand.”

  “But I’m a fool if I have to pretend to be a bard. I can’t challenge Scafta.”

  “Ah, but you must. Sometimes to be a fool is a wise thing,” Colvarth said, and then he winked. “Being a fool might save your life.”

  Merlin and the others continued scrubbing for another hour. Arthur grew restless after crawling around as far as Garth would allow, and the clouds seemed to match Merlin’s mood, gathering darkly overhead. Soon the warband returned, whooping and shouting. They carried sacks full of plunder, and at their spear points walked seven villagers to be made into slaves. Merlin’s heart beat rapidly as they put these new villagers through the same grueling process, and he could hardly look.

  So he turned and watched Natalenya, and that was almost worse. She was so tired, worn out more than the wet rag hanging from her hands. Her skin had gone pale, and yet Merlin could tell from her shallow breaths and droop of her eyes that she must have a fever.

  She was getting worse, and what could he do to help?

  Pray. He could pray. So he did, asking God to heal her, to give her strength. Earnestly — his heart secretly full of hot tears — he prayed during the slave-taking. And when he looked upon her again, she was worse, now laying in the dirt with her eyes barely open.

  God? Won’t you heal her? he pled, but no answer came; no healing, no balm, no miracle.

  And around him the Picts celebrated their victory. Grotesquely stained spears clacked, bags clinked, and blue-painted bodies danced.

  It was only then that Merlin noticed that a young man had been chained behind Caygek. One of his front teeth had been smashed, and blood still stained his fuzzy cheeks. He stood shorter than Caygek by a forehead, and Merlin learned his name was Peredur, the skinny son of a horse trader. Just fifteen winters, and already a slave.

  But now was not the time to be focusing on the new slaves, for Scafta conferred with Necton and then pointed at Merlin.

  “Whenna?” Necton asked, and Scafta shook his fist and slammed it into his hand. Necton nodded, and, raising his hands, stopped the celebration of his fellow warriors. Then he gave a long speech, most of which Merlin could not understand.

  Colvarth gripped Merlin’s shoulder. “It is now. You are to stand on that hill, and Scafta will be on the other. You will each take turns trying to impress the Picts with your bard craft.”

  “But …”

  Colvath shook his head. “I am sorry, my Merlin, that I have failed to prepare you. Simply play a song that you know.”

  “But —”

  “It is supposed to be a song of a true bard, but they might not understand anyway —”

  “Colvarth!”

  The bard stopped speaking and looked at Merlin.

  “Besides a few prayers and a worship song, I only know two children’s rhymes.”

  Colvarth opened his mouth. He shut it. He opened it. “What? No praises to a king? No battle songs? No festals? No laments? How long have you been playing the harp?”

  “Barely two weeks … Natalenya hasn’t even had time to teach me.” A cold shadow fell on Merlin, for the clouds had now covered the sun, and they brooded over him.

  “The Christian prayer songs you know might anger or confuse the Picts. Do what you can with the rhymes. I will pray.”

  “A lot of good that will do …”

  Colvarth glared at him, but said nothing.

  Necton came with the great hammer and pushed M
erlin down next to a rock. With four clanks upon the pin, he freed Merlin from the others. Necton started to pull Merlin up, but he refused the help and stood on his own.

  Colvarth offered his large harp, but Merlin shook his head. He had only plucked Natalenya’s large harp once, and he would be more comfortable playing the small one that Natalenya had given him.

  He stepped onto the small hill knock Colvarth had indicated, and found that the warriors had formed a wide ribbon around the two. Scafta stood on the other hill, his hands holding a harp made from the upper skull of a buck, with the strings tightly wound onto the antlers and down to holes carved into the skull. It was a crude instrument, but Merlin recognized the elemental power it would hold over the Picts compared to Merlin’s ten-string lyre harp, which had been purchased from a Roman merchant. While Merlin’s was a fine instrument with a carved wooden soundbox and bronze tuning pegs, Scafta’s skull “sound box” had sharpened teeth and strange designs carved and painted into the bone. To the bottom of the skull had been attached many bells and other metal trinkets.

  Scafta went first. He held his harp high, and, jangling it, pranced around his mound, faster and faster, his feet kicking into the air. All the warriors beat their spears together in time to this — until Scafta jumped into the center at the same moment that they slammed them together in a final, teeth-chattering blow.

  And then Scafta began to play. His harp strings were thick, making the melody resonant, and this matched his voice. Merlin could not make out the words, but it was clearly an old song, for the older warriors among the group dropped their eyes in respect.

  But as the song went on, the darker notes began to rule, and this matched the thickening cloud cover. The pace quickened as well until Merlin felt as if the devil himself would soon emerge from Scafta’s mound and join in. When it ended, a few of the warriors had tears in their eyes. Clearly Scafta had chosen his song well.

  All eyes turned skeptically to Merlin, and he could only think about tuning his harp — but what a fool! He knew no bardic lays, no ballads of consequence, no songs of history, and certainly nothing the Picts might understand or know.

  His mind raced among his meager set of songs — then thunder clapped in the distance, an edge of black clouds approaching from the west — and he suddenly knew which children’s rhyme to sing. He could hear the sound of his mother singing from so many years before, and his fingers began plucking out the tune. His throat twitched, making him cough before singing out:

  The land be green and the hills be brown,

  For the wind doth make the moon to frown.

  For this is the way the thunder chants,

  And over the world his dark feet dance.

  The sky be dark and the clouds be gray,

  For thunderstorms roll the sun away.

  For this is the way the thunder chants,

  And over the world his dark feet dance.

  The sea be green and the depths be black,

  For lightning falls and the earth doth crack.

  For this is the way the thunder chants,

  And over the world his dark feet dance.

  At this point Merlin was supposed to sing, “Sleep, sleep, little babe sleep,” and he paused in order to figure out how to avoid embarrassing himself completely. At that moment lightning burst from the sky, shaking the air — and so he sang out:

  Grief, grief, you’ll come to grief,

  For God throws down the thunderstorm’s lance.

  You’ll all come to grief.

  The warriors had up to this point been looking on with some attention, but when a new blade of lightning shattered a tree just behind them, they ducked, covered their heads, and called out Merlin’s name in their strange tongue.

  Scafta would not have it, though, and ran screaming at Merlin.

  They were only twenty paces apart, and Merlin had almost no time to react. He turned to the side to ram Scafta with his left shoulder, cradling his harp in the other hand.

  But it didn’t work, for at the last second Scafta whirled aside and booted Merlin off the hill. Merlin fell, and before he could recover, his harp had been yanked from his hands. Scafta dropped the instrument to the ground, smashed it with his boot, and then turned upon Merlin.

  Raindrops fell upon his cheek as a sharp pain cracked his temple — the echo filling his head like bees in a hive. He covered his face with his hands, but Scafta kicked him again, and again.

  Ganieda slept, uncomfortable as it was with her hands and ankles tied. Images floated through her dreams of the man attacking her with his bloody spear — and of the woman screaming and scratching her with long, orange fingernails. Once she dreamed that a dark beast had come and hung her upside down by her feet and dangled her over a pit of snakes whose glowing tongues spat fire through their flashing white fangs. Ganieda called for help, but none came. She called for her mother and father, weeping and struggling against the grip of the beast, but no one ever came to save her.

  She awoke, suddenly, upon a feather-stuffed mattress. A thick blanket covered her, and she felt warm. Someone must have moved her in the night, for she had fallen asleep on the hard, earthy floor. The sun shone through the shutters and onto a nearby stone wall, but Ganieda could tell neither the time of day nor how long she’d slept.

  She rested while scheming her escape from the ropes. Soon the blankets became too warm, and she wanted to thrust them off. She thrashed wildly and unsuccessfully until her frustrations came out in a scream. And slowly the blanket crept up until it covered her face and stifled her raw voice. She wanted to hurt these people — to kill them and run away back to Grandpa.

  The blanket was pulled back — and there stood Ganieda’s mother, Mônda, come to rescue her. Ganieda tried to breathe the fresh air, but could not make her lungs move from the joy and shock. Her mother’s dark tresses hung down toward Ganieda, and she wanted to touch them with her hands, to have them trail across her face, to smell them once again. Only the hair smelled different than her mother’s, like rotten bark … with a hint of onion?

  Ganieda’s vision changed, and her mother was replaced by another woman — the one whom Ganieda had scratched the night before. Her headwrap had been removed and Ganieda saw that the hair was not quite as dark as her mother’s.

  “Are you hungry?” the woman asked, and only then did Ganieda notice the smell of bread, yeasty and fresh. Beside the woman sat a tray of buns, and a steaming mug. The smell of salty boiled carrots and cabbage wafted over her.

  “You let me go,” Ganieda yelled, fresh tears streaming from her eyes and running across her nose and cheeks.

  “And what will you do, lass? Will you hurt me again?”

  “Yes! I’ll kill you …”

  The woman arced an eyebrow. “Will you now? Then I shouldn’t let you go, should I?”

  “Let me go. Let me go, and I’ll scratch you again!” Ganieda would find the fang and then … but she knew her words didn’t make sense. With these threats, why would this stranger ever let her go?

  “Well then, I only have one choice, don’t I?” The woman’s lip trembled — and she shucked off Ganieda’s blanket.

  Ganieda braced herself for the blow. The woman would beat her, and Ganieda would scream. She filled her lungs for it, waiting.

  But the woman picked at the knot holding her legs tight. Soon Ganieda’s ankles moved free, and she considered kicking the woman, but decided to wait and land the blow when it was least expected after her hands were free.

  The woman’s fingers shook as she undid the knot at Ganieda’s wrists.

  Ganieda tensed. Why was she doing this? The woman’s arm was wrapped in a thick bandage, with dried blood soaking one side where Ganieda had cut her. Didn’t she know Ganieda would hurt her and then run away?

  The smell of the soup filled the small room fully now, and the bread with it, and Ganieda’s stomach growled. Maybe she would eat first … and then shatter the empty bowl in the woman’s face … and then run.

 
The knot slipped away, and the rope was set down, and the woman kissed Ganieda’s wrists where the skin had been chafed. “I’m sorry,” she said, and her hair teased Ganieda’s arms and knees. Ganieda wanted to feel those locks for just a moment, but then they slipped away and the woman brought the tray of steaming goodness and set it before Ganieda.

  “My name’s Safrowana, and it’s going to be all right.”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE WOUNDED KING

  Scafta finally stalked off, leaving Merlin hurting and stunned. Colvarth and the others helped Merlin to stand and guided him over to a spot under a tree. There he rested while the warriors hunkered down until nightfall, when they would travel again.

  Merlin’s dreams were strange, beginning with a reliving of Scafta’s attack. The witch doctor’s boot, sharp like a broken rock, came down again and again on Merlin’s head, and he was kicked until he shrunk so small that he tumbled into a tiny crack that opened in the ground. He fell into smothering earth, which covered his face. It became impossible to breathe. He flailed for a handhold, anything, to pull himself up, but the soil came off in lumps. Darkness took him.

  When he awoke, it was night and he lay in the bottom of a small boat, its wooden ribs creaking and water lapping the sides. Merlin sat up. A thick, peat-scented fog covered the world, and though he could see neither oar nor sail, the boat plied through the water on a will of its own. Hazy reeds passed by and frogs drummed their throats in the distance.

  A loud splash fell near the front of the boat, and Merlin’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to calm himself, but his skin prickled as if a hundred centipedes crawled inside his tunic. He leaned over the edge of the boat, and there, deep down in the water, he saw two large eyes staring at him, luminous with green fire. The creature’s white hide covered it like scabbed bark, and it was larger than any living thing Merlin had ever seen, maybe forty feet long. It swam below the surface, mostly in the shadowy depths, and its tail knocked Merlin’s boat to the side with a loud crack. The boat tipped, but did not capsize. Water began to fill the bottom of the boat and wet Merlin’s boots — the creature’s blow had sprung a leak!