Merlin stood once more within the Place of the Sun. Lugaid’s hut was just a tumble which could no longer be discerned as any habitation of man. He wondered, not for the first time, where the Druid had gone—if he was not indeed dead. He shivered as if some foot had pressed on his own grave barrow, and the loneliness which always lay in wait beyond the circle of his will stirred like some beast crouching ready to attack. Ector—Ector had gone down beneath a Saxon ax, two or three battles ago.
Time had become not a matter of the counting of seasons but rather of battles, for Arthur was the war leader whom they had long sought. He had in him more skill, even in his youth, than Uther had ever summoned for ridding Britain of the invaders; he had more flexibility than Roman-trained Ambrosius had been able to employ in his handling of the jealous, quick-to-anger clansmen.
His answer to the inroads of the Winged Hats had been cavalry—the Black Horsemen of the borders. Horses of the Friesian breed, larger and heavier than the native ponies, which had been auctioned off nearly a generation earlier when the cavalry left the wall, mated to the also dark-coated Fell Ponies of the north, producing a wiry and strong mount, able to carry a man wearing chain armor. The horses themselves also wore protection of stiffened leather oversewn with metal links.
The Saxons, in spite of their reverence for white horses, which they sacrificed to Wotan on suitable occasions, were not the horsemen most tribesmen were. And a quick cavalry charge, tearing into massed footmen, became Arthur’s way. Ambrosius had done well in his time, holding back the invaders, pushing out those Vortigen had welcomed as a buffer against Scotti and the Picts; Uther had held precariously to the gains his brother had made. But Arthur was ever pushing at the Saxons, forcing them back and out.
More and more of them had taken to their dragon-prowed boats with their women and children, their possessions; they headed overseas, away from Britain where the continual harassment of Arthur’s men kept them living with spear and ax to hand, with no surety at the rising of each day’s sun that they would be alive to see its setting.
In so much had Arthur won.
Merlin dismounted by the King Stone, his shoulders a little bent under his white robe.
He rested both palms on the surface of the block. How young, how filled with excitement and triumph he had been on the day it was set herel He had won so easily what he had given his life to obtain. A stone ferried back across the sea, planted in the earth of Britain—an act too small to be deemed a victory.
Now he sighed wearily. He had made Arthur king, yes. But the Arthur who now sat on the throne was not the king of his dreams, nor his labors. He listened to Merlin with courtesy. Sometimes—only sometimes—would he listen with agreement. The priests of the Christ were also near at hand. And they turned on Merlin when they could with a gabble of sorcery, raking up once more the old tale that he was demon-sired.
It seemed to him now that there was always a subtle flaw in all he planned. Only three things had he done without mistake: brought this stone back to its rightful place where it could serve as part of a future beacon, freed the Sky Sword and put it in Arthur’s hand and raised Arthur himself to the throne.
But Arthur did not have the learning which the future of the Sky People depended on. His character had been formed by others. And Merlin had long since learned that Nimue had her own ways of countering all he would do.
There was the matter of the Queen. Merlin’s mouth twisted in a grimace as if a mortal pain had struck him with that thought. A king’s daughter, of such beauty as made men’s breath catch in their throats when they first looked on her—outwardly a worthy mate for Arthur. Inwardly—what? A toy, a doll, a woman so obsessed with her own kind of power, of the body alone, that her eyes were never still when she was in company; rather they flitted here and there seeking out each man to see if he was smitten suitably by her grace of face and form. That was Guenevere.
And Merlin scented suspiciously something about her that was of Nimue, though he had never seen the Lady of the Lake since she had turned smiling from Arthur’s triumph with the sword. So long ago ...
Merlin rubbed his hand across his forehead. He felt a great weariness of spirit, together with a foreboding he could not understand. Twice he had made the pilgrimage back to the cave, but the mirror was silent; he had not tried to break its silence, drawing instead what force lay within himself to carry on.
Still he dreamed at times, and those dreams were able to nourish his will. He saw the cities which rose in the sky, the men who mastered the ability to fly, fashioned the land itself to suit their will as a potter slaps and pinches clay into a new form. He saw what man could create, and then he awoke to the squalor and the degradation of what man had come to in this age.
He had wisdom to offer, but who would accept his counseling? Arthur—when it suited his own plans. Others—a few who came to him for healing. But the majority listened to the priests from overseas, looking on everything that was not favored by their preaching as the outpouring of evil. How and why had he come to this low ebb?
He stood apart now as if encased in uncracking ice. He could feel compassion, but he was more kin to the beasts of the fields and the forests than to man. And always the loneliness gnawed him.
His very appearance set him apart, for it seemed that he did not age greatly now that he had reached man’s estate. He prudently used the arts of herbs to alter his face and hair, bringing about the effects of encroaching years; otherwise his continued youth would also awake hostility in men who feared most of all the failing of their own powers, the approach of age which meant death in the end.
Cold and dark—
Suddenly Merlin shook his head, stood straighter. He was letting his own uncertainties defeat him. Arthur was firmly on the throne of Britain. The King had forged that peace with the sword Merlin had put in his hand. No man could seize victory unless he had first tasted defeat. This was the hour at last, the hour toward which all his own life had been directed!
He looked about him with renewed vigor like one awakening from a dark dream. The stones stood tall and strong here, ancient as their setting had been. What had the mirror ever set in his mind—the Power that was, is and will be! And the “will be” lay before. He would bring Arthur here in spite of all the priests from overseas, take him on to the mirror. Why had he allowed shadows to lie heavy in his own mind, whisper dispiriting thoughts in his ears? He was Merlin of the Mirror, perhaps the last man of this world to hold so much of the old knowledge! He had wasted time too long. Now that Arthur did not need to hunt the invaders from his land he would be ripe and ready for the task he had been destined for, just as Merlin had been destined in turn.
It seemed to him as he threw aside that morbidity of mind that the stones blazed royally under the sun, with a flare like that of torches. They stood for torches in a manner, emblems of forgotten light in a dark world. He held his head high, straightened his shoulders.
Why had he allowed the cloak of doubt and a premise of defeat to rest on him lately? It was as if men’s talk of magic indeed held a core of truth and he had been firmly encircled by some spell, just as he had formerly been removed from the world by the action of the mirror to preserve his life. Flooding through him now was a realization of Power almost as strong as the day he had raised the King Stone from its bed of earth on the Western Isle.
Yet he also felt a reluctance to leave, to start back to the High King’s fortress-palace. These stones were closer to him in spirit than any man living. And he thought with deep regret of how he had longed for Arthur’s birth that there might be one other to share the alienation he always felt, most strongly when he was among a throng of men.
He whistled and the horse, which had strayed a little, grazing on the ragged grass about the standing stones, nickered an answer, trotted to him and butted its head against Merlin’s chest while he fondled its ears, the stand of mane between. It was one of the famous black mounts, larger and sturdier than the hill ponies Merlin had known years earlier, and more docile, lacking those quirks of independence which sometimes moved the ponies to resent the control of any rider.
After he swung up into the saddle Merlin still lingered to look on the stones wistfully. He could see the barrow they had raised over Ambrosius, that dark, forceful man who had endeavored so hard to bring back the past because only in its ways could he see any security.
Uther did not lie here. The foreign priests had claimed his body, set it under the floor of one of their rough-walled churches which had been erected on the site of a Roman temple, the very stones of that temple riven and reset to the service of this new god.
Merlin could see also the barrow they had invaded to bring forth the sword. Who had lain there? One of the true Sky Men who had come to death so far from his home? Or one like himself, a son of a mixed union? Merlin would never know, but now he found his hand rising in a warrior’s salute, not only to the man called the Last of the Romans, but also to that unknown one of a far earlier age.
As he rode out of the Place of the Sun he buttressed his own resolve. He would appeal to Arthur, take him to the mirror. Arthur was far from a stupid man; he could tell the difference between ancient knowledge and that which ignorant men of this age termed magic,
Also it was time, surely it was time that Merlin put the King Stone to its intended use. There was a certain object in the cave of the mirror. That must be brought forth, placed under the stone meant from the first to be its guardian, and then—then the summons would go forth!
Ships from the stars, ships which themselves were older than man could reckon, would come in answer. Once more men would rise to conquer sky, earth and sea! The glory of that belief exalted him, gave warmth to melt quickly the ice encasing his hopes. Man stood on the first step of a new and glorious age.
So was he borne up by his thoughts during the long journey back to Camelot, and his night dreams were the brightest he had ever had. Arthur and the nun-or—the signal and the stone—Days later Merlin rode up the rise of the ring-and-ditch fortress which Arthur had held and reworked into the most formidable hold in all of Britain. The guards knew turn well enough so that there was no challenge at the inner gates. And he paused only to change his travel-stained robe for one more in keeping with the splendor of the court before he sought out the King.
Arthur was inclined to be expansive. “Hail, Merlin.” He beckoned across the center of the board which was one of Merlin’s own ideas, a circular dining place where no quick-tempered chief or petty king could claim that he was slighted by being placed below another with a lesser claim for notice. Being round, none could say that his felloW was more advantageously placed than he.
“Hail, Lord King.” Merlin was quick to notice a new face among the familiar ones. Cei was no longer at Arthur’s right hand, though the foster brother, for all his uncertain temper, had been the King’s comrade from the beginning. No, here was a new youth, hardly more than a boy.
Looking on the dark face of that stranger, Merlin suppressed a sudden shiver. If Arthur had nothing in his features of the presence of the Blood, this youth showed it more plainly than Merlin had yet seen it, except in his own mirrored face.
Familiar was that look, yet also strange. For the eyes which peered from under the veiling lids were hard, unreadable. Those sullen and watchful eyes were old beyond the apparent years of the boy’s body; they more than hinted at some vengeance...
Merlin took his imagination firmly to task. He should be glad at this moment that one of the Old Race was here. Yet there was nothing in the youth to which he could warm.
“You are in time.” Arthur gestured and his own cupbearer hastened to produce another cup of hammered silver, fill it with the wine from overseas and hand it respectfully to Merlin. “You are in time, bard, to drink to the health of one of the Pendragon blood new come into our service.” He nodded to the youth. “This is Modred, who is son to the Lady Morgause, and so my own nephew.”
Merlin’s hand closed tightly about the goblet. He did not even need that sly, darting look from the boy’s eyes, a look which measured him in a way alerting him to danger, to know the truth.
Arthur’s nephew? Nay, Arthur’s son by that slut whom Nimue had taken into hiding. And by that single glance at him, Merlin was also sure the boy knew the truth—or the part of it which could cause the most harm for Arthur— that he was indeed the King’s son, and by a lady who was reputed the King’s half-sister.
Merlin drank, knowing that his long training in hiding his feelings must now serve him better than ever before. “Lord Modred.” He nodded to the boy. “The Pendragon blood is in honor.”
“Aye.” Arthur smiled. “He is in good time to blood his sword and show what mettle he has in him. For we have had the coast lights up along the Saxon shore. These war dogs yet sniff around for some mouthful of prey to snatch. We ride hunting again—“
The King’s face was a little flushed, his eyes alight Merlin, looking at him, knew that no argument he might use now would stop Arthur. He must set aside his own plan of confronting the King with the mirror, so letting Arthur learn his heritage and true purpose. And Modred ... Modred who was the King’s son was fostered by Nimue. That Merlin also instinctively knew. She had had a long time, as earth men measured time, to prepare the shaft. Now she had launched it. To the malice of one who sees himself bereft of a rightful place, add the iron will of Nimue. She had a formidable weapon in this youth.
Though caution moved in Merlin, so did anger begin to rise. It was always Nimue and from the first he had been far too influenced by her good fortune. Now he would seek her out. And how better find a road to her than through this Modred who was her creature?
Merlin listened to the excited talk of a new expedition against the Saxons. But as he sat in his place at that round board he raised his eyes to the gallery of the great hall, there looking from one fair face to another. It was the boast of the Queen that she had in her train the most beautiful women of Britain, having no jealousy in any threat of comparison.
There sat Guenevere. Her richly embroidered robe was a clear yellow, like ripening grain. There was a thin crown of red gold on her hair, which was so near the color of her robe that hair melted into cloth and cloth seemed a part of hair. A heavy necklace of amber was around her throat, and earrings of that same mystic gem dangled against each cheek as she leaned forward, her eyes narrowly intent on—whom?
Merlin traced her gaze. She was looking at Modred and about her lips there lay a faint shadow of a lazy smile.
For a long moment Merlin studied her intently, for he knew that something lay in that look which he could not read. And his inability to do so was disturbing. That the women of the tribes were puzzles for him was perhaps a kind of maiming, though that thought was startling in itself and he did not have time to consider it now. He had believed Guenevere a doll, a plaything, without any thoughts which might be of service to his own goal. Was she more?
He was searching now for another face, however. So he turned from the bright sunlight of the Queen to the more subdued rainbow of her ladies. Some he knew by name, others were but flower faces which he had never chosen to study with as much interest as he now gave them. Nowhere was the one he sought. There was no dark lady as vivid, or perhaps more vivid, than the Queen. If Nimue had introduced Modred to the court, she had not come here herself, or else she chose not to attend this feast.
Slowly Merlin sought for her with that other sense which he rarely used in such a large company, mainly because it could be overwhelmed and lost when there were so many minds and personalities all emitting energies of their own. No, he would take blood oath his enemy was not present.
But her will was here, in the person of the King’s “nephew.” Merlin began to plan anew. He could not believe that this sudden news of Saxons at the coast signified any great difficulty. It would seem that Arthur himself looked on this ride as a diversion, a chance to show his new-found nephew the dexterity and invincible force of the Black Horse troops.
Now—Merlin knew it inside himself, swelling, pushing aside, erasing all the doubts of his half-human heritage— now was the time for him to do what should be done in this hour. Summon the Sky ships at long last—with or without Arthur’s concordance!
He had withdrawn, even in the midst of the feasters, into his own thoughts. Now he was suddenly aware that the men about him were rising, calling on their armor bearers, making ready to ride. There was excitement in them, that fiery thirst for battle that always marked the tribesmen. He could feel the force of their emotions kindling an answer in himself. And he was quick to control it with that other part of him which was not of this world, but of the Star Lords; that part of him thought, planned and used invisible forces to accomplish its ends, not the sharp-edged primitive weapons about him.
There was one standing before him, looking into his eyes. Merlin, now alert, stared back at Modred.
“They call you bard.” Modred’s voice was low-pitched, to pass unheard in the clamor about them now. “They also name you sorcerer, son of no man.” There was an insolence in his tone which would have brought any of the tribesmen to his feet, sword half out, ready to offer an open challenge in return.
“All that is the truth.” Merlin was a little mystified by this open approach, though he had felt from the first that Nimue’s man would in some way make plain his feeling.
“And how much of it is true?” The challenge in the youth’s voice was even more marked.
Merlin smiled. “How much truth do any of us know concerning ourselves? Or are able to convey that truth even a little to others? We all have our own powers and forces, much or little. What matters is how we use the gifts and learning given us.”
“There is learning from the dark as well as from the light,” the other answered him flatly. “The High King listens to the priests of light, bard. The old days are done—“
Now Merlin laughed. The same battle fever which gripped those around him at the message that there were Saxons to be met arose in him, but for another reason. Nimue, through this youth, was delivering her challenge. And when it came to war, then his doubts vanished. He could draw on the forces he had used that day when the stone rose to his signal and moved. What had eaten him lately in this court? He was no useless tool; he was a commander of such powers as none in (his hall had ever seen. Now his mind moved rapidly as he enumerated those powers in part, even as his surface thoughts probed at Modred.
“Have you never heard this. Lord Modred,” he asked, making a mockery of that name, light mockery which the boy caught, for there was a dark flush rising under his skin, “that there is that which was, is and will be? I think she who taught you knew that promise well.”
He had half turned away when Modred caught at the sleeve of his robe.
“You are insolent, bard! And what mean you by ‘she’?”
Merlin laughed again. So Nimue had not been able to establish full control of this nursling of hers. He might look like one of the Old Blood but he had the ways of the tribes, with that spark of angry fire rising at the first crossing of mental swords.
“Boy”—he gave him no “lord” this time—“you have not learned manners, whatever else you have been taught.” Merlin twitched the sleeve of his robe from between the other’s fingers. “Most of all, you should learn the nature of your man before you speak.”
Perhaps he had given the boy a hint too much with those words. But he was also of tribe blood and royal as Modred. He also thought that Nimue must not have done too well in choosing this tool for her meddling. He was not another Ector, nor even a Cei—he was partly a fool.
Merlin made his way through the throng of excited men. He had his own mission, now that he had at last made up his mind. However, at the door he paused to look back. Modred was still staring after him, and now the boy’s hand lay on another arm, that of one of the priests from overseas. The priest’s shaved face was alive with emotion and Merlin saw that Modred’s lips were moving. That he stirred some pot of trouble, Merlin had no doubt. But what kind of trouble ... He shrugged.
He went swiftly to his own quarters and put aside the bard’s robes. Those white lengths made him too conspicuous. He pulled on a simple tunic over breeches, picked up a hooded cloak. Thus garbed, he found a fresh mount, filled saddlebags with bread and cheese from the kitchens where the servants muled about doing the same for the troops gathering at the King’s orders. But Merlin rode out first, and in the direction of the mountains.
It had been several years now since he had taken this way, but he could never forget each twist and turn of its going. And the time he had spent living wild in the woods never departed from his mind either, so that he made small camps at night without fire, and was able to hide his going well, which had become habit with him.
The ruins of Nyren’s hold showed now only as a single tumbled outer wall overgrown with bramble and bush. There were no longer any ghosts left there to trouble him. But Merlin halted for a long moment as he came near it, trying wistfully to remember how it had been when that was the clan home for one Myrddin.
Then came the upward slope. There he stripped his mount of bridle and saddle, hobbled it and turned the horse loose to graze while he went to the mirror. He picked free the stones of his door to go inside. The cave was very dim. Not one of the cubes showed any light, and he did not approach the mirror. This time he had no question to ask. He knew well what must be done.
Edging along the wall he came to a cylinder as tall as his forearm, as big around as a circle his two hands could make, thumb touching thumb, little finger against little finger. Stooping he gathered that up. Long ago the mirror voice had told him of this, of how it must be used. The instructions were as clear in his mind now as if they had been issued within the hour. This was the full purpose of his life. There must be no more hesitation, no more trying to work through men whose natures betrayed over and over the win of the Star Lords.
The beacon was lighter than he thought it would Be as he carried it out into the open. He set it to one side, reclosed the door with the stones. He was not finished with the mirror. Arthur would come sooner or later, even as had been planned. There would be time for that. How long it might take for his message to reach the ships, he had no idea. Months, years ... it was his task to keep Arthur king until that hour when those others would come.
Holding the cylinder close against him as one embraces a longed-for treasure, Merlin started down the slope.
There was no light this time when Merlin reached the Place of the Sun. The year was late, harvest was well in and cold bit fiercely at a man in the frost-tinged early mornings, the long dark nights. And the stones seemed to stand bleakly aloof now, as if they had withdrawn from all possible contact with the men of this earth.
If he still had the shining sword his task would have been comparatively easy. But now that was Arthur’s, and Merlin must make do as best he could with his knowledge alone. As he penetrated the pillared circles he shivered with more than the reaching fingers of the cold wind. The kinship which he had always felt waiting for him here was missing, closed off like a door to shut out the unwanted in the dark of night.
Nor did Merlin lift his hand to caress any of the stones as he had been wont to do on his earlier visits here. Necessity drove him directly to the task. So he approached the King Stone where it lay, flanked on either side by the rude arches in all their strength.
Carefully putting down on the ground what he had carried through these days of travel from the cave in the mountains to this site, Merlin considered the stone.
It was plain that he could not merely set his burden out, enthroned on the stone, as he had once naively thought to do. Anyone passing here, shunned though the site generally was, might be moved by curiosity to inspect the beacon. No, it must be well hidden and his training told him exactly where: under the massive block of stone itself.
He had moved the rock once to prove his strength, therefore he could move it again, though the task was a formidable one without the sword. He had only the short blade of his belt knife and that was not fashioned from the wondrous metal. Nevertheless he must use it.
It was dusk when he had reached the stones. Their shadows cut deep, and there was something about those shadows. He found himself jerking his head around now and then to stare intently at one or another of the pools of dark. Though he knew that Nimue had previously used only such illusions as he himself could call up at command, still there remained a residue of the uncanny, the not-to-be-known in this place.
Merlin recalled what Lugaid had once said, that a temple where the worship of certain forces had continued for a long time absorbed into itself the power of belief rising from those worshipers. That power, too, could be drawn on by the men who know how to awaken it.
Only this was not a place of the night. It needed dawn or the full beams of the sun, which had long been honored here as a source of life, to bring forth its full energy. He must wait out the hours of the night. But he could use that time to prepare himself for what would be the greatest effort he had yet made, greater even than the parade of illusions which had brought about Arthur’s fathering.
Picking up the beacon once again, he moved over to the tumbled mound which had been Lugaid’s dwelling. There he made his rude camp, drinking from a small spring, now almost silted up again since the Druid had not come to clear passage for the water, eating the last of the provisions he had carried from Camelot.
Merlin settled then with his back against the half-toppled wall of rough stones and looked back over the Place of the Sun. As the light fast faded the wind came. When that blew around and over the pillars there rose a weird wailing sound; the imaginative might well read into it the lament of men and women now long vanished from the earth, yet still somehow alive and longing for a safe return.
Not for the first time Merlin wondered about the Sky Lords. What did they seek here that they were so determined to come again? If they were mighty enough to travel from one of those stars now shining above him to another, why could they not have found another world which would welcome them?
Was there some quality found only here which they must have in order to endure as a race? Did they need mankind in order to survive? The mirror had been evasive whenever he had tried to probe into that. He had often been overwhelmed, when it poured forth information, with much he could not begin to understand because his world had no names for the strange artifacts, the complicated machines those others used with ease. But some of the most simple questions appeared in turn to silence the voice, as if it in turn were baffled by such searching on his part.
Though he did not close his eyes now, but continued to watch night engulf the Place of the Sun, Merlin was at work inside himself, drawing out scraps of knowledge, summoning energy to buttress all his power. This would be no fashioning of an hallucination, it would be a real act.
He was a general as supreme as Arthur, but his troops were not men. Down and down he delved into his own memory and mind. And then, with a sudden start, he recognized a picture which that memory supplied. There was Nimue in this place, her body white, her hair tossed by the wind. He could hear the honey smoothness of her voice, almost reach out to touch the hand she extended to him.
No!
Resolutely Merlin fought that memory which was so troubling. He was a little apprehensive ... could he perhaps actually touch Nimue now by recalling her too plainly? Out of his mind—he must thrust her safely away.
The mirror, he must concentrate on the mirror, as if it stood full-length before him now. He grew calmer and his turmoil faded as he visualized the mirror. And its voice was in his ears so that he could sort out words, phrases, fit such together to reinforce his knowledge of what must be done here at sunrise.
He was no longer tired. Power was growing steadily in him, filling his body, his mind. He must hold it so contained until the moment came to release it to do his will. Time for darkness—time for light—but he did not mark the hours. Nor was he any longer cold. Power furnished heat in his body so that he threw off his hooded cloak in spite of the frost-breathing wind.
Chancing to glance down at his two hands resting on his knees, he was not surprised to see that his flesh was giving off a kind of glow. Why shouldn’t it? He was afire with force, and now he had only to contain it until the moment to come. His lips moved but not even a whisper emerged from between them, only in his mind did the archaic words echo in the proper patterns.
Merlin rose when the sky grayed. Though he had been sitting through the night his limbs were in no way stiffened. He felt instead like a runner advancing to the starting post, eager to be gone. His left arm cradled the beacon against him. His right hand held the belt knife, drawn and ready.
Long strides brought him to the King Stone and he stood behind that block ready to face the rising sun. He placed the beacon on the ground between his feet. And now he stretched out his hand, began to bring the knife blade ringingly down on the stone, while from him poured all those words he had gathered out of memory, arranged in the right pattern, ready for this great moment in his life.
Beat—beat—ever increasing in tempo. The sky showed the forebanners of the rising sun. His voice sing-songed an invocation older perhaps than even the stones about him. Beat—chant—beat—
The stone—it was coming alive, reluctantly, heavily, in grudging answer. But it was coming! The beat had increased to a flashing of metal; sparks flew from that meeting of rock and iron. Merlin’s voice rose as he called on the force which was imprisoned in the stone to answer to his will.
The block stirred, not as quickly as it had under the summons of the sword, but it was answering! His will harnessed the force—he raised the knife blade—one end of the stone followed.
His tunic clung damply to his body. In spite of the cold he was feverish with heat, sweat pouring from him. Up and up. Until that block stood on end. Then he said the single word he had never dared use before, one of the Great Bindings of Power. The stone remained on end, the place where it had lain was bare.
Merlin dropped to his knees. He began to dig with the knife point in the uncovered oblong of earth, working as fast as he could, for he had no idea how long that Word would hold an inanimate object. Dig, scrape loose the soil, dig again, deeper, deeper, faster—
At last he had the pit ready and he fitted the beacon to it, standing erect, its lighter end pointing to the sky.
Now he worked even faster, pounding back most of the earth he had excavated, hammering the soil down with both palm of hand and butt of knife. Finally he threw aside the knife and, with his earth-stained, broken-nailed hands, he touched the top of the cylinder at a certain place, turned it so that the cover itself slid around to the left under the pressure of his fingers.
Trembling from near exhaustion. Merlin threw himself back from the bed of the stone. He got to his knees, looking up at the towering block. In his mind he released the Word. The stone fell with a crushing force. He only hoped that his pit for the beacon had been deep enough to preserve it. But now he was so spent that he could only He, one hand against the King Stone, only half conscious that he had finished his task.
It was the touch of the stone which aroused him at last. He had always been able to feel the force imprisoned in this mighty block, but this steady throb was new. Merlin gave a cry of relief and joy as understanding reached him. He had succeeded. The stone itself was charged by the beacon—he had indeed lighted the way. But when would the ships come? How far, how many, when?
He was too weak to rise to his feet at once, but sat there, his head drooping on his breast, his hand resting on the rock, aware most of aB of that steady beat.
What roused him this time was an alert of danger, as if some warning or foul stench had carried down the wind. He groped in the withered grass for his knife, his only weapon. Now he heard the thud of hooves, a shout which could only have come from a human throat
Saxons? Outlaws? He was sure only by that warning of his heightened senses that those who came were enemies. So he did not rise to his feet, rather crept on his hands and knees into the shadow of a standing stone. From there he could see the party milling about They were not advancing directly toward his insecure hiding place, he thought they were reluctant to enter the enclosure of the Place of the Sun.
One of them came riding swiftly from the direction of Lugaid’s hut, urging Merlin’s horse before him. He could hear their excited voices but not make out the words. He was near enough, however, to see that the two who appeared to command the party wore the robes of the priests from overseas, while their followers were plainly liege men to some tribal lord.
The priests were urging the warriors on. But in spite of commands impatiently delivered, as far as Merlin could read their gestures, the tribesmen were not about to enter me ancient sacred place, which was a clue to their mission. For the oldest law to which all the tribes bowed was that no blood could be spilled within, no fugitive pursued into one of the Places of Power.
He was sure that he was their quarry but he could not guess the reason for their hunt. Arthur gave room at his court to the believers in the Christ and many of his people were worshipers, but he also followed the liberal policy established by Ambrosius, asking no man what god he paid homage to when he came armed and ready to join in the harrying of the invaders. There were still some of the old Roman breed who bowed knee to the Bull-Slayer Mithras, and others who served older gods of Britain.
Who had granted these hunters permission to come after him? Merlin would swear that it was not the doing of Arthur. Though the King had never been kin-close as Merlin had once hoped, he respected and sometimes listened to the man who had put the sword of Britain into his hand. No, Arthur would not turn against him. But someone had sent these hunters, and his guess fastened on Modred. Had the “nephew” come out of nowhere gained this much ascendancy at Camelot?
The priests were still urging on their followers, but the warriors drew back. So now the gray robes themselves came forward alone. One held aloft the symbol of his god, a cross of wood, and they were both chanting. Merlin saw that the sturdier of the two had drawn a sword, though that was foreign to the very teachings he was supposed to uphold: a man who was a priest was not a warrior.
Hiding like a hunted animal revolted Merlin so he now rose to his feet on the far side of the stone behind which he had taken refuge. When he stepped into sight he was as erect as a warrior awaiting an enemy’s charge.
Now that they were closer Merlin could see their features and he recognized one. He was the priest to whom Modred had been speaking in the feasting hall at Camelot So his suspicion was confirmed. This meeting was of Modred’s doing.
“Whom do you search for, men of a god’s service?” Merlin came into full view.
The one who held the cross chanted, in the tongue of Romans, an invocation against the forces of Darkness. Now he stuttered over a word, but continued his chant valiantly. His companion did not quite raise his sword. Though his eyes were those of a fanatic, he seemed not yet ready to ride down an unarmed man.
“Demon spawn!” he spat, his voice rising above the chant.
Merlin shook his head. “You stand now,” he said quietly, “in a place which has known many gods. Most are now long forgotten, because those who called upon their names in times of peril are also gone. As long as men realize that there is some greater Power outside themselves, a force which will aid them to better lives, to good will, and to peace in time, so there will be gods. What matter if Some men call that Power which is the greater Mithras or Christus or Lugh? The Power is the same. Only men differ, being mortal, while the Power was, is and will be— beyond even the death of this earth on which we now stand.”
“Blasphemer!” was the cry from the priest. “Servant of the Evil One—“
Merlin shrugged. “You take upon yourself my role, Priest. It is for a bard to call names, though he does it with greater ease and skill, being well able even to insult kings to their shame in open courts when he chooses to sing them down. I have no quarrel with you. What I have heard of your Christus tells me that he is indeed one who holds true Power. But I say he is not the only one who has—or will. To each tribe of men a god arises in his own time. I salute your Christus as one who has seen the Great Light But would such a one welcome the hunting of men who do not follow his road? I think not, for if he did, then truly he is not the Great One to whom all roads are made open and plain.”
The older priest’s chant had dwindled into silence. He studied Merlin with an odd appraising look on his old face, for it was a face wrinkled and much worn by time.
“You say strange things, my son,” he said.
“If you have heard much concerning me, Priest, then you know I am a strange man. If you wish to match powers with powers—that is the game of a child who plays with the truth and does not use it worthily. Behold—“
He pointed with his forefinger, moving it quickly from side to side. Small flames danced for the space of three breaths on the crown of four of the blue stones.
The older priest watched this with calm. His wild-eyed companion flushed a deep red and cried out: “Devil’s work!”
“If that be so then, as evil yields to the force of good, banish it. Priest!” ordered Merlin as again the flames danced.
The priest pointed and spoke in Latin. But the flames remained until Merlin snapped his fingers, when they vanished. Now the priest’s face swelled with scarlet wrath.
“The nature of evil,” Merlin observed slowly, “lies not outside a man, but in. Within himself he makes room for hate, fear and all the things which are spawned in darkness. If he does not give such room, then he does not give birth to demons. I use no force to harm and never have. Nor will I do so. For if I put my talents to such a purpose, (hen they shall in turn be lost to me. What god I hail when I use his Power, that is my own concern. I strive not to make any other man believe in him. It is enough that I know such Power exists, that it was, is and shall be!”
The old priest studied him for a moment and then said:
“Stranger, your road is not ours. But from this moment I shall not believe what has been told us, that you are an active agent of evil. You are sadly mistaken, and I shall pray for you, that your mind may be turned to the truth and away from the error you believe in.”
Merlin bowed his head for a moment. “Priest, aH prayers made in good faith are noted by the Power. It matters not in what name they may be said. I mean you no harm, let it be that you shall say the same—“
“No!” The cry came out as if the younger priest were strangling with anger, or perhaps some fear. “This demon breed is a threat to all believing men. He shall die!”
He made a sudden lunge with the sword, not awkwardly but with ease. Merlin thought that perhaps he had been a warrior before he had put on the priest’s robe. But Merlin was ready, for he had noted the small change in the other’s eyes. His own hand swung up, empty. The sword was dragged to one side, as if caught by a giant magnet, to crash against the nearest stone. The blade shattered.
“Go in peace,” Merlin said as the priest stared incredulously at the jagged scrap he held. “I say the truth, I mean harm to no man. But you would do well to ride from this place. For the old ban remains here: no man coming in wrath and with a bared weapon once lived within these circles. The worshipers who enforced that law are long gone, but there is still the force of their prayers. Go and be glad that the stones do not rise up to answer you in kind.”
“Brother Gildas,” the older priest said quietly, “under your obedience to God, do you come. This man walks his own road and it is not for us to question him.”
Then he reached down and caught the dangling reins of the other’s horse and turned away, leading the second mount behind him, while the rider sat silent as if shocked beyond speech. When they joined the waiting warriors the older priest gave an order. The tribesman who held Merlin’s horse loosed it. And they rode away with a haste on the part of the escort which suggested that if the priests did not believe in the force of the ancient holy place, they certainly did.
Merlin watched them disappear. Again the great fatigue born from his efforts seemed to fasten leaden weights on his limbs. He must have sleep and soon. But would it be wise to linger here?
He thought that he could trust the older priest, and from the results of their trial of strength, he was superior to the other. Besides, it had been plain that the warriors were not minded to ride into the Place of the Sun to take him. He returned to the King Stone. The sun generated some warmth here and he had his cloak for a covering. Also the wind had died. He pulled together the coarse, dead grass to fashion a nest in which he settled to sleep.
It was late afternoon when Merlin awoke. The noise he had heard was the plaintive whicker of his horse. It had grazed its way among the stones and now waited nearby. The man wished he could fill his own belly so well. He had eaten the last of his provisions the night before and this was not the season when one could glean berries or herbs to stay hunger. He would have to try his luck in the old way of his boyhood with sling and stone, perhaps he could bring down a rabbit.
Selecting some pebbles which seemed suitable, he set out and found that his old skill was indeed not lost. But he did not leave the circle of the stones, building a small fire instead, striking sparks with a piece of flint and his knife blade. There, beside the King Stone, he roasted the rabbit, eating it down to the last fraction of flesh which could be sucked from its bones.
In spite of the dark Merlin went to sleep again in the same grassy nest as the shadows grew, united and spread darkly. It was as if in his mastery over the stone, his planting of the beacon, he had achieved the freedom of the circles; now there was nothing which could threaten him. And his sleep was without dreams.
Sun in his eyes awoke him. There was no reason to linger here. He had the impression that it would be long before the beacon brought any answer, but before he rode away he again laid a hand to the stone to assure himself that that steady beat continued.
He was riding to Camelot. Modred’s setting the priests on him was such an outright declaration of battle that Merlin knew he must not allow it to pass. The youth must not think that he had won even in a little way, that he had brought about what might be termed Merlin’s flight. And this time he could enter the court with an unfettered mind, ready to turn to his own purposes any chance which would bring Arthur to listen to him. He had set the beacon, and that great labor the mirror had placed on him was now out of his hands.
Before he reached the court he heard the news of the King’s victory in the skirmish over the Saxons at the shore. He had guessed from the first that it had been a skirmish only, but even so small a victory, when Modred had taken part in it, would establish the boy well among the warriors.
Merlin had his own small chamber within the sprawl of the three-story inner building which was ringed about by a stone and earth wall. He went to it, stopping on the way only to order a servant to bring him a kettle of hot water for washing. For his clothing and his body were salty with the dried sweat of the ordeal at the Place of the Sun.
As he stood in the middle of his small room, he looked about him and felt an odd unfamiliarity with it. There were his containers of medicants, the bunches of dried herbs laced on thin thongs across the wall, the few books he had assembled, all in the Latin tongue. There were some queerly shaped stones whose oddity of appearance had appealed to his eye. But there was no wealth, no show or ornament or color. His bed was like a rough box with linens and woolens for covering, and there were no hangings on the walls, no cured skins for rugs. As he looked around him he remembered those other rooms—those of, his dream cities and the wonders that furnished their adorned their walls, covered their floors.
Would he ever see the rise of such tower houses again? Surely it must take a long time for men to learn enough of the long-forgotten knowledge to erect their like. Even the ship came tomorrow, this year, it might be generations before that world would bloom again.
There could be only one hope left when it did, that would not be the quarrels of men, or of Sky People, which would tear it once more into nothingness. For how many chances would the Power grant to his kind? There must be a limit in the end to the rise and fall of civilizations, nations, mankind himself.
And when the Sky People came, what if they met sue as this Gildas? Could they work through or with such as he? Would they discover enough men ready to believe and to stretch out hands to the future? Or would fear and awe become terror, making ignorant men turn their backs on the offer of a new world?
Arthur—Merlin could understand now why he must win Arthur. Not because the King was a battle leader without equal in this time and land, but because he in himself was a symbol men would follow, listen to, learn from. Therefore, above all, Arthur must be prepared for the coming from the stars.
In the end Merlin did not have to go to Arthur, for the King came to him. There was a scratching at his curtained door, an almost stealthy sound, as if the one who waited there came on some secret errand. He reached out to twitch the curtain aside and saw the High King, alone.
But this man was not that supremely confident Arthur of the feast hall. Years had touched him since that night when he bade Merlin drink to welcome Modred. There was a tic by his left eye, and he looked as if he had parted all company with sleep for days. Now he eyed Merlin narrowly, with a menace about him which the other could see as well as sense.
Arthur turned sharply again after he strode into the chamber, held up the curtain and gave a quick look right and left as if he would make sure there were no lurkers outside. When he spoke he had controlled his voice until it was only a whisper.
“They have told me tales of you, sorcerer. And those I did not believe. Perhaps it was because I was a fool and chose weakly to shut my ears, since it was by your doing “at I came to be High King. Aye, that tale have I also heard!” Hot anger glowed in his eyes, and the fingers which rested on the hilt of the Sky Sword curled and tightened there as if he would draw the blade forthwith.
“Now will I have the, full truth out of you even if I have to carve it from your living flesh! Aye, I am so driven now, sorcerer, that even that will I try!”
“The truth of what. Lord King?” Merlin, too, sank his voice. Mischief had been made, that was evident And he could guess who had so worked upon Arthur.
“Am I Uther’s true-born son?”
Merlin’s thoughts sped to a swift conclusion. He could guess the shameful story which Modred might use as a level against the King, against Merlin and against all the House of Pendragon.
“That is what he believed,” he said slowly.
“Then—“ the King’s face was white with strain— “then Morgause—and I—Modred—“ Suddenly a flicker of intelligence broke through. “ ‘So he believed,’” he repeated. “You choose odd words. Merlin. Can it be that his belief was not the truth? If so, who fathered me, for Goloris was dead a day before my mother lay with him she thought was her true lord.”
Arthur made a visible effort at control. “I have heard a strange tale. Merlin. A claim has been made on me which can cover my name with black shame, set me before men as one worse even than that traitor Vortigen who betrayed his people to the axes of the Saxons. But it was you who took me as a fosterling to Ector, and it is only you who can know the truth. If I am Uther’s son in truth, then I am foredoomed through my own lust to be one hunted out of the ranks of honest men. My honor is ruined and were I to give an order to the meanest kitchen slave he would spit at my feet. You say now that Uther believed I was his son. Give me the inner meaning of this. For I tell you I am near to drawing my own sword against my throat because of what has been told to me!”
Merlin pulled forward one of the stools. “It is a strange tale. Lord King, but it is the truth, and it goes back many years.”
Arthur eyed the stool as if he had no wish to linger there. But he did sit down as he burst forth: “Get on to the telling of it, and quickly! If it can lift this burden of wrongdoing even a little, then—Speak, man!”
“You know what they say of me, and with truth.” Merlin sat himself on the edge of the bed, still keeping his voice to a whisper. He was also alerting his inner sense to make sure no other was within range of his voice now. “I am the son of no man...”
Arthur shrugged impatiently. “I know they name you demon-bred. But what has that to do with—“
“Not demon-bred,” Merlin interrupted firmly, using his powers as he could to reach out to the King, make him listen. “My fathering was of the Sky People. Aye, there is truth in those old legends. The daughters of men once bore children to others who came from the stars above us. And from that mating arose a mighty race who fashioned such wonders as no man now can do more than dream of. But in the end there was a mighty war, one which did indeed rock the entire earth, so that land became sea and sea bottom land. Mountains rose, from plains and all was altered so that those few who survived were like madmen and remembered very little of what they had been. They sank lower than the beasts of the field and forest
“But those who had fathered them did not forget. And when that war which had carried them outward to the stars—for the Sky Lords had mighty enemies we knew not at all—was done, they remembered earth and longed for it again. Thus they loosed ships of the sky, and one such answered an ancient beacon set among our mountains. It carried the seed of the Sky Lords and my mother was the first to receive it into her womb—“
“You spin a wild tale,” Arthur interrupted.
“Look well at me, King, into my eyes,” Merlin commanded. “Do I spin you an idle tale or do I speak the truth?”
Arthur met his gaze squarely so that their eyes locked. After a moment the king said slowly: “Though this thing seems impossible, yet you believe it to be the truth.”
“A truth I am prepared to prove,” Merlin stated. “One of the duties which my birth laid on me was the fostering of a king strong enough to bring all Britain under his hand and keep peace. For the Sky Lords needed that peace when they could come again to us. Ambrosius was a great commander, but he could see peace only as the Romans had commanded and imposed it. Uther could deal with-the tribes, but he was of their nature, having their faults as well as their virtues. He was a man of lusty passions and, where those were involved, he knew no self-discipline.
“It chanced at his crowning that he saw the Duchess Igrene and wanted her. So open was his desire that her lord withdrew from court, thus gaining Uther’s displeasure. Goloris set his lady, as he thought, safe within his own sea-bound Keep, one which had never fallen to an enemy, so well girt and guarded was it.
“Then Uther sent for me and ordered me to use certain powers to gain him his desire. I told him that I could weave an illusion which would make him Goloris in seeming for a night that he might enjoy the Duchess’ bed. And I set upon him a dream that this was so, just as I entered the keep and bemused the Duchess with another dream. But what came to her was no man of ova world; she conceived by the will of the Sky Lords.
“Uther knew shame and the Duchess, learning that her lord had truly died before he had visited her, was bewildered of mind to the point that she listened to the talk of night demons. Thus both were eager to give you into my hands.
“Ector had in his veins some of the Sky Lords’ blood, though his descent from them was far in the past. He took you very willingly. It was set that I should school you, even as I myself was taught, in the lore which had come from our fathers. But I had—have—an enemy.” Merlin hesitated. Neew he now speak of Nimue? Perhaps he should so that Arthur would be warned.
“The Sky Lords whose heritage we share have their dark enemies also, of an alien breed. They wish that we not rise once more to rule here, but be forever plunged into the darkness which mankind seems ever to draw about him—the darkness of hate, killing, despair. Thus these enemies were alerted as to my birth, and they in turn produced my opposite, one who faces me ever with powers which may be as great as my own, or perhaps more. For we have never yet met in equal contest. This being, bred out of the Darkness, is she whom men call Nimue, Lady of the Lake.”
Arthur’s amazement was plain to read. “But she gave aid to Uther, she has sheltered Morgause, fostered Modred—“ Then he stopped nearly in mid-word and his expression grew intent.
“Aye,” Merlin pointed out quietly, “and this devotion to the line of Pendragon might well have two sides, Arthur.”
The King’s fist clenched where his hand rested on his knee. “I can understand your hint. You think that she has done so with a purpose which means no good to me. But as I have your word, I have her actions. She was your captor?”
“With the Power she gathered to her she kept me captive. For I was unknowing that she had found out my place of refuge until she struck. So I was held in bondage until the time of your crowning. High King. And that which you should have known from your childhood was lost to you. Then I learned what else had happened—that Morgause had tempted you—and, though I have no proof of what I say, I also believe that act was of Nimue’s doing. She could well foresee that deep trouble would come of it. As now it threatens. She also made Moored her tool—“
“He is my son,” said Arthur heavily. “In honor I cannot deny that.”
“In body he may be your son,” Merlin agreed, “but inwardly he is of the Dark. And should he set abroad this tale which so defames your name, then can he wreck all you have fought to win.”
Arthur looked down at his fist; his face was ravaged, nearly as bleak as if his spirit was broken.
“How can I prevent it?” he asked dully. The first of his anger had burned out; now he looked out from a pit of ashes. “Will any man accept the story you have told me? They will rather prate of demons and all the old fears. And I shall fall from the throne as easily as a leaf is windwhirled across the ground at the year’s end.”
“First,” Merlin answered him, “you must accept your inheritance, though it comes to you late. I shall give you the proof that all I have said is the truth. This cannot be shared with most men, to that I agree. But with it to arm you, then there will be a way to defeat Modred and the one who stands behind him.”
“This proof of yours.. . ?”
“Lies in another place. Lord King. One you must visit without even a shield bearer at your back. Alone with me.”
“Leaving Modred here to spread his poison!” Arthur said.
“You will give Modred something to shut his mouth for awhile, and yet this act shall not be strange in the eyes of your men. He is of the blood of Pendragon, therefore you shall make him regent while you go. Yet take the precaution that he has no real bidding over your war lords.
“Aye, be sure I do not give him claws, as it were!” For the first time Arthur’s expression grew lighter. “Now I must cast in my mind for an explanation of why I go forth from the court in such a manner.”
“Lord King, there are old forts long fallen into disuse in the direction we must travel. A Roman road once ran by them from a good port. Since trade now waxes, what better reason could you find for seeing if this way can once more be put to use? Take with you the men of your own shield comrades. When we reach the point nearest where you must visit, you shall fall ill of a fever and be tended by me, perhaps by one bodyservant you can trust. Have you one in whom you can set full confidence?”
Arthur nodded. “There is Bleheris who came to me when Ector fell. He first taught me how to use a sword. Though the years begin to wear upon him, he is an apt holder of secrets.”
Merlin cast his memory. Bleheris? There was a small dark man with tattooing across his forehead, not one of the tribes. He identified that vision from the past.
“The Pict?”
“Aye, he was won to Ector when he was not slain out of hand as he lay with a broken leg after a raid. And he married Flanna, who was my nurse. She chose to stay even after her service was over and Ector offered her freedom and goods, the same that you promised her. Bleheris is now my man, bound to me tighter than any battle comrade.”
Merlin nodded. “We ride then at your will, Lord King. And bring with you an open mind, for you will discover that I have not told you even half of this story which concerns us both.”
The tense anguish which had driven Arthur when he entered was gone from his face. In its place was rather an expression of anticipation, which was like the one he always wore before some trial of strength. But, as the King left the room, Merlin was left with much to consider.
Merlin had not expected Modred would blacken his own birth in order to bring down the King, Arthur’s Queen had borne no children. Merlin half suspected that the fault lay with the King. It might be that the halfbloods could not breed with mankind now for some reason. His own indifference to any woman but Nimue pointed in that direction. Though Arthur’s infatuation with the Queen had been marked enough, he was so often from court in the past that he might not have realized that their relationship was indeed sterile.
Arthur, without a direct heir by Guenevere, left only Modred of the old royal line. But that Arthur could beget a son outside lawful marriage on a woman of the tribes was a contradiction of Merlin’s suspicions. He wondered if Nimue had had a hand in that conception, for she was certainly much about the court of Uther when that secret coupling had taken place, and had taken charge of Morgause immediately after Arthur had lain with the girl. Could Modred even be Arthur’s son in truth, or rather again some halfling of the Dark Ones?
Merlin bad sensed in him any trace of the Power which could not be mistaken by those of the Old Blood. No, he thought it likely that Modred was exactly what whispering tongues and Ector proclaimed him, Arthur’s getting by his reputed half sister.
The boy could be threatening to spread such a story to bring Arthur to heel. If that were his game, though, it was none of Nimue’s planning, for Arthur was no weak fool. He had been distraught, it was true, when the story was first thrown at him, but anyone in his position would feel shock and dismay. Now that Arthur had heard the truth, and would be shown the proof, he in himself would be immune to any demands from Modred. What remained to be considered was how far Modred would go to bring down his father. Was he too young and hotheaded to realize that besmirching Arthur would also mean disinheriting himself? For just as a king among the tribes could not show any physical disability, so neither could he have his name so shamed before those he ruled.
Modred was ambitious, of that Merlin was sure. He did not think the boy would foul his own nest; he wanted too much to be Arthur’s heir. Only if the Queen should show signs of breeding in the future would he turn to telling all he believed to be the truth.
And by that time—Merlin’s slightly hunched shoulders straightened—Arthur would be fully armed. Only let him front the mirror and listen. The real truth would make him free of such devious intrigue.
So Arthur named Modred as his regent before the court, though carefully setting such secret safeguards as he could to limit any plans the black-browed stripling might have. However, Modred appeared content with the deference shown him. Nor did he appear to notice Merlin’s presence, though the priest Gildas frowned hotly at the bard from his place among those around Modred’s throne.
When at last they rode out of Camelot, Arthur half turned in the saddle to look back at the rise of the palace. When he faced around again his face was grave.
“I know not why,” he said to Merlin who rode at his left hand, “but it is as if the future lies hidden in clouds.
The sun now shines on us brightly, yet when I look back, a shadow gathers there.”
“Uncertainty,” answered Merlin, “cannot easily be thrown off. Perhaps you have learned too much, Lord King, in too short a time. But time can also be an enemy. There are many in this land who will not welcome any change, even the coming of a lasting peace.”
“That too, I am beginning to understand. My war band watches now wistfully for some warning beacon aflame. It is as if they wish back the days when we were always in the saddle, sore, weary, half-famished, and with the enemy before and behind us. Death rode with us, yet they dwell on those days when they sit at the feast board; they boast of slaying and of the planning of campaigns. Even I cannot still a quickening of the blood when my hand fits about the hilt of my sword. We were born in war, we lived by war and if war is gone ... then we may feel purposeless and unneeded.”
Merlin laughed. “But there is more than war to occupy the hands and minds of men. Lord King. I grant you that only by struggle do we reach our highest feeling of accomplishment, but that need not be struggle against another of our kind. Wait and see. There is much we can do which in time will make the Great Nine Battles of Britain seem the play of thoughtless children.”
“Show me. Merlin, and you shall have my thanks. I think I was born for but one cause, to fight. And if I have not Saxons—and I shrink from thinking of any of my own rising against me—then give me a battlefield worthy of my ardor.”
Arthur inspected three of the old forts, and at each he detached a certain number of his men with orders that they were to examine the usefulness of the sites thoroughly, reporting at his return whether these could be repaired easily and once more put to service. Thus it was that when they reached the fourth and last fort, before Merlin knew they must strike into the mountain ways, Arthur’s company was much depleted.
There were no men of noble rank left in the shrunken band. The King had arbitrarily assigned all of them to overseeing the study of the other forts. The eight men who rode into the last section of tumbled wall and burnt out interior were, Merlin could see—appreciating Arthur’s astute selection—not the most curious nor resourceful, but rather those who wished no more than to take orders given by others, without any worry to themselves.
As they camped that night Arthur complained of an aching head. He ate very little of what Bleheris brought him and Merlin suggested that he go earlier to rest since it would seem he might have taken a touch of such a fever as accompanies a rheum.
Only to the Pict did the King tell the truth, that the chamber which had been hastily cleared and set aside for Arthur’s uses must be as well guarded as a treasure chest, for the King’s absence was to be kept a secret. And the small dark man bowed his head in promise.
There was no moon outside that night, but Merlin knew (hat his sense of direction would draw him to the cave, just as a migrating bird is drawn even across seas on the path it must travel with the seasons. And Arthur was no stranger to the ways of ambush and scouting, practicing now, to escape his own band, all the craft he had used against the enemy. So together they worked from shadow to shadow away from the ruins of the fort, seeking the high hills which lay beyond.
Merlin believed the King’s illness might be stretched to perhaps four days without the members of his escort growing restive and beginning to wonder why he was not seen, nor any messenger sent with news of his ailing. They were perhaps still a night’s journey away from the height of the mirror cave and the darkness would slow them. But, through the night, he heard a soft laugh from Arthur such as a boy might utter, trying some reckless exploit of his own.
“This is like the days of my boyhood,” he confided in a whisper as they reached the top of one ridge and lay belly-down to detect as best they could what might lie ahead, “Just so did Cei and I sometimes stray secretly afield by night. Though then we were not hunting what we hunt now. Merlin, if Cei is Ector’s son, then is he not also of the Old Race whom you mention with such reverence? Could he, too, be part of this secret of yours?”
“If it is so willed. I do not choose,” Merlin replied. That which is from the stars does so. But we must press on, Arthur, for there is yet a distance to go and the night is short enough.”
Not so short, however, that they reached the cave before a single streak of dawn swept across the sky, a sword blade to part night from day. And Merlin, more by touch than sight, worked at his improvised door, pulling loose those rocks he always tried to arrange as if they had once cascaded there from above. At last they were cleared, bestowed now also so that anyone who might stray into these higher ways would not see them piled too straightly.
Then Merlin took the fore and worked through into the cave of the mirror. He was greeted there, not by the dusk. but by a flashing of light, for all the squares had awakened, either during his absence or to herald his return. Arthur had greater difficulty in pushing his larger body through, but when he stood by Merlin, the rows of flashing lights, the dark burnished surface of the mirror before him, he said nothing. And Merlin, glancing sidewise, saw that the King was seemingly struck silent with awe. Indeed, there was nothing here which was of the world they knew.
“The mirror.” Merlin laid his hand gently on Arthur’s shoulder, drew him forward to face that tall-standing oblong of shining surface. As he did so he spoke formally:
“Here stands now Arthur, High King of Britain, who was fathered and born to the command of those we serve.”
They could see their reflections in the mirror, though these appeared to waver, perhaps because of the flickering of the lights. Then Merlin felt Arthur start as, out of the air above the mirror, came the voice in answer:
“The greeting of the kin to you, Arthur, who was, is and will be, though you remember not from age to age and thus are now blind to the past. This is one of the hours in which you face a choice and must act for the good of your people though, by the tricks of the enemy, you have come late to this meeting. Watch, Arthur, for of choices before you not only your destiny, but that of Britain will be wrought. Merlin, to Arthur alone shall this be given, so he shall see, while you remain blind.”
The bench slid forward as it had on Merlin’s first visit there long ago. Arthur seated himself as one in a trance. To Merlin there was no change in the mirror. He still saw only his own dark-browed, slow-aging face, Arthur’s own brightness of mien. But the King gave an exclamation and leaned forward a little, his eyes wide, his lips parted as if he were about to utter some cry of the same astonishment that was imprinted on his countenance.
Merlin stepped back. He had been late indeed in carrying out this, the last of his duties. But perhaps not too late. Maybe by her use of Modred, which had sent Arthur to him Nimue had weakened her own control over the future. Otherwise the King might never have been persuaded to believe him. Arthur, haunted by the shame Modred seemed to put upon him, had been so readied that Merlin could lead him here easily.
He watched the King, whose eyes were still so intent on the mirror, who sat so unmovingly, that he might have been fashioned of metal like the objects about him and not of flesh and blood. Shadows of expression crossed his countenance, now and then expressing alarm or resolution. Whatever Arthur was learning from the mirror was slowly changing the King even as Merlin watched.
He had come to the mirror a mighty war leader, triumphant in the success of all his maneuvers in the field. Now he was becoming a leader shaped in another pattern. Merlin’s own heart beat faster with excitement as he watched that metamorphosis. Nimue had failed!
The Arthur who would go forth from here need not tremble before any ill-speaking or shadow of the Dark. He was becoming the ruler he would have been if that fashioning of him not been delayed for all these weary years.
Night and day passed, then another night before Arthur at last rose from the bench and turned to face Merlin. There was no light in his eyes now, rather the dour look of a man who must set his will to some great task and summon therefore all his innermost energy.
“You have seen... ?” Merlin asked.
“I have seen,” the King answered. “If this is some dream, then at least I have seen enough to know that a man can live for and by such a dream.” He hesitated. “But kin-brother, we are not like other men. There will be those who would turn their faces from any belief, even if they were shown something they could touch with their own hands. I—“ He shook his head slowly. “A man can but try.”
Merlin watched him narrowly. There was no exultation in Arthur, only a kind of grimness, as if he had accepted some burden which he must bear whether he wanted to or not.
“I wonder,” the King said now, “if this time is wrongly chosen. Men have lived with fear so long that now they look on each new thing, every stranger, as a threat.”
That question matched some of Merlin’s recurring doubts. Had men come far enough yet to want to reach for the stars?
“Closed minds,” Arthur continued. “Can you,” he said, turning to Merlin, “believe that any of this”—he waved his hand about the cave—“will now be thought anything but the work of demons? You have known this since childhood. I come to it a man grown and tried, so that I can understand such fears. And fear leads to hate and destruction. Also, there is the Lady of the Lake.”
“What of her?” Merlin moved uneasily.
“If she is the enemy, then we must know more of her, wherein lies the root of her own powers.”
“She knows me,” Merlin returned. “I have long been her enemy. If I sought her out...”
Arthur nodded. “Just so. But she served Uther well, being noted for her healing gifts. We have begun an imposture here with our excuse of fever which has struck me down. Well, can we continue that? I shall return to Camelot a stricken man and those about me will send for this Nimue. It will be your part, kin-brother, to be reviled as one who has boasted of cures he cannot make. Perhaps you must even be resigned to exile for a space.”
Merlin had one objection. “Lord King, I know of this woman and I have tasted her powers. What if you cannot stand against her? Then indeed you shall be sacrificed and all our plans will come to nothing.”
“That is a fortune we must dare. I see no other way to best her, for otherwise she will spin her spells and these will reach to enmesh us, as a spider web enmeshes the unwary fly, when we need to make some necessary move. Kin-brother, you seem unusually wary of this Nimue— why?”
Merlin flushed. “Is it not enough that she held me captive when I had need to aid you? The mirror has told me little of what forces the Dark Ones can command, but what I have seen of those has been daunting. To offer yourself as her prey might be the greatest act of folly in our world!”
“It may,” Arthur agreed. “Still, I know that we must draw her from cover. Men say that no one can seek her out unless she wills it, that great mists curl around that ancient keep she has taken for her own, hiding her dwelling from the eyes of all. But if I can hold her at Camelot then you, with your greater knowledge of such forces, might well penetrate to that secret place of hers and discover just how strong is the support she can call on.”
Arthur thought in terms of warfare. Merlin must reluctantly agree, however, that this risky form of attack just might succeed.
“Did you learn this from the mirror?” he asked in return.
Arthur sighed. “The mirror leaves to men their own choices. It can show what may happen, but that future constantly changes with the acts of man.”
“That is true. Very well, it shall be as you wish. Lord King.” But even as he agreed. Merlin remained uneasy. Arthur was the chosen King. It was for him to make the decisions now that he had learned his role, but he had not yet met the Dark Ones face to face, only seen something of their work in the affair of Modred. He did not know Nimue except as a healer and a figure of some mystery.
They worked together to close the cave and then took a secret way back to the ruins, evading two sentries Arthur cursed under his breath for their lack of attention. Bleheris awaited them in the inner chamber.
“It is well you have come. Lord King,” he said with open relief. “The men grow restless. Twice Tirion has come asking how you do. He has threatened to send a messenger to Lord Gawain at the other fort—“
“I do badly, Bleheris,” the King returned. “Listen well, shield comrade, this is what must be done. You will go out among the men and say that the fever which grips me is worse. Then Merlin will follow straightaway and order that branches be cut and a horse litter made. You will be ever by me, but when you fetch food or drink you will speak of my strange ravings and that I am fevered worse than you have seen any man before, that you are disturbed in mind because of this illness which has come over me. Do you understand?”
The small Pict looked from the King to Merlin and back to Arthur again.
“This is some battle ruse, Lord King?”
Arthur nodded. “But it is for a kind of battle which is not fought with swords nor spears. I must be returned to Camelot as one who is gravely ill, and only you and Merlin must tend me on the way, so that the truth may not be guessed.”
Bleheris looked now to the curtained doorway of the room.
“Lord King, these men will be alarmed. They do not like this place. They have been speaking among themselves of the ghosts of old ones who do not favor the company of living men and who have thus struck at you. This talk can become dangerous—“
It was Merlin who answered: “Demon-attack, Lord King, might well serve our purpose.”
Arthur’s face was sober. “But dangerous for you, Merlin. Such whispers have always spread about you. They can say that this attack is of your doing if we speak of demons.”
“True enough. However, such a report will serve our turn well. Let it stand. Go, Bleheris. Do not add anything to this talk of ghosts, but look knowing when you hear it, as if you could say more if you would.”
The Pict grinned. “Lord Merlin, I do not know what game you and the High King play but if it is your will, I shall do my best to make it come right for you.”
As Arthur had planned, so was it done. The High King developed certain symptoms induced by Merlin’s herb knowledge, making him flushed of face, hot of skin. Bleheris reported that the men of the following were now convinced that their leader was demon-attacked and that they had begun to look askance at Merlin. The Pict was given his own instructions. Once they reached Camelot he was to whisper it about that only the Lady of the Lake, who had kept Uther visibly alive when all other healers had given him up for near dead, should be summoned.
The lords of Arthur’s following were persistent, as each group joined the train on their return, that they see the King for themselves. But, when they did, the High King seemed to lie in a stupor; Merlin gave the impression of one who was gravely troubled, as if, in spite of his well known healing knowledge, he was now faced by an illness he found baffling.
He was well aware that Cedric had sent a messenger ahead and he was not surprised when, just a half day’s journey away—for they made that trip slowly, fitting their progress to that of the rough horse litter they had devised—the messenger returned with one of the graycoated priests. To Merlin’s relief it was not Gildas, though he was well able to read the hostility of the man. When the Priest attempted to see the King, however, Arthur cried out that there was a new demon to torment him, and he acted so well the part of a man half crazed with a high fever that the priest was forced to withdraw.
The lords turned on Merlin, demanding an explanation of what fell disease had struck down the High King. He drew a long face and answered that there were strange emanations in ruins. Who knew what shadow things lurked where old evils had been done?
They came at last to Camelot and Arthur was carried inside and placed in his own bed. But when Modred and Guenevere speedily came to him, he rose up and ordered them away as being traitors and murderers. Only Bleheris and Merlin seemed able to soothe him. And he did not make the mistake, even for a single moment, of dropping his role of a gravely ill man to exchange so much as a whisper of coherent speech with them alone.
The second day Bleheris moved to carry out his part of Arthur’s plan. When he returned he slipped into the King’s chamber like a small shadow among larger, ran swiftly across to kneel by Arthur’s bedside.
“Lord King, I have spoken,” he whispered, “even as you ordered. I talked of the Lady of the Lake to two of the Queen’s maids, the man who waits on the Lord Cei who has just returned and others. I think they listened.”
Arthur’s head moved almost imperceptively on the pillow to show that he heard and understood. Merlin gave a sigh of relief. It was good hearing that Cei had returned from a visit to Urien’s court in the north. He himself had never felt the kinship with Ector’s son that he had with his father, but he knew that Cei was completely loyal to Arthur, no matter how terse and rude he might be to others. Cei was also quickly jealous of any Arthur chose to favor, so with Cei on guard Merlin could go more light of heart to accomplish his own part of what they would do.
Now he bent over the King as if examining some small change in his patient. There were none to see, but his lips only shaped the words he would say:
“Tell Cei!”
Again the King assented. Perhaps he, too, felt the need of someone to take Merlin’s place.
They waited for the fruits of Bleheris’ sowing to ripen. It was in the morning of the next day that the Queen, together with Cei and Modred, pushed into the chamber. Merlin could believe in Cei’s concern, but that of the other two he doubted. He believed Guenevere liked her crown too well to want to see another in Arthur’s place, but Merlin had not even that small shred of trust in Modred. Modred would be for Modred. His attack on Arthur had already revealed how far he was willing to go— to achieve what? Nimue’s desires? His own chance at the throne? Either motive would make him a fell danger.
But those two now left it to Cei to round on Merlin with the words he himself had been waiting to hear:
“It would seem, healer, that your powers are less than you would have us believe. Our lord does not grow better under your hands, but worse. Therefore we shall seek elsewhere for one who can return him to health.”
“Aye.” Modred interrupted with an arrogance that acted on Cei as a goad urged an ox to labor. “Good Brother Gildas is learned in the art. And since he is a servant of God, who better can cast out the demons which have entered the King?”
Cei glowered at him. “We have no proof of the powers of this priest of yours, boy.” His tone was meant to crush, to relegate Modred to the status of a child.
“You—you forget yourself, Cei!” Modred flared instantly. “I am of Pendragon’s own kin—“
“And I am his foster brother,” returned Cei flatly.
None of the tribes had an answer to that, for the foster tie was counted in their world as strong as blood-kin. Before all of Camelot, Cei was as Arthur’s birth-brother.
He turned his shoulder now on the youth, whose temper-flushed face was a mask of open hate, and spoke straight to Merlin.
“You have wrought no cure, not even a small easing of our lord’s distemper. Therefore we have sent for one who can. The Lady of the Lake is well known to have great power over such ills. Did she not rid Uther of them when his sickness began?”
Merlin bowed his head. “I love our lord too greatly to speak against any help which may be given him”. Therefore, summon this lady if you think her nursing the greater good.”
Cei had an uncertain look for a second. It was as if he had expected a hot protest, and to get such instant agreement made him uneasy. Guenevere had moved forward to the bed; now she raised her head to look around.
“My lord, I have already sent a messenger to summon her. If any ^can raise my dear lord again from this bed, that one is she. As for you, bard, self-proclaimed healer,” she flashed out at Merlin, “better that you get hence. Leave us. I command it!”
Arthur had closed his eyes. Now he gave a small groan. Merlin made as if to go to him but Cei stepped swiftly between.
“The Queen has said it. Get you gone, son of no man. Your name has no honor here, and best you understand that.”
Merlin withdrew. He did not care that his going seemed like the flight of one overawed by the company. It was much more important that he have no confrontation with Nimue. He could not tell how much she could read of their motives and plans if she faced him in person, so avoiding her was the way of a wise man.
Within his own small chamber he made ready for the task ahead. Laying aside the robe of his office, he put on once again drab journey clothes which would mark him perhaps no more than an upper servant of the court. Then he drew from his store of things of Power certain carefully thought-out selections. There was a piece of star iron, found when meteors fell to earth, and also a glassy dark jewel droplet from the same off-world source. There were herbs which he sifted a pinch at a time into a small linen bag, its drawcord long enough for him to wear it amulet-like about his neck. He tucked it inside his tunic against his skin, so that as his body warmed the bag the faint scent of what it held reached his nostrils, serving to clear his head, keep his senses fully alert. Last of all was Lugaid’s legacy to him, that small fragment of metal which had been wrought in the long-ago and had helped to find the sword of Arthur.
These were not things of any “magic” as men thought of magic, but some had or should have an affinity with any off-world object. And as Lugaid had said long ago, “like seeks like.” Merlin had also gathered over the years—with, he had always hoped, no notice—information concerning the stronghold of Nimue. He credited the tales of the enchanted mist which always enfolded it as being ordinary men’s reaction to some hallucination; if that was the truth, such could not baffle him. That he had never ventured in its direction might be to his advantage now:
Nimue could well believe he had learned his lesson so well that he would never try to match strength with her again.
Last of all he drew from a secret place behind his boxbed a rod twice the length of his forearm. Into the head of this he carefully fitted the gem of the stars, making sure that the prongs of metal waiting there encircled it past any chance of loss. Then he reversed the wand, weighting down the slightly larger butt with the pebble of meteor iron. Both in place, he laid the rod across his wrist, trying it at different places until end balanced end, and it remained level as long as he held his arm steady.
Once again he gathered a goodly pack of supplies from the kitchens and took a leather bottle with a shoulder sling; he did not fill this with wine nor cider but carried it to the spring where he tipped into it as much pure water as it would hold. So armed with his own weapons and provisioned for travel. Merlin set forth from the High King’s court.
He fixed his mind as he went, not on the true goal of his journey, but rather concentrated on building about him a small trace of illusion, as much as would keep him from the notice or memory of any he passed. Confident in his power of producing hallucinations, he was content none would report him and, perhaps, his absence from Camelot would not be quickly noted.
He did not go directly toward the site he sought. Instead he started eastward, following one of the old Roman ways for some distance, until it met one of the tracks of a yet older people. There he turned, crossing land which seemed bare of man. Now Merlin released the illusion, made the character of the land itself serve him for concealment. At the same time he built another form of illusion, this one within himself. He purposefully did not think of Nimue, nor her tower; rather he held the thought to the fore of his mind that he traveled merely to another Outpost of men.
Merlin had no idea what safeguards surrounded Nimue’s hold. He doubted that they were the ordinary ones of high walls with men to defend them. His own cave possessed a distort which would make any invader not of the Old Blood uneasy and blind. And if anyone did persist, there was a device within which would bar the way. Merlin had not the least doubt chat Nimue’s place in turn had its own invisible guardians.
The defense of his own refuge, however, had not been proof against Nimue. Therefore, reason argued, hers should not be beyond his powers to solve.
By nightfall Merlin reached the edge of the wood which men called Nimue’s first defense. There the old road curled around its edge as if, even in the dawn days of this land, men believed something uncanny lay in that forest.
Merlin drew back under a wide bush, not lighting any fire, munching instead a small portion of bread wrapped around a bit of cheese, drinking sparingly from his water bottle. He sent out those invisible scouts which served his mind, reaching farther and farther when these scouts reported nothing but nature in the trees’ shadow. At last Merlin broke that concentration and set his mental scouts on guard while he dozed in light sleep—he would not dare surrender to any depth of unconsciousness.
It was at the rise of a nearly full moon that he felt a stir which was not of any person, nor animal within the forest. This was the force that he recognized only too well, for it he could draw on it himself. Whatever sentinels served Nimue were now at their posts.
Merlin made no attempt to identify the nature of those beings, or lesser powers. He had no wish to alert them to his own presence by any touch of mind. What he did now, with care and all the skill he could summon, was locate each and mark where it was stationed.
Perhaps Nimue depended on some form of visual distortion by day and terrifying illusions by night, which would be a natural enough defense against most men. Finally he marked a slash a little to the west of him where a stream wandered through. It was not deep but of some width.
There was his door. For he knew, as true men did not, that water, flowing water, was a nonconductor of distorts and illusions. From this truth was born the ancient belief that certain evil forces might be stopped if the pursued were to cross running water.
He had his gate for the morrow, and now he knew where all the enemy sentinels near him kept their posts. Leaving his own thread of awareness on guard, Merlin lapsed once more into slumber.
The dawn light came and he crawled from the embrace of the bush. Once more he ate a little of his food, then set off westward until, before the sun had more than sent a warning of color into the sky, he reached the stream. A series of fording stones were set where the old road dipped to meet it. Merlin made no use of these, but waded out into the center of the running water as equidistant as he could get from each wooded bank.
He waded through knee-high water so clear he could see the stones below, the darting forms of water-dwellers. Before him he held as a balance the rod tipped with the two star gifts. This remained level until he was well into the forest itself, the trees arching above the wash of the water to form a tunnel of dusky green.
Every one of Merlin’s searching senses was alert. He picked up the flickers of small lives which were part of this world, but no trace of those things which had been set to prowl the night Suddenly the rod turned of its own accord in his grip, swinging in an arc to transpose itself end for end. The gem pointed ahead and slightly to the east. His alien gifts had served him well, pointing a direct path to Nimue’s hold. Still he did not leave the water; he would stay with it as long as the stream ran in the same direction he wished.
The gem-point of his wand was slowly being pushed backward, until the wand once more formed a level bar. He had reached the place opposite the hold. A little ahead of him the stream made a right-handed curve also, so sharp a one Merlin did not think it had been designed by nature. Then, catching sight of some very ancient and moss-grown rocks squared and fitted together, he knew that his guess was right.
The path of the water here was much narrower, as if being forced through a sluice. It also had far more of a current rising up his body, resisting his advance, while the rush of its outflow had swept away sand and grit so that his boots supped on stones set to line the way. Now prudence dictated that he move closer to one of the banks where he could grasp overhanging bushes and vines and so work his way along without risking a fall.
Merlin’s advance was slow, yet he was not tempted to crawl out of the water which to him was a promise of cover, small as it might be. Now he could see the sun once more ahead, dancing on an expanse of water much greater than the outlet up which he pulled himself. Moments later he stood, sucking a thorn-torn thumb, looking out on Nimue’s domain.
She was indeed Lady of the Lake. On an island to which clung only a ragged bush or two—all that could find root-room among the rocks—was a tower of stone so dark as to make one believe that the very passing of time itself had overlain it with a sable cloak.
In the lower story there were no windows, but, above that, narrow slits gave what must be very limited light to the interior. The stones themselves were not cut and mortared into place after the Roman fashion, rather they were the roughly surfaced rocks which were like those of the Place of the Sun, though fitted with such a cunning hand, allowing for all their natural oddities of shape, that they formed a most solid building.
From the tower, well to his right, there ran a causeway of the same rocks. It was broken in the middle and Merlin guessed that the dwellers in the tower—whoever or whatever they might be—had some way of temporarily bridging the gap, so that drawing away the bridge gave them protection.
The water of the lake itself was odd, giving off a shimmer of light which Merlin knew was part of a strong illusion. Doubtless to anyone not versed in the use of such things, the whole lake and the tower might be shielded in an impenetrable mist, just as tales reported was so.
He studied the tower, seeing no sign of life about it. As it now stood it could be a long-deserted ruin. Yet in his hand the wand quivered and fought against his hold. If he loosed it he believed it would be drawn across the water to a strong power source. Now it was his task to span that gap with more than his wand—his whole body.
To his left, however the quiver of the water’s surface grew more pronounced. Merlin had a sudden warning. He splashed up onto the bank, watching warily that agitation of the lake. Out of the water reared a monstrous head, jaws agape and dripping, showing fangs as sharp as any. sword point.
This was no illusion. The monster beast was real, though not of any breed he had seen. Merlin recalled some of the information taught by the mirror, that there Were many worlds coexistent with this earth, and the walls between them sometimes thinned. By chance, or by some swift loosing of force, a life-form from one might well be drawn into another; hence the tales men told about loathy worms and dragons slain by courageous human heroes.
Trespasser in this world though the water thing might be, it was not the less dangerous for being transplanted. And Merlin did not doubt that the lake-dweller was part of Nimue’s defenses.
The thing moved shoreward with disconcerting speed, its dagger-jawed head held well above the surface of the lake, an ominous hiss puffing with foul breath from its mouth. Merlin twirled the wand in his hand, spinning it with nearly the same force he had used when beating the blades on the stones.
The creature’s eyes, set far back within pits of the narrow, scaled skull, no longer stared unblinkingly at Merlin. They were held instead in fascination by the whirl of the wand. He knew a small relief: the thing was not too alien to answer to controls he had perfected long ago among the woods creatures.
Now the monster’s head swayed a little left, right, left, right and there was no more interest in Merlin but full attention for the whirl of the wand. Having so caught and held the thing, he probed what mind it might have: alien and deadly but not intelligent, thus open to his own attack.
As Merlin might build an hallucination for a man, he strove now to set the creature under his rule, and that Proved easier than he had hoped. Though he began to lessen the swing of the wand, the monster did not move. Its head still swung and its eyes were dulled as if, in a measure, it were now blind.
Merlin took a chance and stilled the wand, waiting, poised to begin again should the lake thing move. But it did not. He sent a last command winging to its strange brain. The coils on which the head was reared began to slip down beneath the waters and at last ripples closed over it.
He had thought of approaching the island by swimming, lest any scouting of that broken causeway bring attention from the tower. Now he knew better than to try. He did not even have any idea of how long the serpent thing could be held in mind-bondage. So he strode as swiftly as he could along the shore toward the end of the causeway, not neglecting as he went to keep an alert watch on both land and water, as well as leaving his mind open to any emanation from other guards.
At the shore end of the causeway he paused, looking across that middle break to the island. The glare from the water was unusually dazzling—perhaps some safeguard had been triggered by his presence here and was striving with all its might to bewilder and bemuse the invader.
Under his feet was a trace of ancient way. A well-used road had once run to this spot. But his wonder grew as he looked at the tower. For all the kinship of the stonework to the megaliths of the Place of the Sun, this had not been any stronghold of those he knew—or sensed—in the latter place. It was almost as if this dark squatting building had been summoned into this world from another, like the scaled thing of the lake. Even looking at the heavy lines of its walls disturbed Merlin.
Could it be a distort of some kind which reached him so? Merlin did not know, but he had no wish to invade either island or tower. However, wishes did not rule him.
He began to whirl the wand once more, holding it out at nearly arms-length from his body. If his defense was working as he hoped, no watcher in the tower could see him clearly behind that flashing rod. His mind-probe picked up nothing ahead. There was only a blankness, which in itself was wrong.
Now he had reached the edge of the break and saw that there were scars on the old stones. Merlin thought this proved his guess was right: there was some way of bridging this gap which could be laid down and taken up again. But he could not allow himself to be defeated by a length of open water.
Looking down, he could see fallen stones, green with water slime. Some did break the surface, though their tops were wet and also slimed. Merlin measured their setting critically with his eye.
The shimmering of the water was very thick here, but not enough to veil those possible stepping-stones from him. To take that path, though, he must put aside his own defense by the rod and thus expose his coming to any watcher in the castle. He considered the problem and could see no other answer.
Merlin tied the wand fast to his belt with cords—tight enough to insure he could not lose it—for he would need both hands free now. Finally he swung himself over the edge of the break, dropped with all possible caution to the top of the first water-washed rock.
He kept a wary eye on the water itself. If there were any more monsters in this lake, this was the proper place and time for them to make their presence known. The surface of the water shimmered so much he could not see what lurked below it.
The next rock was green with slime, and it was more than a possible stride away. He would have to jump that gap—the quicker he moved the better. Merlin leaped, his feet skidding, but he went to his hands and knees, clawing for a hold so he would not slide into the water.
Disaster had been so close his mouth was dry and he was shivering. He had kept his perch; the next rock was not so far away. Also, though its top above the level of the lake was very broken and rough, that stone was drier.
It took resolution to move on to that perch, however. And, when the second stone teetered under his weight, as if about to turn over and fling him into the water, Merlin fought fear once more. This block would be hard to take off from and, though the next was far more level, it was slime-streaked.
Somehow he made the step once more, his heart pounding, as the broken rock swayed with every movement. He squatted on the third stone to get his breath, glancing around for any hint that he might be the quarry of some other foul creature.
The last jump landed him at the foot of the other side of the break. Now he stood on a small outcropping of stone, hardly wide enough to hold his feet. His face was only inches away from the wall he must climb. He reached above him, not daring to stretch his head far back to look up, hunting holds for his hands and feet.
He found them and pulled himself up. When he edged over the top of the causeway he lay for a moment, willing his heart to beat normally, his will to establish control over his emotions.
Then he got to his feet. Before him was a doorway but no door was shut against him. Instead there was what seemed to be thick darkness between Merlin and the interior, as if indeed some night cloud had been fitted there to keep out the light of day.
Merlin untied the wand from his belt and held it in his hand with the gem upward. It pointed toward the doorway of its own accord, pulling the wand straight in his grasp. Though he needed no assurance, he could tell by the action of the star stone that like indeed called to like and what was in the tower was not entirely of his earth.
As he walked steadily toward that dark-curtained doorway he feverishly sought to discover whether any new guardian lay in wait beyond. Did Nimue have henchmen and women to serve her, perhaps plucked like the serpent of the lake, from some other world or time?
If there were other guards they had some defensive cover which was not for his understanding, because he could pick up no trace, nothing similar to the haunters of the woods. He stood before that curtain which swirled and billowed within the opening, and in that instant he was aware that Nimue needed no locks or doors. This cloud stuff was as efficient a barrier as solid stone would be. Try as he would, Merlin could not advance another step.
He was not ready to concede defeat, however. Instead he drew forth from his belt pouch the last of his armament, Lugaid’s scrap of metal. This could be bent if one exerted pressure enough, as well as will. Now he pressed it as tightly as he might about the gemmed point of his wand, until the stone was covered with a cap of shining metal. The closer he advanced it toward the cloud door, the more its own light brightened. Then he thrust it straight into the center of the darkness as a warrior would strike with a spear. There answered a glare of light so brilliant Merlin’s eyes were blinded, and a sound as if a thunderclap had burst just above his head.
He smeared his hand across his eyes, willing sight back to them.
The doorway before him was now clear. And, if the sun did not reach beyond it, there was light of another kind in the windowless interior, no light of lamp or torch, but brighter.
Merlin, holding the wand before him, crossed the threshold.
As the cave had been when he first sighted it, so this vast inner room, which must include all of the lower story of the tower, was crowded with a huge number of installations. He recognized some as resembling those which fostered the mirror, having the same flickering of light across their surfaces. Others were strange. And there was no mirror. In whatever way Nimue received her instructions it was not in the same manner as Merlin had his.
There was no life there but for himself, none he could detect. Against the far wall was a stairway which wound up, cut into the stone itself, leading to the floor above.
Merlin strode down an aisle between the flashing boxes. The very familiarity of some of this equipment reassured him. Now he began to climb up to the second story where there were windows. The bold light of the interior came from long rods set into the walls, but those were only below. As he came up through an opening in the floor he was greeted by not only the light of day entering much more dimly and wanly through the slits of the windows, but by scents he himself knew. Here were the odors of herbs and cordials. Sniffing, he could detect that and this which he had harvested and stored in his own chamber.
A long curtain divided the round room into two. On one side were stools, a table, garlands, of dried herbs against the wall, a chest with shelves set above it on which stood lidded pots and beakers. Studying this array. Merlin felt entirely at home.
Yet there was something else to be sniffed in this half room—sniffed or discovered by that other sense of his. For the wholesome scent of the herbs did not entirely disguise another odor, and that was far from pleasant. Someone had dealt in illusions here, but such dealing had been reinforced with drugs such as Merlin knew better than to employ. That was the stink of evil, insidious, half hidden, but there.
He passed the edge of the curtain to the other side. Here was a carved bed covered with linen which had been steeped in saffron for a golden tinge. Over that was drawn a coverlet of deeper gold on which was worked a complicated design in sea-green thread, looped here and there to draw a pearl into line. On the walls were hangings worked with gold thread on green. But there were none of the fanciful beasts, hunters, other patterns such as the ladies of the court were wont to use. Rather the lines were sharp and stiff, consisting of angles and squares, drawn in a manner not altogether strange to Merlin.
In his dreams of the tower cities he had glimpsed paintings which were not unlike these. And it was the trick of such work that the longer you stared at it, the more an uneasy feeling grew in you that something lurked within those lines, watching and skulking for no good purpose. Yet he could glimpse nothing he was sure of but the lines themselves.
There was a chest also, carved like the bed and, standing on it, one end propped against the wall, was a mirror. A mirror! Merlin made a careful way across the room, taking every precaution to keep his reflection from its burnished surface.. It could well be that this was set as a trap and that on her return Nimue might summon up on the surface the likeness of any intruder. When he came close enough, however, he was certain that this was not the same as the mirror of his cave, merely an article aiding to adornment.
This side of the upper chamber was not tainted with that trouble he had found in the other. He decided that it was no more than Nimue’s own quarters. As there was no further way up, the tower must contain only the two rooms.
He had seen no sign of any servants. Nimue must live alone—except for such as needed no quarters and perhaps no food nor drink, unless what he picked up in the herb chamber might be termed that.
Back in the other section, fronted once more by all the raw materials of a healer’s training. Merlin again swung the wand widely, pointing the metal-covered gem at the wall, turning very slowly so that any movement of his indicator would be noted.
But the wand lay quiet in his hand. What was here had no affinity for the star things. All that must lie below. He returned to the crowded lower section.
What he wanted most was complete destruction of everything that stood here. But there might be more than he could hope to control if he attempted that. Slowly he paced among the machines, noting those which were in any way different from the ones he had come to know—if not wholly understand—in the cave.
There were three of the latter. One stood upright, a little taller than Merlin himself. Its front panel was unlike the rest, which were of smooth metal, while the one he faced was pebbled and rather akin in substance to an opaque glass. The wand in his hand came to life. Before he could tighten his grip on it, the gem-and-metal tip thudded against that panel at the height of Merlin’s breast.
Though the panel was not broken there came a change in it. It was as if an inner skin was sloughing away as he watched, to show what stood behind. What stood...
Merlin caught his breath. He was looking now on a woman, propped upright in the cabinet or else standing there. But, though her eyes were open, there was no sign of life about her. She might have been some statue, except she was far too lifelike.
Red hair lay in long, ribbon-entwisted braids down her shoulders, shining brightly against the clear light blue of her robe. She had a torque around her throat, a bracelet of bronze curiously worked around one wrist. To Merlin’s eyes she was young, yet in another way she carried about her a kind of ripeness, as if she knew well the pleasures of the body.
At first he believed that he faced the dead, cunningly preserved after no fashion this world knew. Then he stared more closely, even venturing to tap with one fingertip against the now transparent panel. There was a swirl of small particles across the face of the girl in answer. She stood’ there fully engulfed in liquid, just as he had lain under the protection’ of the mirror so that he might live, not die as Nimue willed.
Nimue was once rumored to have brought someone here—Morgause, Uther’s daughter! But this was only a girl. She could not be the mother of Modred, a fully grown youth ... unless she had been so imprisoned shortly after her son’s birth! When Merlin studied her longer he was sure he could indeed trace a faint likeness to Uther, but certainly none to the dark-browed Modred!
Why did Nimue hold her prisoner so? The Lady of the Lake must foresee some future use for Uther’s daughter, not as she would have been if time had dealt commonly with her, but as she was when Uther had sent her forth from his court. And, knowing Nimue, Merlin did not believe that that purpose could be any good one.
He inspected the box carefully for any fastening or latch. It seemed sealed on all four comers as well as the top. Perhaps it was the sort of coffer which could only be released by the right word, spoken in just the proper tone. Though he pitied the girl who slept, he could see no way of freeing her.
Oddly enough, that opaque backing which had been dislodged by his wand was beginning to gather again, spreading over the inner surface as frost covered a stone. It was thickening and for that he was glad, since the fewer signs left of his visit here the better.
Now he went past Morgause’s strange prison to an object made of fine wires spun with ribbons of metal. This was woven into a crown-like head covering, though some of the wire rose up from the top of that crown into a tall pillar standing behind it, where they were swallowed into the substance of the pillar itself. ^
Before that pillar on Merlin’s side was a bench, on which the crown waited. He considered the whole thing carefully. Then suddenly he was excited. He had the mirror and the voice; this crown might be a device for communication just as the mirror was for him! If that were so...
Merlin edged around to the back of the pillar. It was entirely smooth and rose nearly to the ceiling overhead, There was a space about half the length of Merlin’s wand between its top and the overhead beams. Some glistening rods about the thickness of his little finger jutted into that space from the crest of the pillar at irregular lengths, no two the same.
Not even in his dreams of the lost cities had Merlin ever seen its like, but if this was Nimue’s link with those who had set her tasks here on this earth, and if it could be destroyed...
He had a hearty respect for anything fashioned by the Star People and so little knowledge—simply because he had none of their devices in common use—of what they might be, that he was loath to interfere with any of this. Yet he also knew that he finally had before him the chance to deal his enemy the greatest defeat.
The wand warned him of force inside the pillar, such a flow of force that he dared not test it. However, the reaction was far less when he pointed the off-world gem in the direction of the crown on the bench. And those wires that wedded crown to pillar looked very fragile.
Merlin drew a deep breath. Even if he awoke here such a force as would sweep him into death, defeating Nimue and those behind her would be worth such an ending. He had obeyed the orders laid on him—the beacon was set to bring in those of his kin; Arthur knew what they would have of him—so what matter if he died now, as long as he took with him Nimue’s greatest tool?
Slowly, with caution and all the skill he could bring to the task. Merlin slid (he tip of the wand along the surface of the bench until it lay directly under, but not touching, the wires that led up to the pillar. Then, just as he had used the knife blade to compel the King Stone to his will, now he began tapping with the metal-encased gem. And in a low voice he chanted. Tap—chant—tap—
He made no move to touch the crown, but bent his will on its anchorage. Slowly the crown itself lifted from the surface of the bench. It rose by jerks, as if it were a sentient thing fighting against his control. But still it rose. Now it was higher than Merlin’s head as he stood there, and the wires to the pillar were pulled taut as harp strings.
Merlin did not hesitate. Tap—chant—tap—
He sensed that beyond the reach of his own mind there were things gathering, prowling unseen, moving on a level not open to the eyes of man. But he would not give heed to those things, concentrating his whole will on what he would do.
The crown tugged fiercely at the wires that held it, bobbing down to strain upward again with a quick snap. Still those thread-like filaments held. But Merlin persevered.
There was a sharp ringing sound. One of the wires had at last broken, trailing back against the pillar limply. The crown, freer now on one side than the other, made desperate swoops and soars to win loose in answer to Merlin’s command.
Another snap. It was held now by a single thread only.
Merlin did not allow any feeling of triumph to slow his invocation. The crown dipped low like a tethered bird, nearly flying into Merlin’s face as if it resented what he would make it do and was now minded to attack. He did not flinch but his tapping grew stronger and he raised his voice a fraction, uttering a single loud ringing word of command.
The crown flew from him as if to escape whatever fate he laid upon it, rising in a whirl of motion overhead, and the last wire parted. Now all virtue went out of the crown; it fell to lie at Merlin’s feet and he deliberately set his boot on it, crushing its fragile weaving into a mass of broken wire. Raising the tangle by the tip of his wand, being careful not to touch it with his bare hand, he carried it before him as he went.
The last of the installations he did not understand was another pillar, but this had no crown, no wires, no surface break, not even any flashing lights along its front. He could make nothing of it ... And those presences he sensed when he had attacked the crown were growing more restive.
He did not know them, could only feel that in some way they were akin to the watchers in the forest. His own inner force had been badly eroded by his destruction of the crown so it seemed better to meet out in the open any attack which might be aimed at him now—not facing it. Nimue’s own fortress where the unseen attackers might be able to draw upon energies he could not locate. In spite of Nimue’s usurpation of this section of the forest. Merlin had some strengths which the earth itself would feed and nurture.
He ran through the doorway, out of that well-lighted room. When he reached the break in the causeway he turned and hurled the wreckage of the crown far out into the lake, where the glittering water swallowed it. It would have been better to bury it in the earth—for this water had been englamoured by his enemy—but Merlin now needed his hands free for what might come.
What did happen surprised him so much that he nearly lost control for a startled moment. He had been dreading the return across those slippery stones. Not only did he know that he was already under a silent attack which sucked at his control and his inner powers, but he feared that Nimue’s forest servants had been alerted. Caught on those slimed rocks he would be easy meat
However, when he turned to look in the direction of the land, he glimpsed something that was not the false sheen of the water, but was suspended above it like a nearly invisible link between the two broken portions of the causeway. If water itself could form a bridge. Merlin believed, it would look so.
Dare he trust it? This might be a subtle trap. He thought he had the way of testing that. Leaning forward a little. Merlin stretched out his wand to touch what ha could hardly see at all. The stone-metal point thudded down against a surface which was very real indeed.
Thus, tapping gingerly before him with the tip of the rod as he went. Merlin stepped onto the invisible bridge, forcing himself not to see with his eyes but with his mind, to know that he had footing even if it appeared to be only empty air.
He gained no confidence during that crossing, even though his wand continued to report that steady footing formed the bridge. Only when he was down again on that other length of stone he could see as well as feel did Merlin give a great sigh of relief. Yet this was no time to relax his guard.
Facing the trees in the dark wood through which the trace of that very ancient road ran, he stiffened. They were alert at last, those eerie guardians Nimue had set to patrol her boundaries, and they were closing the path before him. There remained the way he had taken in, the stream. With the memory of the serpent still paramount in his mind, though, descending again into any water fed by this lake was a task which needed firm willing.
Merlin dropped down into the deeper runnel, his wand in hand, feeling the slight swing of that which, added to his extra sense, would be his warning of any imminent attack. The water here was not as clear as it had been farther down the stream and, as he walked, slipping and sliding across a very uneven footing, clouds of silt rose to make it more murky.
He was well down that water road, near the turn where it became a more honest and natural stream, when his wand turned sharply in his hand. At the same moment a strong warning of his sense of Power brought him half around.
He expected to see a monster, perhaps the same monster he had beguiled in the lake. Not—not a woman standing as if her sandals were set on the surface of the water, which had now become a firm flooring at her command.
She smiled lingeringly. As he had first seen her on that night he held the barrow sword, so did Merlin see Nimue now. She made no attempt to conceal her slim white body, which was all woman’s curves; she even shook back her cloak of hair to display herself more wantonly. She was bare save for a girdle of stones as milky white as her skin, two wide armlets of the same and a neck chain which held a single stone carved into the sickle of a new moon, hanging between the proud upsurge of her breasts.
She shook her head in the mock playfulness one might use toward a child who had done ill but did not understand.
“Merlin—“ His name came like the sighing of the wind, yet he noted sharply that her lips had not shaped it And with that small hint of what she might be, he lifted the wand and struck—even as if he handled a spear in battle.
That point fashioned of metal and gem pierced between her breasts just below the moon pendant. There was a flurry in the air, then nothingness. Illusion!
But the fact that the illusion had called his name was highly disturbing. Nimue must have suspected that he would come or else she would not have fashioned such an apparition. Or did she know from afar of his invasion, from Camelot itself?
Either way he was disturbed. Though he might deal with certainty and wisdom with everything else in this world, yet this woman could stir his emotions and make him as awkward as any untried youth. It was not the strength she might summon and control, as he summoned and controlled forces, which made him uneasy. No, it was that subtler, other influence which reached the man in him no matter how he tried to control such longings. He knew they endangered all he could command, and that he would be far less than he now was if he were to yield to them.
For a long moment after the disappearance of the illusion Merlin stood waiting where he was, half expecting it to form again, but it did not. Now, feeling like a hunted fugitive, he splashed on, setting the best pace he could out of that evil wood.
Did Nimue know from a distance what damage he had wrought in her tower? He was willing to attribute all kinds of knowledge to her. And had his destruction of the crown defeated her future plans in anyway? He knew so little and needed to know so much!
Breathing faster but turning his head from side to side, gripping the wand so he would feel the first stirring it might give, he pushed on steadily. It seemed to him that gloom gathered under the trees on either side of the stream, folding in thicker, almost like the curtain he had dispensed at the tower. And behind that—what prowled behind? He closed the door of his imagination, refused to allow such speculation. To look for that kind of attack was often to open a way for it.
No birds twittered in this woods now. Merlin could no longer pick up the smallest hint of any animal life-force. When no other manifestation rose to confront or threaten him, he began to believe that Nimue’s image had been random only, set up in simple expectation that some day he might venture here, and was not keyed to this one exploit of his.
The moon necklace she had worn—that he knew. Not from any teaching of the mirror, rather from the legends of his mother’s people. It was the sign of one of the three who were chosen in the old days to serve the Earth Mother: Maid there always was, with the new moon for her ranking. Mother, with the full moon. Old woman with her waning orb. Why had Nimue chosen such an archaic symbol? This countryside was sparsely settled and he knew that the people here might well cling to the old ways. It could be that many, perhaps the women chiefly, secretly worshiped the Old Goddess. At that thought a small unexplainable shiver ran down his spine. This matched that faint scent of evil he had detected in the herb chamber, a hint of something that was a warning, but so veiled a one he could not understand it.
Merlin breathed deeply with relief as he came at last out from under the daunting canopy of the trees, but the sun would not be with him much longer. This time he got well away from the fringe of the woods before he sat down, his damp breeches and boots clammy on his body, to eat and drink.
Tonight there would be a full moon, ripe and yellowwhite in the sky. Merlin licked crumbs from his lips. He was very tired; the outflow of energy which had obeyed his will to destroy Nimue’s crown had closed down on him. To go on when he felt so weak and tired was folly. Still, even in this open, he was not easy of mind. He sat cross-legged, his wand lying on his knees, and realized he was listening, listening with a fervor he could not understand. Listening for what? Who?
Twilight faded and still he sat there, every sense alert.
He often stared at the black blot of the woods, but it was not from there that this feeling of dark awareness came. He also watched the slopes of open land around him. He was sure they had once been cleared by the hands of men and then abandoned to the wilds, so that shrubs and bushes had begun to reclaim the forest’s territory.
Merlin heard the bark of a fox, the rustle of some flying thing swooping low near him, perhaps to make a hunting kill. The night was alive again, but that life was normal to it. Why then did he sit waiting?
Now and then he glanced down at the wand. Its white length was barely discernible, and the gem and metal on its point did not gleam. He began to believe that whatever threatened was not a weapon of Nimue’s armory, at least no off-world one. There were times when he tried to compose himself to sleep, (he light drowse he had known the night before, but that inner sentinel his mind had set refused to be ignored.
The moon rose, as whole as a piece of Roman gold tossed into the sky to overawe the stars with its light. Then, very far away, there began a disturbance which Merlin could not hear; he could only feel it like a vibration through earth and air picked up by his inner sense, not any outer one. It grew stronger until at last he heard as well as felt it.
There was a chanting which raised the hairs along his neck, made him breathe more quickly, his heart beat faster. Though he dealt with words of Power and knew what could channel through them, still this was wholly alien to his own forces. There was something utterly strange and wild in that wail in which he could not yet distinguish any words. Old, old, said his own knowledge, back, far back. This was nothing of the Star People, but entirely of a young earth before the coming of their ships.
The chanting broke into a series of shrill yelps. At last Merlin knew.
There was a hunt up under the moon, and he was the quarry. The goddess whose symbol Nimue’s illusion had worn also had her dark side. To that portion of her character men had shed blood—the blood of their own kind. She had two faces, that goddess, as well as three ages, and the second face was turned to the outer Darkness, which men had always feared and tried to propitiate.
The Great Mother—and the Great Destroyer—of mankind!
Yet yielding to atavistic fear meant utter defeat. Merlin swallowed twice, working to calm the beating of his heart, to marshal what he knew, the forces he himself controlled. There must be an answer—and that was not to run. For if he gave way to that...
He shook his head. There was an answer! It lingered in the far part of his mind, overlaid by all the mirror had taught him. This was not of the mirror, however, it was of his own world alone.
The Great Mother and her priestesses who watered the earth with the blood of men—
The Great Mother and—
From that far-hidden place in his memory Merlin dragged what Lugaid had once told him very long ago. The Mother had her rival. In latter years that rival became her mate: the Homed God, to whom hunters paid tribute that they might ever find the herds they preyed on. The Homed God ... and how greatly did these priestesses hold him in awe?
There was little time for self-questioning. He could either run, which his nature forbade and which he knew would condemn him anyway, or he could stand. In his standing, he would have to-hold the strongest illusion he had tried for years. It had to be strong, for the power of the Mother was not like any force he had faced before.
Merlin rose to his feet. He deliberately shut out as best he could the screams of the huntresses. He steadied his mind, concentrating, hoping with every breath he drew that his command over his own powers had not been too devastated by what he had wrought at the keep in the lake. There was no mirror fronting him now in which he could check the illusion. He could only hold the picture in his mind.
They were close enough now so he could see their whites bodies darting in and out among the scrub bushes, the tossing of their hair. Like Nimue, they wore no clothing, but had necklaces of acorns. And the pack was of all girls scarcely into puberty, matrons with sagging breasts which had nursed children, hags so old their skin was seamed leather under the moon.
As they drew in on him, now, their faces showing only the frenzy which was the dark aspect of their goddess, their clamor stilled. There was an avid blood lust in their eyes, just so had they once gathered to slay the Winter King. Merlin must not allow himself to think of anything but the protection he had woven for himself.
The first of the pack came within leaping distance, but now they faltered, their stares fixed, then wondering. If his own powers worked they saw no man, rather a dark figure bearing stag horns on his raised head—a figure which displayed no fear of their goddess-frenzy because the Homed Hunter was himself of the earth, the sky, the land about them.
The leader of the pack snarled, a tall woman with pendulous breasts who wore about her loins a thong supporting the disk of the full moon. Twice she started to reach for him with her long-nailed fingers, crooked to claw the flesh from his bones, but she still did not strike. Her following hung farther back, glancing uneasily from their priestess to Merlin.
He raised his wand, though the star things had no power against such as these. Yet with that in his hand his confidence was greater. Now he spoke:
“You do not hunt me, women of the Goddess.” He did not make that a question but a statement. “You may call the earth to answer you, to take the seed into it, to conceive, to bear the fruits of full harvest But I command that which roams about the earth. Behold—“
With the wand he pointed to his left. There stood snarling the great Dire Wolf, a hound such as no living man had ever seen. And to the right he pointed, so that there crouched a giant cat with long fangs, and it hissed even as the wolf growled.
The women behind the priestess started back. But she stood her ground, and her teeth showed in a snarl as open as that of the cat’s.
“Hunter,” she spat, “do not try to oppose the Mother!” “I am not a hunter,” Merlin replied, “I am the Hunter. The Mother knows me for I, too, am of her breed. I am no Spring King to share her bed for but a season. Look upon me. Priestess! I am of the wild kind and, as in the kind, so does my wrath rise! You serve your Mother—I do not bow knee at any shrine of hers. Thus between us lies a balance of power, each equal with the other. Is this thing not so?”
Very reluctantly the priestess inclined her head. But she did not surrender her fury.
“We hunt when the Mother is threatened,” she stated.
“Do I threaten her then, Priestess?”
For the first time she looked uncertain. “Perhaps—per haps you are not the one we seek.”
“Yet it is to me you have brought your pack,” he countered. “I mean your lady no wrong, for both she and I serve the powers of earth life. Seek your man elsewhere, Priestess.”
She stared straight at him, puzzlement on her broad face. Then she backed away, her women scattering behind her. Merlin watched them go. He had no doubt that Nimue had somehow been at the bottom of this abortive attack. Had the Lady of the Lake brought back one of the oldest beliefs of all to cement new numbers of devoted followers to her?
The women were gone and once more he could hear their bare feet thudding against the earth around the bushes. Plainly they were indeed casting about for another trail. He hoped no wayfarer was abroad in this wasteland tonight for he was sure that, once balked of what they thought was their prey, they would take an added vengeance on any they found.
Was this how the Star Lords of his half kin first presented themselves to men, taking on some illusion of an earth god? He could almost believe that he had only followed a pattern of contact devised very long ago. Simple men needed symbols to tie themselves to their belief in the great Power which was beyond any man’s description. And there had been many forms of gods walking this earth. An ancient Sky Lord might have assumed the form of one—that would be the easiest way to make men listen, to direct them into new ways of living and thought.
Merlin had already relinquished the illusion with which he had clothed himself this night. Now he set out through the moon-and-shadow-checkered land to follow the old road, to be away from this place as soon as possible, drawing on the dregs of his strength to keep walking.
It was three days before Merlin saw the high rise of Camelot’s hill before him. He was very tired and hungry, though he had broken his fast at a shepherd’s hut that morning. The man had little news, except a rumor that the High King ailed and kept to his chamber. So Arthur still played his role. But when Merlin came nearer to Camelot he saw a party of horsemen spurring down the slope at a pace that suggested some need for haste. When they had gone. Merlin made what speed he could up to the outer wall of half earth, half stone.
There were twice as many guards at the entrance, and within a bustle of men were preparing to march. The first sentry swung his spear up crosswise, barring Merlin’s passage.
“Stand!” the man commanded.
“You know me,” Merlin countered. “Why do you this, fellow?”
“By Lord Cei’s orders, none is to enter—“
“Then send a message to Lord Cei,” Merlin returned. “I am not one to be kept waiting thus.”
The man seemed undecided and there was a shadow of hostility on his face. However, one of his fellows did go off, and Merlin settled his shoulders against the firm wall to wait with what patience he could summon. He was eager to know what had happened. That Cei gave the orders here—that either meant Arthur still played his role or— Merlin tried to list the factors which might have gone wrong with their plan.
The messenger was already returning. “You are to come to Lord Cei,” he told Merlin shortly, using no courtesy in that command. Nor did Merlin ask anything of the fellow who stalked by his side through the enclosure.
All the signs were of war. Saxons? Had there been some unlooked-for invasion during his absence? He kept his ears open but he could gather little from the shouted orders and general talk of the men.
Then he mounted the inner stairs of the palace to a balcony room where Cei stood by the outer window frowning out at the ramparts. He turned quickly at Merlin’s coming and his scowl did not lighten.
“Arthur?” Merlin made a question of that name.
Cei’s scowl deepened. “How near you are to traitor, bard,” he said menacingly, “I do not yet know. When I learn ...” He held out a hand between (hem and slowly ^led his fingers into a hard fist. “H I find it to be as I suspect, so shall I take your throat and crush the life out of you—slowly!”
“It would save time,” Merlin pointed out, “if you would tell me what has happened. When I left the King was playing ill for purposes of his own—“
Cei showed his teeth wolfishly in what was far from any smile.
“So he told me. But look upon him now, healer. And it you can indeed heal, then do so speedily!”
Nimuel Merlin nearly said the name out loud. Perhaps he and Arthur had been defeated in trying to keep her from her stronghold. Poison was a handy weapon and Nimue knew her herbs well—those which were baneful, too—as he had sniffed in the tower room.
He had already turned again to the door. “I will see him now.”
If Cei had tried to stop him he would have struck the w younger man down, for Merlin carried an icy fear which s armed him doubly. If Arthur died ... !
So once more he came into the King’s chamber. Bleheris rose from where he had crouched by the bed. He too, turned a bleak face in Merlin’s direction. But all Merlin had eyes for was the man on the bed.
Arthur’s face was not flushed by any pseudo-fever this time. Rather it wore a sunken look and the skin seemed gray; it might almost have been a dead man lying there. Merlin went to work instantly, all his healer instincts aroused.
The King’s body was chill, too chill. Merlin called for stones to be heated and wrapped, put about him as he lay. Next he used his sixth sense, and that recoiled immediately. Though the fell symptoms he saw might well come from some ailment of the body, it was surely the evil of some possessive hold which kept the King prisoner.
Cei watched and now he demanded: “What is it? Yesterday when the Lady Nimue departed he was well and able once again. This morning—“ He flung out his hands, his face twisted with pain. Though Cei seldom showed his feelings outwardly Merlin knew that the tie between him and his foster brother ran deep and clear. “Then that nithling, that stinking traitor—“
“He is under ensorceument,” Merlin answered the first question. “And he must be swiftly awakened thereit.”
“You can do that?”
“With certain remedies, aye. Let me go to my chamber, but you stay here. Allow no one but the two of you near him.” He nodded to the Pict now. “I shall be as quick as I can!”
Alive and well when Nimue departed, he thought as he strode along the hall. Then perhaps she had placed on the King one of those delayed mind-orders which would strike when she was gone. What else Cei had said did not hold Merlin’s attention now. He must save Arthur!
In his own chamber he chose hurriedly from his supplies, gathering small jars into a rush basket. And he also carried his wand with him as he returned to the King’s chamber. Once there he sent Bleheris for a pot of boiling water, then had the Pict set up a brazier into which, on a bed of live coals, Merlin tossed leaves of various sorts he hurriedly culled from his selections. An aromatic smoke arose while Merlin brewed a tankard of liquid with the water.
“His sword—“ He turned to Cei. “Where is his sword?” It was Bleheris who answered, not with words but by scuttling across the room to fetch the sheathed blade from behind a chest.
“That one came hunting,” he said as he put the sword into Merlin’s hands. “But he did not find it.”
As Merlin drew the sword and the firelight caught the blade, taming it into a shimmering bar of light, he asked of Cei: “Modred—is this nithling you speak of Modred?”
“Aye.” Cei’s voice was hot with fury. “He tried to put his will on the lords because the King ailed. They would not swear to him. Then—then he wooed the Queen. And she listened to him! In the night she rode off with Modred, and men who saw her go said she went willingly. Faugh! She is near twice his years and yet she colored like a maid when he looked at her. She deems Arthur as good as dead and she would still be Queen! What will you do now?”
“I summon our lord’s presence back. A part of him strays in a strange place and it is a place which is death to man. Now be silent!”
Merlin raised the sword until the point rested lightly, tip only, on Arthur’s forehead above and between his eyes. Though both Cei and Bleheris listened and this was not meant for the ears of common men, he began to chant. His eyes were closed as he tried not to believe that he stood in the familiar chamber of the King, but rather ranged in another place to which someone, doubtless Nimue, had banished Arthur.
There was a kind of nothingness, though odd crooked dazzles of light still ran through it. Each of those flashes was a personality which had either chosen to enter this limbo or had been banished here. Merlin’s chant rang, not as words, but rather as muted sounds. With that a path of light also spread out and out from Merlin’s own stand here. The sword was a pointer he could use in his search to locate Arthur.
Merlin began to move along that path of light while the dazzles drew back or fled away. But one red-gold flaihan was touched and held in spite of frenzied contortion. Seeing that. Merlin changed the flow of words. Earlier words had been of far-seeking, now they formed an imperative summons.
Down the path of sword light came that wriggling figure, fighting because the compulsion to remain here had been set upon it Merlin’s will must defeat that compulsion. He commanded, as one who had full right to do so. Into that command Merlin poured all his concern for Arthur, his belief in the other and the mission which they both shared.
Back drew that fighting fragment of twisted light. It was fairly caught and held by the power of the sword. Merlin released his own hold on that strange far country to open his eyes.
He was never sure if he actually saw that last flicker of light slide down the sword blade to the King’s head, but he heard Arthur’s groan and saw his head move a fraction on the pillow. He had won.
The breeze at the top of the windswept wall did not carry away the words of the man who stood below. Arthur, his face drawn and set in lines of haggard strain, stood firm-footed gazing down at that bard. Behind him was ranged a ragged showing of his once-proud court. Cei’s voice was a thick growl, monotonously cursing the bard, who by the ancient custom of the tribes must be free from any retaliation in physical form.
Merlin studied the man. This was so ingenious a move that he did not believe the idea had been Modred’s at all. He could see Nimue in this—or was he too ready to see Nimue in all which moved against Arthur or him? The plan could even have been partly Guenevere’s, for the bard below was from her father’s court, well noted there for the sharpness of his tongue and the evil twists of his mind which profaned bardic uses to his own purposes.
This was a threat which had brought proud lords and kings to dire disaster in the past: for the bard was engaged in singing aloud the tale of Arthur who lay with his own sister to beget a son whom now he hunted from him, of Arthur who was demon-possessed and no true king at all.
Since his recovery the King had refused to listen to Cei and the others who had pressed him for the instant pursuit of Modred and Guenevere. He had patiently pointed out over and over again that to pursuer with a sword was to break apart the Fellowship of Britain. And that, if the Fellowship failed, Britain would also break asunder while the sea wolves would be quick to pick her bones.
Merlin had thought Modred more farseeing than to move thus openly with the old scandal. He could not expect the lords to rally to him after revealing his mother’s shame to pull Arthur down. Even though he was of the Pendragon blood, no lord hearing this would raise his voice for Modred to wear the crown. By tainting Arthur he tainted himself. So why?
Guenevere, too, had much to lose. If she had chosen Modred as the coming ruler, thinking Arthur on his death bed, then why would she wish to dash his chances? Too many questions and they all led, he was sure, to Nimue.
If she had discovered his attack on her stronghold then her fury might have erupted, pushing her to act without the careful intrigue he associated with her, to throw aside all cover and make such a deadly attack. Nimue—he was positive of that!
On and on rang that chant, derisive, penetrating, tearing at the innermost feelings of a man who had no way of taking counteraction. Maybe Arthur could not, but ... Merlin moved. There was an answer, abrupt, perhaps dangerous in a way. Yet he could not allow this reviling to continue. In the past, mighty men of good life had been led to commit kin-murder by just such goading.
Merlin raised his wand, pointing it at the head of the bard. This was no real weapon; he was not putting an end to the law of bardic freedom of speech by physical means.
No, it was thought command which he hurled, knowing full well that the man below would never have ventured to the very walls of Camelot with his obscene attack were he not defended by shields no man could see. Merlin concentrated. The words sing-songed on.
Then suddenly the bard was silent. His head shook from side to side. He raised frenzied hands to claw at his own mouth.
Merlin’s own voice rang out: “The one who has spat forth poison now must chew on it! Speak, man of little power, speak now the truth!”
It took all the power of his will to hold the bard. He had been very right in his belief that the fellow had come well armed. He had strong defenses of the old lore to counteract, yet he did so.
The bard had fallen to his knees. He looked straight up at Merlin now, his face working hideously as if he indeed held some fell poison in his mouth and could not spew it forth, so that it ate into his tongue and jaws. Again Merlin pointed with the wand.
“Speak out, with the truth. Give us no more lies of your foul imagining. Who sent you to so bemire the High King?”
As if against his will the bard’s lips parted.
“She—“ he said. That single word might have been wrenched from him by a torturer’s instrument.
“Give this woman a name,” ordered Merlin. “Or as you have spouted forth lies, so shall it be that (he truth will be ever closed to you. Henceforth all men will know you to be a liar, and none will listen to you again. For there comes a time of judging when one answers to his own Power. And if you were true bard you would also know—“
There was red hate burning in the man’s eyes as he stared back up at Merlin. But accompanying that hate was fear, and the fear was growing stronger.
“It is the Lady Morgause who has told this thing,” he said thickly, “and how better would anyone know the truth than she?”
Morgause—the girl Merlin had seen imprisoned in Nimue’s keep? Was this the reason Nimue had kept her on hand and ready for all these years? Merlin could hear a shocked murmur of those behind him on the wall.
“You saw the Lady Morgause.” Merlin forced his calm to hold. “And you say how better could anyone know than she. How—“
Arthur’s voice cut across his own. “Let it be. Merlin. The High King does not fight with women.”
Now the grimace of the bard below turned into a snarling grin. “Speak fair. Lord King. Cling to that shadow of honor you have never wholly had since even before the day of your crowning. Let this demon’s son strike me speechless. There have been ears enough for the hearing. Men remember evil quicker than good; it is the way of the world. Even if you could by some miracle prove yourself innocent of this act, more will listen to the accusation than to any words which absolve you. Listen well! Lord Modred sets dishonor upon you. He marches now to bring justice into this land. If you would meet him, then let the Power itself decide what is right and what is wrong.”
“Good enoughl” Merlin heard Cei’s instant answer to that. “Lord King, each lord who listens seriously to this foul lie is a traitor. And with traitors there is only one way of dealing. Let them speedily face the sword edges of honest men!”
A small cheer followed his speech, but Arthur’s rrown came swiftly. However it was to the bard he spoke, not Cei.
“Bard, you have delivered your message. Now go.”
“And what return do you make to Lord Modred, High King?” The man accented the title tautingly.
“That I do not propose to wrench Britain apart to suit his will,” Arthur replied somberly.
“You have no choice,” the bard returned, “unless you creep away in full dishonor before the faces of all men. Remember that!”
Then he rose from his knees, favored Merlin with a last glare and strode away, his back turned without courtesy upon the King. Cei grunted.
“A spear between that one’s shoulders now,” he said wistfully, “that should be his full payment. But he is right, foster brother. You fight or else you leave full power open to Modred, And how do you think he will use that right to rule? He is a nithling. The great lords will break apart, for he will find few to do him homage. Lord will quarrel with lord, each reaching a hand for the crown. What comes of that? A riven land will open as easy meat for the Saxons. So it was at the death of Uther. Lord King, you have no choice. You ram these foul lies back down the throat of that nithling, using your sword hilt to do so, or else you stand without honor before all who have followed you through these years.”
Arthur’s set expression did not change, but his eyes turned from the retreating bard to Cei and then to Merlin. “Attend me,” he curtly bade them both, and strode along ‘the rampart, men falling back to give him passage.
But too many faces in that company were sober, too many eyes rested on the High King questioningly. Cei’s summing up of the situation was very apt. Arthur would be damned before all men if he did not fight, and a war between lord and lord in Britain would come either way. Everything he had wrought would break apart like a fruit rotted at the core.
And Merlin, as he obeyed the King’s summons, thought of the beacon. How long, how far? To those questions he had no answers. Perhaps what he had set in motion would draw their off-world kin into utter chaos. Yet he could not see what he might have done differently at the time.
With Cei he entered the King’s chamber close on Arthur’s heels. The King strode back and forth across the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his chin sunk upon his chest. There was pain in his face, such pain as no physical wound would have raised.
“Brothers,” he said, “you alone know the troth which lies behind my heritage. Aye,” he spoke now to Merlin, “I have shared the truth with Cei for he is also of the Old Blood in part. But there is this: will any man, either those out there who heard that down-chant, or those who have apparently flocked to Modred, believe it?”
Cei spoke first. “If they did, brother, they would find it an evil truth and look upon you with even greater hatred. Few men will accept that there may be a race somewhere, either on this earth or off it, who are greater in gifts and talents than themselves. The priests teach that there was a Christus who was so, but he is dead. And so, being dead, men can now accept him. Yet in his time men hated and reviled him for that difference, and conspired to send him to the most shameful punishment they knew, one reserved for slaves and traitors. Men bow to gods, but if those gods appeared they would fear and hate them.
“It is the nature of man to wish to drag down to his own level all who have climbed above. You are the greatest king Britain has seen, even greater than Maximus, for you have not deserted your duty in pursuit of ambition. Had you not been given the crown, still you would have struggled to serve. Men know this and it does not make them revere you the more. Do you think that Lot, who was in position to claim the throne, loves you now? Nor may the Duke of Cornwall, nor any of those others who might aspire to your crown.
“Aye, they shall use this old scandal against you. But this was an act of a lusty youth and it can be made plain that the Lady Morgause was unknown to you as being close kin. Besides, she was one who had warmed other beds and it can be hinted that Modred was none of your true get—“
“No!” Arthur interrupted. “We do not befoul a woman’s name to answer this threat. She perhaps was— is—all that you say. But I will not hold her up meanly before all and cry The woman deceived and tempted me!’ Such action is not for any king.”
Cei nodded. “So would you decide, brother. But such fairness will not work for you either. Men will accept forbearance as an open admission of guilt. However, to tell the truth is even worse. We shall have ‘demon-born’ hurled in our ears until that cry will deafen and turn from us even the most strong-hearted of those who would otherwise support you.”
“He is right,” Merlin said quietly. “This is a time when either choice will make strong enemies. The web has been well woven; the snare is around us.”
“You are sure this is of Nimue’s doing?” Merlin answered the King forthrightly: “As sure as if I had heard her order Morgause to teach the bard his lines. She is taking her revenge now. But there is this, Arthur, I am also certain that she can no longer speak with her guiding voice, therefore what she may do is of her own thinking. And the beacon cannot now be overset—“
“This beacon—“ Cei rounded on him. “You promise it will bring the Sky Lords. In what numbers will they come, and when? Will they raise weapons to aid our King, or stand aside and let man struggle against man, perhaps then making some treaty with the victor?”
“I have answers to none of those questions,” Merlin returned. “Time to the Sky Lords does not pass as our days or years. They live much longer than we do. It may be that years will pass before their ships drop from our sky.”
Cei shook his head. “Then it is best to forget them in any plans we make. But Modred must be handled, and speedily. As yet his force will be small, but men will ride to him. And do not forget, he also has the Queen. Her very presence in his camp will argue that she believes this shameful tale and so has withdrawn from you, Arthur.”
“That I know,” the King returned. His voice sounded tired, as worn and ravaged as his face. “Men will also say that I ride out against my own son.”
“You ride against a traitor!” returned Cei forcefully. “You,” he said, turning his attention to Merlin, “this was of your doing! If your knowledge was so great and all owerful why—“
But Arthur replied with more strength in Merlin’s behalf than he had for himself. “Waste no time, brother, on the counting of many ‘ifs’ which lie in all our pasts. Merlin did only what was given him to do. And it is on him that all our success will lie in the end.
Merlin, startled, regarded the King narrowly. There had been a note in Arthur’s voice when he said that, as if suddenly the talent of farseeing had been given to him.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“When the hour comes,” the King continued in that same assured voice, “then it shall be known to you, kinsman. We each have a part to play, ill-fated though such may be. It is, as you have pointed out, Cei, well that we move to the playing of them now.”
They rode out of Camelot, not ablaze with colors waving and high confidence in their might, but soberly, yet not in any degree showing that they believed their mission any the less rightful than when they marched against the invaders.
News was brought to Arthur. The forces had indeed split, and it was true that many of the great lords, perhaps through jealousy as Cei had foreseen, were either holding aloof from taking sides or had openly joined Modred. He had dared to raise the Dragon standard and proclaim himself High King, Arthur being no fit ruler.
Cei laughed harshly when that was reported at their second night’s camp.
“He is a fool,” he said bluntly. “Does he believe that Lot, who waits now to see how fortune favors us, would allow him more days on that unsteady throne than it would take him to offer Modred open challenge?”
If Lot was one who waited, Constans of Cornwall was not. With his Boar banner waving proudly, he brought his train of fighters into Arthur’s camp. There before all gathered he reaffirmed his sworn allegiance to the King. So an old ill was forgotten and Arthur gained heart thereby, for Constans was the son of Goloris’ son, and the only other true-born lord of Arthur’s kin.
On the fourth day, when their army had been augmented again by two troops of the Black Horse fresh from duty along the Marches, Arthur called council, meeting with those lords and commanders who had remained true to their allegiance.
“We march now.” the King said with a harsh note in his voice, “against those who have been sword brothers and shield comrades. A hundred times or more have we faced a common foe and braved the threat of death together. It is not meet that we now turn steel against one another in anger. I will not put aside my crown, not because I choose to be king against the will of all men, but because I will not step aside from my duty to this land. Yet it is a very grievous thing to slay old friends.”
He paused but no man of that company spoke up. Merlin thought that Arthur had not really expected any answer. Then he continued slowly:
“Let no man be able to say in days to come that I do not wish well those who have been seduced from me by lies. Therefore, I would send a messenger to Modred and say to him that we should meet in open company, all weapons sheathed, and speak together, that he break not a peace so hardly built.”
Constans, who was the greatest of the lords now in that company, though almost the youngest also, then answered him.
“Lord King, this is the act of one who has indeed thought of others first. Few men who have had a bard sing against them would hold out a hand in peace to those who sent that bard. If you go meet this traitor, then I shall stand at your side!”
“And I—I—I—“ They had caught fire. Merlin saw. No one there, having looked on Arthur’s face as he spoke of that offer, would ever say that it was one made out of fear; rather it came from his love for Britain, which he had served nearly all his life long.
So one of the oldest of the lords, a certain Owien, who had in his youth ridden in Ambrosius’ own bodyguard, offered himself as messenger. And Arthur, knowing the high respect in which all men held Owien, was well pleased. Having the King’s words given to him, Owien went forth from the camp. And they rested, waiting through a day and a night. On the second day Owien returned.
He came directly to Arthur, “Lord King, I have spoken your words to Modred. There was some talk among his people, urging this and that, but at last he agreed that it shall be as you wish. He has said to meet with him at the Lesser Stones of Langwellyn, bringing with you ten of your lords, as he shall come with ten of his. The priest Gildas spoke up saying that Merlin must not be one of the ten, for he would lend the Devil’s own strength to you. But Modred laughed at that and said he had something which would defeat any Devil’s work. Lord King, with their forces rides the Lady Morgause, yet she is not aged, but is even as she left the court at Uther’s sending. And with her is the Lady of the Lake. Men look sidewise at them, even in Modred’s company, for it is not natural that age has not touched the Lady Morgause.”
“If She be the Lady Morgause at all!” snapped Cei. “Uther had bastards in plenty and this one may even be a daughter of one of them, if she looks so young. It is but another trick for the undoing of our lord!”
Arthur gestured as if brushing aside this addition to Owien’s report.
“All that matters now is that Modred has agreed to this meeting. Let us take heart in that.”
But later, when night had closed in, he came to Merlin. “You have powers,” he began. “Can you use them over Modred, making him repeat before his lords words which will commit him to peace? I do not believe that one man should command another so against his will, but tills is a man who would plunge our world into blood. If there is anything I can do to stay his hand without a killing, that I shall attempt.”
“It depends,” Merlin answered as frankly, “on how well Nimue has armed him. Mark his reply to Gildas made before Owien. I have done what I can to weaken her power. But I shall not know how well I have succeeded until we have a trial of strength. Be sure, however, that all I can raise in the way of force is at your disposal, kinsman.
“More than that I do not ask,” Arthur returned. “I wish that it had been given me to learn as you learned. For at this moment I feel that I need more than human strength and will to aid me.” He rose slowly, “Well, let us sleep, if any sleep will come to us. Tomorrow brings either peace or blood, and which choice we cannot now foresee.”
“There is this,” Merlin told him. “They have appointed a meeting place in the middle of ancient stones. If this is part of some forgotten temple, even as the Place of the Sun, then I can command more of the Power to our service. For much lies sleeping in such places.”
“Providing they are not places hostile to us.”
“Lord King, I have found many such places in this land. Only once has any had the stench of the Dark about it, and that was the hold of Nimue. I hope that none was built elsewhere.”
If the King slept that night, Merlin did not. He lay on his cloak, his eyes closed, to be sure, but his mind awake; he sought through his memory for anything which might prove either armor or weapon. Piece by piece, word by word, he assembled all he knew, all he had learned from the mirror that might at this time add to his inner forces. He understood that this was a trial of strength with Nimue, perhaps the final battle between them.
Though he had not slept, yet the morning found him alert and eager for that confrontation. And as they moved on, he fingered his wand as a boy might finger his sword hilt before his first battle.
They came to a place which was like a finger of firm earth poked into marshy land. There were ponds here and there, some scummed over with green, others clear but dark, with water reeds and the strange growths of such country standing tall. On the finger of firm earth were the stones Modred had named, while on the slope of the hill on the other side were drawn up the rebel forces, making a parade of banners.
Arthur’s men did the same on this slope, while the King dismounted and with him Merlin, Cei, Owien and others. He had refused to take Constans, rather giving into the Duke’s hands the command of the force behind. Constans would have argued but Arthur pressed on him that this was his true duty, for after Arthur now no other man had clear right to the crown.
Then with Arthur to the fore, Merlin and Cei shoulder-to-shoulder behind him, they moved on down to the stones. The rhythm of chanting from the rebel forces sounded, and Merlin saw robed monks in a tight group under the unlawful standard of the Dragon.
Though he searched carefully with alert eyes he could make out no sign of any women. If the Queen, Morgause and Nimue were there, they were somehow hidden by the warriors.
He next studied the stones as they slowly drew closer to them, their pace being carefully matched by Modred’s group coming down to meet them here. To Merlin’s eyes there was little outward difference between these rough rocks and those he had seen at the Place of the Sun. But he still wondered at Modred’s selection of such a site. Such places were abodes of the Devil, to the monks who had given their good will to Modred. Why then ... ? Mistrust strengthened in Merlin, for he felt that Nimue would never have allowed her puppet prince to select a place where the old forces slept and could be awakened.
Unless she was finding Modred—her own creation perhaps—a weapon which turned in the hand, and that he, not she, now gave the orders of their company.
The stones were set in a single small circle. Two lay prone. Merlin swung his wand a little. He felt no pull, detected no spark of energy. These stones were as dead in that respect as any ordinary rock. Well, he had not really expected that they would be otherwise.
He watched Modred now, that narrow dark face which bore so much the stamp of the Old Blood, yet had something within it which subtly repelled. Modred was smiling; he gave the appearance of one whom fortune had favored. And Merlin, thoroughly alert for trickery, began a subtle probing, only to meet a barrier as strong to his mind’s thrust as steel might stand to the prod of a single fingertip. Modred was well armed indeed.
Merlin did not relinquish his struggle to touch the younger man somehow. He caught Modred’s slanting gaze once and was answered with a sly smile, as if Modred knew what he would do and had no fears. Then Modred spoke directly to Arthur with open insolence.
“You have asked that we meet. What plea would you make to me?”
Merlin sensed the stiffening of Cei, knew that it was only with difficulty that the other must be restraining his growing rage at such an insult to the King. But Arthur’s answer came calm and clear.
“I make no plea, Modred. I only tell you the truth now; if we war, Britain fails. Then all we have won will be lost forever.”
“Your throne will be lost,” Modred returned, flaunting his insolence without any shading of prudence. “Have you come then to beg for your crown, Arthur?”
Merlin saw the flush rise on the King’s face. That Arthur kept his self-control was a measure of the man, and Merlin’s pride in him was great. He himself strove to pierce Modred’s barrier, to reach the man. And so intent was he on the task he had promised Arthur he would try that he nearly lost the warning of a more subtle attack.
He turned his head swiftly. Something moved by the nearest stone, rustling in the grass. Before Arthur could answer, one of Modred’s men uttered a cry of surprise and fear, drawing his sword and striking downward. For a moment they saw the upraised head of a serpent. But it was no true serpent. Elusion, cried Merlin’s own senses, too late.
“Treachery!” Cei’s blade was also out, slashing at the man who had driven his sword into a serpent which vanished even as he tried to impale it.
Modred sprang at the King, his sword out and ready, but Cei’s charge shouldered him aside. Then battle swirled openly around the stones. From behind, Merlin heard the sounding of the trumpets where Constans was ordering a charge. Inches of steel reached for his own throat. He brought up the wand and hurled a mental blast at his attacker.
The man howled madly, his sword wavered, his eyes became fixed in his head. He plunged on, hurling Merlin back against one of the stones. The force of that crushing against the rock drove the breath from Merlin’s body in a mighty wheeze.
The fighting swirled around him. The man he had mind-struck staggered on, to be cut down by one of Arthur’s men. Down the slope thundered those of Arthur’s guard, the man in advance leading the King’s own charger, cutting his way in so that Arthur might swing into the saddle. Modred was gone. Merlin, clinging to his stone lest he go down and be trampled under hooves, saw him leaping from tussock to tussock across a band of marsh to join with those milling there, striving to find a dried path to come at the King’s forces.
There were four bodies among the stones. One was Owien, his aged face turned up, his sightless eyes staring straight into the sun hanging over them. There was a look of vast surprise frozen on his features, as if death had come so swiftly that he had not even had time to realize it before the stroke fell.
The fighting had already whirled away from the stones. Merlin got back his breath, went from one body to the next. Healing craft was his and by the looks he would be well needed this day. But these were all dead.
He made his way back to the wagons which carried the supplies for the wounded. There he shrugged off his robe of office, leaving his body freer in his under-tunic as he went to work. But in him was the stricken knowledge that he had failed Arthur. Had he not been so intent on mastering Modred, he might have seen that illusion, dispersed it before it incited this slaying. Whether he had seen Nimue or not, the serpent was hers, he had no doubt of that.
Now he labored to staunch grievous wounds, perhaps saving lives while in the valley below others were as intent in ending it. Whoever won this day, Britain might well be lost.
Time ceased to be counted as passing hours. Merlin wrought with his hands and with his mind among those brought to him. Many he could only ease into a painless* parting, others he could grant a chance. And of those who still had their senses alert enough to give coherent answers he asked about the progress of the fight. But the men he tended had seen only portions, those which had centered about them. Sometimes they reported retreats, at other times small victories, with a beating back of the rebels.
At mid-aftemoon they brought him Cei’s young shield bearer. And the boy wept as Merlin set splints around a broken arm. His lord, he said dazedly, had been cut down, though he had taken with him at least four of the enemy who had surrounded him.
So Cei was gone, even as Ector had gone before him, Merlin thought wearily. He had indeed ever been Arthur’s right hand, and now that was cut off. Owien and Cei, and how many more who would have and did follow Arthur no matter what tattling lies could be told?
He felt as if he moved now through some dreadful dream, perhaps that hell the followers of the Christus were wont to say lay ready to engulf all unbelievers. There was blood everywhere, and dead men asprawl, their bodies dragged hurriedly aside when no more might be” done to aid them.
The stench of blood filled his nostrils, clung about him, just as it splashed and clotted on his under-tunic, bespattered his arms and legs, even his cheeks. And with it hung the smell of death from which there was no escape. The: sun that had been overhead at the beginning of thii slaughter was now far down in the west.
“Merlin—“ Someone pulled at his arm, tugging in spite of his efforts to shake off that touch. He moved on toward a man who lay groaning, his hands clasped across a great gash in his belly, the touch of death already on him.
“Merlin!”
Dazed, he looked down into a small dark face across which was a cut which had dribbled blood now clotting in a smear. There was a name for this man. Merlin searched his memory ...
“Bleheris,” he said.
“Merlin!” The other jerked at his arm. “Bring your healing things and come!”
Merlin shook off the stupor which had grown out of suffering and his attempts to relieve it. There could only be one reason why Bleheris sought him out. And he discovered at that moment that all the fear which he had ever known in his life was nothing compared to the terror which gripped him now.
Though they had known that death ever waited in battle, still Merlin had not really foreseen in his heart that this might come to Arthur. It could not! All he had, all he was, would rise to fight for the last of the Star-born.
Savage anger followed that thrust of agonizing fear. In that moment he wanted two throats between his hands— Modred’s and the slender one of Nimue! Catching up a bag of linen strips, grasping at two pots of salve, he rounded on Bleheris.
“Where?” he demanded.
The Pict was fairly hopping from one foot to another in impatience.
“Come.” He started on a run and Merlin easily matched his pace.
They threaded a way through the human wreckage of the battle. The fight had swirled away. Only distantly now could they hear the shouting, the cries, groans, screams of wounded horses and men. Bleheris bore to the right, pounding along the bank of the river whose overflow fed the swamplands. There were more dead here, even wounded who cried out faintly. But Merlin’s ears were still closed. Arthur was all that mattered, for Arthur was Britain—Arthur was the shining future of the world!
“It was Modred,” the Pict babbled between gasps as he ran. “The King, he had cut straight through all the others to get at the traitor. He speared him, but Modred would not die. He held to the King’s lance and cut up. He would not die!
There were tears washing away the clots of blood on Bleheris’ cheek. “Dead he was, that foul traitor, but he would not die until he left his mark on the King.”
There was a hut ahead, a rough thing probably used during the hunting season by a fowler. And outside it stood two of those Merlin knew as Arthur’s guard. He pushed by them, and then was on his knees where a body rested on a heap of stained and tattered war cloaks.
Arthur’s eyes were closed. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and cheeks. His breath came in the ragged gasps of a man in torment. They had stripped off his ring armor, bared his body, and there was a mass of cloth plugging a wound in his lower belly.
Swiftly, but with care. Merlin drew that away, sodden as it was with blood. What he saw there—
Men did not live with such wounds. Not in this day. But Arthur was not just a man; he was more. Merlin worked deftly, cleansing, binding up that wound.
“He—he will live ... ?” Bleheris blinkered to watch, fl and beyond him was Gawain of Arthur’s guard.
“I do not know.” Merlin sat back on his heels. His mind had at last broken free of that deadly stupor which had gripped it since the battle began. Clear as if he saw it actually before him, he was remembering that coffin box in the cave. It preserved life—could it heal Arthur or at least keep him asleep and living until the Sky Lords came? For f their knowledge was greater than Merlin or any in his world would have.
But that cave was distant. Could he keep Arthur living until they reached it? What did he have? Only the small knowledge of this day, a little aided by what the mirror could share with him, though he was unable even to comprehend the learning long since lost. But he also had his will! And if will and purpose could keep Arthur living then he would set all of his to that task alone from this moment forward.
“How goes the battle?”
He could not transport Arthur through a land where they might be hunted as they went. Now he saw the young guard near Arthur’s head look at him angrily, as if nothing mattered except saving the life of his wounded lord. But Bleheris guessed the reason for his question instantly.
“If you would take the Lord King hence, Lord Merlin,” he answered, “Modred’s men are broke. They flee before the vengeance of the Black Riders.”
“Where would you take the High King?” demanded the guard then.
“He is sore hurt,” Merlin answered. “He must be taken where those well versed in heal-craft can tend him.”
“Merlin—“
Their heads all swung around. Arthur’s eyes were open, his voice so thin, a thread of sound, that they tried to stifle even their breathing that they might not drown out the words.
“I killed him ...”
That was not quite a statement, not quite a question, but Merlin treated it as the latter.
“He is dead,” he replied flatly.
“He forced me to it. He was so greatly my enemy that he threw away his life to make sure of my death. Why?”
Merlin shook his head. “I do not know, save that he was only a weapon in another’s hands. This hate is old, old beyond our understanding. Once it turned this world into ashes—“
“So does it again.” Arthur’s voice had grown a little stronger as if he must get out the words he would say. “The Fellowship is broken. Merlin.” His hand moved a little by his side as if seeking something which should rest there. “Where is the sword?”
“Here, Lord King,” Bleheris burrowed beneath the edge of the massed war cloaks on which the King lay. He found the weight of the ancient blade heavy but he held it up so Arthur could look at it without turning his head.
“I shall not... put hand to its hilt again ...” the King said.
“Not until your wound is healed,” Merlin corrected quickly.
“Brother-kin.” Arthur’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles. “Do not deceive yourself. Great may be your powers, but on all powers there is a limit.”
“There was also a promise!” Merlin’s eyes caught and held Arthur’s, setting his will on the King. “You are he who was, is and shall be!”
“Shall be ...” repeated Arthur drowsily, his eyes closed.
Bleheris regarded him fearfully. “Is he—has he gone from us?”
“Not so,” Merlin assured the Met. “He sleeps and will continue to sleep free from pain. So shall he rest until we get him to where he may be cared for.”
“Lord Merlin, what of—? Who will lead us, then?” asked the guard.
“The Lord King has given Constans the leadership. But when you speak to the Duke tell him also that Arthur lives, he only goes hence that he may be cured of his wound. Also” —he was thinking clearly and logically now—“do you tell the Duke that he is to search in Modred’s camp and there he will find the Queen and two others—the Lady Morgause and the Lady of the Lake. And these he will say nothing to concerning the King, save that he is wounded a little and rests. But he shall also make sure that those three do no more mischief.”
“Lord Merlin, as you have said it, so win it be told to Duks Constans. But how bear you the King hence and where—“
“As to how, he shall go by horse litter, well wrapped in. And where, to the mountains where there is a place well known to healers.”
He began to give orders and they were obeyed. It was as if those who had served Arthur so faithfully were willing to do anything to maintain their fragile hope that the King would survive. By morning Merlin was ready to lead forth a small party.
The King, as well protected as they could make him, was secured in a horse litter, with Bleheris, mounted on his own small pony, leading the horses. Merlin brought up the rear. He had spoken to Constans, who had sought him out with the news that Modred’s forces had suffered such a defeat as would make the kingdom safe.
“Duke,” Merlin had answered him. “I do not hide from you, though I ask you for the sake of the men’s spirits not to set it generally about, that the King is sore hurt. He has only one chance for life and that is to reach a place of healing. I shall fight, as you have, to keep breath in his body until we are there. Into your hands did he give command, and to you he would leave his rule. Britain has been torn sorely here; you must heal the country’s wounds as I will strive to heal the King’s.”
Constans listened and then said, “Healer, I have heard many strange things of you, but never has it been said that you were unfriend to the King. Rather it is known that to you he turned when he was in sore trouble. Therefore I believe in what you say. I shall hold Britain, not as her king, but as one who rules for another. Unless word comes that your hopes have come to nothing. Then will I reign as Pendragon.”
“So be it. Now what of the women?”
“The Queen has been found, much distraught and nearly out of her wits. She begs to be sent to the house of the holy women who call themselves sisters and live at Avalon. The Lady Morgause—she has also been found— dead. Though the manner of her death we do not know, for on her body was no wound, nor were her features distorted as if she had drunk poison. Rather she lies as one asleep. But of the third you bade me seek there is no sign.”
Merlin sighed. Guenevere and Morgause were neither of any great matter, but Nimue was different. Having wrought this great tragedy, would she now seek to make it greater by bringing death to Arthur? His rage awoke. Not sol Arthur must live in spite of all the spells and illusions of that dark one.
“Seek her diligently,” he said now, though he was sure Nimue would not be found unless she willed it, “for of all the enemies of the King she is the greatest, being who and what she is—a mistress of great magic.”
Constans nodded. “Will you take an escort?”
Now it was Merlin’s turn to ponder for a moment before answering.
“No. Where we go a large party would be noted. You have broken Modred’s forces, but there will some scattered few, with the name of traitor rightfully laid on them now, who will be willing to risk all to kill Arthur. A small group may go by hidden ways; a large one can be quickly seen or tracked. I shall take only Bleheris the Pict. He has all the trail skill of his people and so he can cover and conceal our path that few can follow.”
Thus it came about that they traveled with what speed they could along wilderness ways. And Merlin’s will kept the King asleep and perhaps even life in his body as they went. Nor did they see any others in the wilderness Bleheris chose for their passage save twice at a distance, when they were in hiding, small bands of men Merlin believed fugitives from the rout.
Up into the mountains they came until Merlin could see ahead the peak which marked the ground of the cave. Then he turned to Bleheris.
“Good comrade, ahead lies where we must go. But I know not what we shall find there. If the King can reach a certain cave still living, I nurse hopes of his survival. However, though he may so live, it may not be granted to us—“
“Healer,” returned the Pict, “I have already lived longer than a warrior of any clan can rightfully expect to do. The King gave me life once, shall I now deny it to him? I am a clanless man, but the Lord King sat me beside his home hearth and named me liege. What is to be done, tell me, and that I shall do.”
It was difficult to get the horse litter up the final grade and at length they had to loosen it and draw it up by thenown strength of arm. But at last they reached the cave entrance.
Nor was Merlin greatly surprised to find one there before them. She sat on a rock, her face turned toward them, a certain patience about her as if she had waited for some time.
Merlin placed the litter gently on the ground before he turned to her.
“Look upon your work,” he said. ‘Take pride in it, Nimue!”
To his faint surprise there was no triumph in her face.
“There is no pride to be taken in the death of any man,” she said. And there was about her now none of those enticing graces, none of that appeal to his senses. “What was done was enacted because it had to be.”
“Why?” he asked baldly.
“Because once before men became playthings of Star Lords who used them carelessly, taught them what they were not yet ready to know, drew them into their own disputes one with the other. Finally this world itself was riven and nearly destroyed. There was a war among the stars afterward and an oath taken, that never again should those of another species come under our command—“
“Yet it seems that oath was not honored,” Merlin pointed out. “You are the servant of the Dark Ones and you have wrought such a bloodletting in Britain as will not be forgotten for a thousand of man’s years, maybe more.”
“I did what had to be done,” she said tonelessly. “You would have called down knowledge which men of this age cannot learn, or in their half-learning would use to greater evil. It is you. Merlin, who brought in your High King to change the world, and it is you whose acts killed him.”
“He is not dead,” Merlin retorted. “Nor shall he die, sorceress. On the day appointed he shall stand before the beacon and welcome those of his fathering.”
She glanced at Arthur almost indifferently, “Your beacon, Merlin, is a useless thing. The Sky Lords do not measure time as we do. It will be perhaps a hundred centuries more before that beacon will have an answer, if it ever does. And by that time perhaps man will be better readied to know how ill the Sky Lord’s gifts will be for them. You have set your beacon. Merlin, but I have defeated your king.”
Merlin shook his head. “Not yet. I have the promise: he was, he is, he shall bel”
Now she looked at him pityingly. “Merlin, you could have been so much, yet you have chosen to be so little: a spokesman for only half-told knowledge, guardian of a barbarian kinglet soon forgotten.” Now she rose and stretched wide her arms, so that the loose sleeves of her robe fell away from her white arms.
“Merlin,” and the old teasing note crept back into her voice, “you and I are akin, you know. I can look on no man of full earth blood with any lighting of heart, nor can you lay hand on any maid of the tribes. My tower and lake can fade from the sight of the common kind, and yet we can live there undisturbed. Our lives are long, past the years of the true human kind. Are you never lonely, Merlin? We have done our tasks, now we are free...”
He faced her and in him there was a mighty surge of aB he had pushed away from the fore of his mind. Nimue laughed.
“Ah, Merlin, I see you remember! Aye, I can be many women if I choose, all lovesome and willing. Much can I teach you, much!”
Merlin stepped back a pace. “I do not doubt that,” he said dryly. “But I serve the King.”
“A dying man!” She looked at him now not mockingly, nor with any dark laughter, rather with a droop to her lips. “Lonely Meriin, would you be ever lonely then?”
Her words opened a door to a chill which shook him inside, for now she played on another part of his nature, and one he also knew as a weakness.
“If that be my portion”—he was glad his voice sounded so steady—“aye, I shall be lonely.”
Nimue turned from him then, her shoulders sagging a little. And he realized that she at last played no games but was letting him see her as she was. He was torn within, for he knew that never again would he see what he might have had, what would bring the warmth of full life into him. He almost took a step after her. But there was Arthur...
He watched her go away slowly, knowing that there was still a chance to call her back, that in a fashion they had both been cheated by the Sky Lords who had made them, perhaps coldly and without any feeling, to be what they were. Then she was gone. And it was too late.
He went to the hidden cave entrance and began to pull aside the stones. Bleheris came to help him after a moment. The small man’s face was full of distress.
“Lord Merlin, what is this place? I have a pain in my head which grows ever the worse—“
“Forgive me.” Merlin remembered the safeguards which had been set there. “There is that here which is set as a guardian, Bleheris, so get you hence. No,” he added as the Pict sat down on a nearby stone, “I can enter here and so can the King. But we shall not come forth yet awhile, perhaps for a long time, Bleheris.”
The Pict shook his head. “Lord Merlin, it will not matter if it be days or a year before you come forth. If fortune wills, you shall find me waiting. This is good land,” he said, looking about him, “somewhat like my northern mountains. I shall wait.”
And against all Merlin’s protests he swore that was what he would do. Finally Merlin freed the King from the litter and, taking Arthur in his arms, he somehow won through the passage. He carried the King to the box and there brought it open. Stripping Arthur of all but the bandage which bound up his wound, he lowered the King to rest. Arthur was still breathing—that was all Merlin knew as the lid slowly settled again on the box.
But Merlin, having watched the sealing of that coffin, went for the last time to the mirror. In his hands he held the sword which Bleheris had passed to him before he ordered the Pict to reclose the entrance.
Now he stood facing the polished surface of the mirror seeing a gaunt, dark-faced man, his clothing stained with dried blood, his hands enfolded on the hilt of a tall sword. Around him the installations hummed.
He had done all this by instinct alone. What would follow now?
It was the mirror that answered him:
“Go to the box at your right. Merlin, and press there the four small buttons. These shall master time for you. When you awake, you will find that men are again looking to the stars. Then your hour will strike. This time was flawed—we must wait for a better day.”
“Arthur?” he asked.
“He was, is, will be... You will find another such resting place prepared for you. Enter therein and sleep.”
For a moment Merlin hesitated, and then he asked a last question:
“And Nimue?”
“Her fate is not within our knowledge. Merlin.”
He laid the sword on that bench before the mirror where he had sat so often. The blade still shone with all its glory undimmed. Only men’s hopes had failed. Merlin sighed.
Slowly he turned and found the buttons. He pressed as he had been ordered. Lights flashed back and forth. He stood dully watching them until once more they were still. Then he went to the box. Taking off his clothing, he settled within, felt the liquid rise about his body. Time— time—how long would be the time?
A white body beneath the moon, laughter bidding him come, bare feet running fleet as any deer could go across shadow-dappled ground... Merlin began to dream.