But it soon became apparent that in the realm of things men call magic, my knowledge outstripped his. Gern-y-fhain had taught me well; what is more, the Hill People possessed many secrets even the Learned Brotherhood did not know. These I possessed as well.
The winter proceeded, one cold leaden day following another, until at last the sun began to linger longer in the sky and the land to warm beneath its rays. It was then that I reached the end of Blaise’s tutelage. “There is nothing more I can give you, Hawk,” he told me. “On my life, I cannot think of another thing to teach. Yet, there are many you might teach me.”
I stared at him for a moment. “But there is so much—I know so little.”
“True,” he said, his lean face lighting in a grin. “Is that not the beginning of true wisdom?”
“I am in earnest, Blaise. There must be more.”
“And I am in earnest too, Myrddin Bach. There is nothing more that I can teach you. Oh, a few of the minor stories of our race perhaps; but nothing of import.”
“I cannot have learned it all,” I protested.
“True again. There is much more to be learned, but I am not the one to teach you. Whatever else there is, you must learn it on your own.” He shook his head lightly. “Do not look so downcast, Hawk. It is no disgrace for pupil to leave master behind. It happens.”
“But will you not go with me?”
“Where you go, Myrddin Emrys, I cannot follow.”
“Blaise—”
He raised a cautionary finger. “Nevertheless, see that you do not confuse knowledge with wisdom as so many do.”
Well, we did continue on together, but not as before. In fact, more and more I found myself the master instructing Blaise, who professed to marvel at my acuity, and said so many flattering things that I became embarrassed to open my mouth in front of him. But in all it was a good and profitable winter for me.
When spring opened the roads to travel once more, I rode out with Maelwys and seven of his men—all of us armed—to make the first circuit of his lands that year. We spoke with his chiefs and received their accounting of how the people of each district and settlement had fared the winter. On occasion, Maelwys settled disputes and administrated justice in cases that exceeded the chief’s authority, or acted in place of the chief to spare hard feelings.
He also told each chief that he wanted young men for his warband, and that from now on the year’s increase would go to its support. No one objected to the plan, and in fact most had foreseen it and were only too glad to do their part.
Maelwys showed himself an astute ruler: by turns sympathetic, indulgent, stern, unyielding—but always fair and just in his dealings and judgments.
“Men resent unfairness,” he told me as we rode between Clewdd and Caer Nead, two points along the ring of hillforts that served to protect his lands. “But they despise injustice. It is slow poison, and always deadly.”
“Then you have no fear, lord, for your judgments are the heart of justice.”
He cocked his head to one side as he regarded me. The others rode behind us, talking idly among themselves, so he spoke what was on his mind. “Charis tells me that you have given your heart to Lord Custennin’s daughter.” That lightning came out of a clear blue sky. I did not know my mother surmised so much, or so accurately.
The color rose to my cheeks, but I answered him straight out. “Her name is Ganieda, and yes, I love her.”
Maelwys considered this, and for a moment all I heard was the soft plod of the horses’ hoofs over the new green turf. Then the king said, “Have you given a thought to your future, Myrddin?”
“I have, sire,” I replied, “and it is on my heart to make my way as soon as may be so that I may go and take Ganieda from her father’s hearth to my own.”
“So that is how it is between you.”
“That is how it is.”
“Then perhaps on our return to Maridunum we should do some talking.”
That was all he said, and indeed it was all he needed to say. We arrived shortly at the next, and last, settlement. Caer Nead is a cluster of wattle huts and briar-fenced cattle yards within sight of a small hillfort.
Maelwys was anxious to get back to Maridunum before nightfall, and so we did not tarry in Caer Nead, but conducted our business quickly. By midday we were ready and left as soon as decorum allowed. There was no great hurry; the distance was not far. Yet, I noticed that the closer to home, the more anxious Maelwys became. I did not say anything, and I do not think anyone else would have noticed in any case. But I watched his jaw set firm and his mouth turn down in a hard, straight line. The words he spoke grew more terse and the silence between them longer.
So I tried to discover what it might be that was troubling him, and could come to no conclusion…until I saw the smoke.
We saw it together. I gave a shout just as Maelwys reined up. “Fire!”
He took one look at the hill-line before us. “Maridunum!” he cried, and put leather to his mount.
We all followed him in his breakneck flight. The smoke, at first a thin, shadowy wisp in the air, blackened and thickened into a huge dark column. Closer, we could smell the stench of burning and hear the screams of the townsfolk.
The raiders had held off until they could be certain of their reception. I imagine they thanked their heathen gods with every breath in their bodies upon learning that the king was away and the town virtually unprotected.
But they were overcautious. Or perhaps they had lingered too long with their boats before coming inland. However it was, we caught them in midst of their destruction, our horses hurtling down on them without warning. We took them on the points of our swords as we charged through their scattering ranks in the old market square.
Though they fought with some courage when cornered, they were no match for mounted warriors seeking blood vengeance. In a matter of a few moments the corpses of a score of Irish raiders lay sprawled in the stone-flagged square.
We dismounted and began pulling down the burning straw of the roofs so that the fire did not spread, then turned to the bodies of the dead raiders to retrieve what they had stolen. The town was quiet, and except for the crackle of flames and the grating cry of the carrion birds already gathering for their feast, the air was dead still.
That should have been a warning, I suppose. But the fight was over and we were already starting to cool down. No one expected an ambush.
We did not even realize what was happening until the first spears were already whistling through the air. Someone screamed, and two of our party fell with spears in their stomachs. The Irish were on us instantly.
We learned later that there were three big warboats in the Towy—each carrying thirty warriors. All of these, save the twenty whose blood stained the stones at our feet, came on us at once with a tremendous roar. Seventy against seven.
The next moments were a terror of confusion as we ran to the horses and leaped to our saddles. But the raiders were streaming into the square from all directions, and we were too close bound to make a charge. In any event, the square was soon so crowded we could hardly swing our swords. I saw one of our men hauled from the saddle and his brains dashed out beneath his own horse’s hoofs.
I saw Maelwys struggling to rally us to his side, his arm rising and falling again and again as he struck at those surrounding him. Spears splintered before his blade, and more than one man went down screaming.
I took up the call and drove toward him.
Into my path leaped two spearmen. The horse shied and dodged, nearly pitching me from his back. The animal’s hoofs slipped against the smooth stone and it fell, rolling onto its side, pinning my leg.
One spear thrust past my ear, another jabbed toward my chest. I swung with my sword and knocked it aside, kicking myself free of my mount as it thrashed to its feet.
I rolled up to face two more raiders, making four together, all with iron-tipped spears leveled on me. One of them gave a shout and they rushed me.
I
saw the enemy move toward me, saw their faces dark and grim, saw their eyes gleaming hard like sharp iron. Their hands were tight on the shafts of their spears, their knuckles white. Sweat misted on their faces, and the cords tightened on their necks…
I saw it all and more—all with dreadful, heart-stopping clarity as the speeding flow of time dwindled to a bare trickle. Every action slowed—as if all around me was suddenly overcome with an impossible lethargy.
I saw the spearheads edging toward me, swinging lazily through the air. My own blade came up sharp and smart, biting through the wooden shafts, slicing the spearpoints from the hafts as easily as striking the heads of thistles from their stems. I let the force of the blow spin me away so that as my attackers fell forward behind their blunted spears, I was gone.
I scanned the melee. The square churned and writhed with the fight. The sound was a booming, featureless roar—like that of blood racing through the ears. Our warriors, horribly outmanned, strove valiantly, fighting for their lives.
Maelwys held his own across the square, leaning low in the saddle, hewing mightily. His arm flailed with a fierce and violent rhythm. His blade streamed scarlet ribbons.
He had been identified, however, and more and more of the enemy lumbered toward him in that strange, languid motion brought on by my heightened awareness.
I put out my hand and caught up the reins of my mount, swinging up into the saddle. I turned the horse’s head and urged it toward Maelwys.
Moving with the easy roll of the horse beneath me, I swung the sword in my hand first on the left and then on the right, slashing, slashing, striking again and again, my blade a shining circle of light around me. Men toppled like cordwood in my wake and I forced my way to the king’s side.
My sword sang, ringing clear and true as it struck, relentless as the sea swell driven before the storm. We fought together, Maelwys and I, and soon the stone under our horses’ hoofs was slick with blood.
But still the enemy swarmed around us in fighting frenzy, slashing with the knives in their hands and jabbing with their spears. None dared come within the arc of my blade, however, for that was certain death. Instead, they tried for my horse, stabbing at its legs and belly.
One howling fool leaped at my bridle strap, hoping to drag the horse’s head down; I gave him something to howl about as his ear left his face. Another lost a hand when he made a clumsy thrust at the animal’s flanks. Yet another collapsed in a quivering heap when the flat of my blade came down hard on the crown of his leather war helm as he made to leap for me.
These things happened leisurely, almost laughably so, each action deliberate and slow. Thus, I had time not only to react, but to plan my next move and my next, before the first had been completed. Once I fell into the uncanny rhythm of this strange way of fighting, I found that I could move with impunity among the absurdly lethargic enemy.
So, striking again and again, striking and whirling away, while my hapless opponents floundered and lurched around me, flailing uselessly with sluggish, inept movements, I joined a bizarre and terrible dance.
The bards speak with reverence of Oran Mor, the Great Music—elusive source of all melody and song. Very few have the gift to hear it. Taliesin had the gift—or something more than that. But I heard it then: my limbs throbbed with it, my swinging arm told out its unearthly rhythm, my sword sang with its brilliant melody. I was part of Oran Mor, and it was part of me.
There came a rallying cry, and Maelwys’ houseguard came clattering into the square. They had ridden from the villa, where the townspeople had fled, and were hurrying to our aid now that it was clear the awaited attack would not come there.
But a few heartbeats later, I knew the battle was broken. A rising wave of exultation rose within me and I heard a high, keening call, a war chant, a victory cry, and recognized my own voice soaring up from my throat.
The reaction of the enemy was immediate. They turned to meet the source of this unnerving sound and I saw, in that extraordinary clarity, black despair fall across their features. They were undone. And they knew it.
My cry rose into a song of triumph, and I leaped to the aid of my sword brothers who were hard-pressed, sweet exhilaration sweeping through me and out of my mouth in the song. No one could stand before me, and the Irish fled lest they be trampled beneath my horse’s hoofs or carved by my swift blade.
Now I was one place, freeing a man being dragged to his death, now another snatching a weapon from a foe and flinging it to an ally. Once I saw a man falling and reached out, caught him, and hauled him back into the saddle. All the while, my voice rose in joyous celebration. I was invincible.
I saw Maelwys clear the path and ride to meet me, three of his own behind him. I raised my sword in salute as he came up, and I saw, under the sweat and blood, his face white and his eyes staring. His sword arm was gashed, but he paid it no heed.
He put a trembling hand out to touch me and I saw his mouth move, but the words were slow in coming.
“You can stop now, Myrddin. It is over.”
I grinned and loosed a wild laugh.
“Look!” he said, shaking me. “Look around you. We have beat them back. We have won.”
I peered through the mist that had risen before my eyes. The bodies of the dead lay deep upon the square. The stench of death clawed at my throat.
I shuddered as with a sudden chill, and began to shake from head to foot. The last thing I saw was the sun bright in my eyes and the clouds swirling above me, swirling like the wings of circling birds.
* * *
I remember arriving at the villa, and the drone of hushed voices around me. I remember drinking something very bitter, and then vomiting. I remember waking cold in fire-shot darkness to the sound of steel on steel. I remember floating lost in an immense sea as booming water roared around me.
Lastly, I remember climbing up a sharp slope to stand on a wind-bitten rock ledge in a blood-red dawn…
* * *
When I awoke all was well with me once more. The battle frenzy that had come on me was gone and I was myself. My mother regarded me closely and pressed her hand to my forehead, but allowed that whatever ailment had possessed me, it had vanished. “We were worried, Merlin,” she told me. “We thought you had been wounded, but there is not so much as a bruise on you, son. How do you feel?”
“I am well, Mother.” That was all I said. There was no explaining what had happened when I did not know myself.
After a light breakfast, I heard a commotion outside and walked out into the forecourt where I found Maelwys surrounded by his houseguard—some of whom had fought with us the day before. Rarely were all of them at the villa, however, as he kept them circulating his lands, riding the borders, keeping watch.
News of the attack had summoned those who had not been present the day before, both warriors and chiefs. There were many townspeople there as well, swelling the ranks of those gathered in the forecourt.
Maelwys had been speaking to them, but when I came out, silence descended over the throng. Thinking only to join them, I came to stand beside the king. A man pushed his way to me, and I saw that it was Blaise.
He raised his staff and lifted his voice in song:
“Three thirties of bold warriors have gone down
before the thirsty blade;
The blood of the vanquished is silent,
black is their mourning;
The eyes of the enemy feed the birds of death;
let each mouth make entreaty.
From the heart of the hero a Champion springs—
great of skill, a giant in battle;
He has hewn the savage with sharp steel;
terrible were their war cries.
Hail him men of valor; exalt him in your midst;
Let his name rise on wings of welcome!
Make homage to the lord of your deliverance,
who with walls of iron has defended you.
Brave men! Princes of noble birth! Make of
Myrd
din a name of praise and honor.
When he had finished, Blaise lowered his hands and, stooping before me, lay his staff at my feet. Then he backed slowly away. For a moment the people stared in silence. No one moved.
Then a young warrior—the one I had saved from a fall in the battle, I think—stepped forward. He drew his sword from its sheath at his side and without a word lay it beside the druid’s staff. Then he knelt down and stretched out his hand to touch my foot.
One by one, each of the warriors there followed their sword brother’s example. They drew out their blades, knelt, and put out their hands to cover my feet. Several of Maelwys’ chiefs, caught in the spell, added their swords to the pile and knelt to touch my feet as well.
It was something warriors did when vowing allegiance to a new battlechief.
But Maelwys had not been badly injured, let alone killed; he was still a skilled and able leader. I turned to the king to find he had stepped from beside me. I was standing alone before the people. What could this mean?
“Please, lord,” I whispered, “this honor is yours.”
“No,” he declared. “It is yours alone, Myrddin. The warriors have chosen who they will follow.”
“But—”
Maelwys shook his head. “Let be,” he replied gently. Then, stepping behind me, he raised his hands over my head. “Hear me, my people. Look upon the one you honor. You have made him your battlechief…” He paused and lowered his hands to my shoulders. “This day I make him my son, and heir of all I possess.”
What?
Blaise was there and ready. “This is an auspicious day, lord,” he said; “allow me to confirm you in your good intent.” So saying, he unwound the rawhide belt from around his waist and bound our hands together at the wrist.