in continuous pleading to God, but Merlin’s soul, spirit, and body all urged him to action. He couldn’t just wait —
Boom! Boom!
Merlin’s throat closed up when he saw the blur of large torches being carried toward the wicker cages, ready to light the mounds of tinder on fire.
“You, my people, you have been bewitched by these practitioners of a foreign god! I ask you, what is done with witches?”
Mórganthu chanted now in the common language of Kernow, and all the people joined with him.
Flames blaze and burn the witches!
Fire! Flames! Destroy the witches!
Boom! Boom! smote the drums.
Behind him, Merlin detected a sound he had not heard in the druid glade before … the slight jingle of ring-mail. He turned and, out of the corner of his good eye, saw a shadowy figure marching into the circle of stones. Whoever it was pushed aside any druidow who stood in his way. Merlin’s heart flip-flopped as the man walked straight to Mórganthu and the Stone, a shining sword on his back reflecting the light of the moon. Was it Vortigern or one of the other warriors?
“A word, master druid!” the man’s deep voice boomed.
“You intrude here,” Mórganthu said in a sneering tone. “Your work is done. Begone!”
“I need assurance.”
“He is here, on the Stone.”
“Alive?” the man said, his voice rising in pitch.
“Yes. Yes, of course. We have our own ways.”
The hooded man paused, then asked, “The heir? Where is he?”
“Drowned in the marsh, his body lost. A trifle, I assure you … I cannot prove his death.”
“Trifle, you say? And Igerna? Where is she?”
Mórganthu turned his back to the man and lowered his voice so that Merlin barely heard his answer. “I am told she and the daughters are dead, as well as that chief offender of a bard.”
Uther let out a desolate cry, and Merlin’s heart broke for him.
Mórganthu turned back to face the warrior. “It seems one of these imprudent Eirish warriors could not control himself. But if it is of any comfort, the offender was slain by my own hand.”
In great rage, the man lunged forward, and everything became confusion. It appeared to Merlin that the warrior picked Mórganthu up and threw him to the ground. “You tell me he is alive while my sister is dead?”
The warrior, whom Merlin now knew was Vortigern, reached down and snatched something from Mórganthu, and when he stood again, there shined in his hand the reflection of red, inlayed glass.
Merlin recognized what he held: the sword Merlin’s father had made and given to Uther.
“He will die now,” the warrior cried out, “but not by my blade.”
Merlin had up until this point sat in mute shock, listening to the two men argue. And all the time he was waiting for Caygek’s men to intervene and save Uther’s life, and the life of his father. But these filidow, cowards all of them, were waiting for who-knew-what signal, and Merlin could wait no longer. Vortigern’s threat drove Merlin to his feet.
He drew his dirk and rushed headlong at Vortigern, who leaned over Uther and the pulsing blue Stone — with the blade poised to kill the High King.
“No-o!” Merlin yelled, and he swung his blade wildly, hoping in the darkness to beat Vortigern back.
Uther musn’t die … he musn’t!
Vortigern swore. “Get back, druid!”
Their blades met, and the superior power of the hand-and-a-half longsword his father had made almost knocked Merlin’s shorter blade from his hand. But the weight of the longsword had caused it to swing too far, and though Merlin had every reason to fear death, a frenzy to save Uther drove him in closer. He grabbed Vortigern’s sleeve with his left hand and slammed the point of his blade into the man’s ring-mail.
But the tip didn’t go through, and Vortigern took the pommel of Uther’s blade and cracked Merlin over the head.
“Out of my way.”
Merlin’s feet failed first, collapsing out from under him as a great clanging and thudding reverberated through his head. He felt weightless, and the only knowledge he had of hitting the ground was the taste of dirt as he coughed and yelled in pain.
Blades clashed next to Owain, and one of the men stepped on his hair, making him flinch. When the fight was over, and one of the men writhed on the ground in pain, the warrior stepped over to the Stone where Uther lay. There, looking up at the man, Owain saw into his hood, and the shimmer of the torches revealed Vortigern’s bearded face. His neck