am? “The shop’s here. Tas … can assist you. Do you need something … forged?”
Laughter filled the room. Mocking. Poisonous. “No, no. I am not here for the services of your father. I am here to slit your throats and throw your bloated bodies onto the heap of this wasted Christian age.”
“Who … are you?”
More laughter. “Do you not know? The Stone has indeed frosted your thoughts! Allow me to introduce myself.” And the man stepped forward so the light from the forge danced across the whitened grave of his face. “I am Mórganthu mab Mórfryn. I hold the sword that slew my only son, Anviv, and if I have heard rightly, you and your father are responsible for its making.”
Mórganthu lifted the gleaming blade to strike.
Merlin tried to move, run, block the blow, but his limbs hadn’t thawed enough. He could only watch helplessly as the sword flashed down.
With a great yell, Merlin’s father jumped in the way. And despite Owain’s attempt to parry the blow, Mórganthu’s blade struck, biting deeply into the slope between Owain’s shoulder and neck. He cried out but did not fall.
Blood spattered Merlin’s face, and he winced. “Father,” he called, but his voice felt weak and his lungs hurt.
Owain raised his own blade again and thrust at Mórganthu, who warded off the blow and stepped back.
Merlin sought to force his legs to move toward his father, but it was as if gravel grated his bones.
Wheezing in anguish, Owain beat off blow after blow from Mórganthu as their blades clanged together, but each parry showed his diminishing strength.
Mórganthu lunged, and when the blade missed its mark, the arch druid yelled, “Die! Die, my enemy!”
With great concentration, Merlin began to move forward.
“Merlin, here’s your blade!” Natalenya’s voice shook with fear. One of her warm hands rested on his neck, and the other pressed the dirk handle into his thawing hand.
“Your father’s bleeding —”
“Get back … behind the forge.”
“What can I do?”
“Stay safe and … ask God to strengthen us!”
Merlin dragged his feet forward, his dirk ready.
His father pushed Mórganthu into a workbench, and tools clacked to the dirt. Yet in a flash Mórganthu sliced his blade down again, and his father howled in pain.
Merlin tried to run, but he stumbled on his still-numb feet. As he fell, he saw a red flash from the pommel of Uther’s sword. Reaching toward it, he grabbed hold of Mórganthu’s wrist as he plunged to the man’s feet, almost pulling the druid down with him.
“Let go, you lout!” Mórganthu scratched at Merlin’s scarred face with his free hand, leaving new gouges.
But Merlin raised his dirk and, in one swift stroke, severed Mórganthu’s hand.
Uther’s sword fell to the ground, and Mórganthu stood in utter shock as a flood of crimson poured forth. He then began to scream, the shrill tones filling every nook of the room. Finally, shoving the stub of his arm under his tunic, he ran from the smithy.
As his wails faded, the room suddenly lit with a fierce blue light. Merlin climbed to his knees just as flames from the Stone shot high into the air.
Natalenya shouted.
Merlin sheathed his dirk and fetched Uther’s sword, prying off the sharp-nailed fingers of Mórganthu’s hand. This was the sword his father had made. The sword with which Merlin had killed the wolf. His blade until the day he could surrender it to Arthur. He rose to his feet and attempted to reach Natalenya beyond the forge, but the blaze blocked his way.
“Natalenya!”
“Merlin, help!”
The blue inferno of the Stone rose above him now, and the thatch roof caught fire.
“Get out through the window,” he yelled. “It’s behind you!”
“I can’t,” she screamed. “There are iron bars, and I can’t pull them out.”
Coils of sapphire flame hunted for Natalenya, who cowered, coughing.
Merlin felt for his father’s hammer on the anvil’s stump and hefted it to his chest together with the sword. “O God, help me!” he cried as he dove at the flaming Stone. The exposed parts of his arms and face reddened, and his clothing began to char. The flames licked against his face, and his hair smoldered. Above him a torrent of thunder shook the smithy’s walls.
None of his father’s tools had destroyed the Stone, but he had to save Natalenya. He jabbed the point of the sword against the Stone and pounded on the bronze-forged hilt with the hammer. But the blade couldn’t pierce the pockmarked surface.
Evil laughter swirled around Merlin as he hammered harder.
Natalenya called across the rift of flames,