“The monks are innocent. They’ve done nothing deserving death.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” Merlin could barely contain his outrage.
“Like all other monks, they’re responsible for turning the people away from the old gods. For that slander, we druidow have an unforgiving hatred, and these monks are to be an example.”
Merlin scoffed at these words. “Can’t the old gods defend themselves?”
“We are their instruments of justice.”
“Don’t you see that killings like these have caused you to lose support? Fear cannot long hold a people in bondage, and if these monks die, then the news will spread, and you will all be driven out completely.”
“Perhaps.”
Tensing his fists, Merlin turned his head away. “I can’t save them on my own. I’m blind.”
“Ah, so you’re the famous Merlin, the one who keeps Mórganthu gnashing his teeth late into the night. Yes, I’ve heard about you. Well, then, let’s just say that it’s the ones who have sight who make the decisions.”
“Fine, then. Leave me alone to my prayers.”
“Not so fast. That doesn’t mean I’ve decided not to help you. I happen to know that if word got to Mórganthu that Merlin had ransomed the monks, then that just might agitate him to an early grave. It might even direct his wrath in your direction. And that, my phony druid, is something that interests me. Ransoming is something we allow by law.”
“You want me to pay you … to do what is right?”
“I have a few extra men I could call into service, but if you don’t have the money …”
Merlin squeezed the bottom of his bag and tried to remember the number of coins there. “How much do you want?”
“For that many men our law would suggest the ransom be, say, half a gold coin.”
“What?” That was an impossible price.
“Fine, a quarter of a coin, which in silver would be —”
“Go get your gold from the Stone.”
“From Mórganthu? Ah, now you see the problem of the filidow, the least-favored of our order.”
“I only have five screpallow.”
Caygek laughed. “You too? What about your torc?”
“You want me to cut a chunk from it? I can do that, though I’d need to do so later. I don’t have it with me.”
“No, no. I’m jesting. Don’t even think about marring such a priceless thing. Five screpallow it is.”
“You’re serious?”
“The rumor doesn’t need to say how much you paid us, does it? I’d dearly like to see Mórganthu’s face when he hears about it.”
“So you’ll help?”
“For the right to rub salt into Mórganthu’s wound, yes.”
A great weight lifted from Merlin’s shoulders as he handed over the five coins. “Thank you.”
“No promises, hear? We filidow are heavily outnumbered. More than likely we’ll all be dead before the moon sets.”
Bedwir was nearly giddy when Vortigern finally marched them on foot out of the Tor’s gate. Down the Meneth Gellik, through the village, and northeastward on the road, they eventually drew nigh to the road leading to the burned abbey. A shame, that.
From there, with the sun behind the mountain, Bedwir could see torches moving in an eerie circle a half league across the valley and through the woods.
The armed company advanced down the road to the stream and up again until they took a snaking path into the forest. Soon the noise of drumming reached their ears, and Bedwir began to sweat. Was it because of their long march or the closeness of the air? Or was it due to the coming battle? Enemy warriors in daylight, fine. But magical druidow in the dark amid an ancient pagan circle of giant stones — that was different.
When the druid’s chanting could finally be heard, Bedwir halted his contingent of men.
“Vortigern says we’re to wait in silence,” the man in front of him whispered. “The battle chief goes alone to scout out the situation. He says to listen for the sounding of his horn.”
Bedwir stood on his toes and craned his neck. About ten paces in front, the cloaked shadow that was Vortigern faded into the trees.
“This is Beltayne night,” Mórganthu shouted to the crowd, “when we light the wicker bonfires filled with the enemies of our gods. When we purify ourselves, our cattle, our children, and our spirits through fire and smoke from all that pollutes, in order to protect ourselves from witchcraft.”
What a hard time Merlin had listening to this. At any moment Mórganthu might give the signal to burn the monks to death or sacrifice Uther and his father, and what could he do? Nothing. Sure, prayers escaped his lips