through their iron gate, and to a ditch at the edge of their land.
“I know I’ve blocked up the window, but I wouldn’t blame you for joining us in the house tonight.”
“I’m fine.”
“Have it your way.”
Despite the attack, the smithy was Merlin’s place, and he wouldn’t leave it. From the fresh smell of his straw bed tucked against the eastern wall to the well-worn handles of the bellows near the forge — this was his home, his life. Here he could find comfort in the feel of his father’s tools. The shape and coolness of the great anvil. The spinning sound of the grinding wheel. Even the acrid reek of the quench barrel.
His father left to go back to bed, and for the rest of the night, Merlin had terrible dreams about wolves. They surrounded his bed, and their claws ripped at his bloodied back. They scratched at his face, destroying the remnant of his sight. And no matter how many wolves he killed, they kept climbing through the window, each with sharper teeth and more evil eyes than the last.
Even the dawn and the rhythmic clanging of Merlin’s father at the anvil didn’t remove the specter. Each blur and shadow resembled a wolf.
Near midmorning, Owain completed the installation of iron bars in the window and went back to the house, leaving the smithy quiet.
Merlin hoped to get some proper sleep and was just dozing off when a knock came at the front door, which his father had left propped open.
“Excuse me … young man?” The deep, lilting voice had a slight Eirish accent.
Merlin lifted his head. “I’m here. May I help you?”
“I assume this is the smithy?”
“The shop’s here. I’ll get my tas to assist you. Do you need something forged?”
“No, no … thank you, but no. I am not here for the services of the notorious blacksmith.” His voice was like cream, but there was something sour hiding in it. “We are here to receive, shall we say, a visit with our kin.”
The man’s voice was strangely familiar to Merlin, but he couldn’t remember from where. As far back as he remembered, not a single relative had ever visited them. Certainly none from Erin, though surely he must be a relation of his stepmother, Mônda.
Yet why did Merlin recognize the voice?
The man stepped inside the smithy and walked over to him. Behind, another man followed. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mórganthu mab Mórfryn, and this is my son, Anviv. You must be … Merlin?” He bent down and waved his fingers in front of Merlin’s eyes.
Suppressing a spark of annoyance, Merlin ignored the fingers, sat up painfully, and placed the back of his hand to his forehead in a show of respect. “My father and I live here. Are you related to Mônda and my sister?”
“I am Môndargana’s father. I have been away for a long time, but now I have been called here once more … I should say … to this somnolent village, specifically.”
Again, the voice was familiar to Merlin.
The man waved his fingers for a second time in front of Merlin, and they smelled moldy, as if he’d been digging at the rotten innards of some tree. Merlin wanted to swat them away. He turned instead to greet the son by reaching out both hands. “Anviv … Then you’re sort of an uncle.”
Anviv let his hands be shaken for a moment, and they were like two marsh eels after their heads had been hit on a stone.
Merlin wiped his palms on his tunic. Still needing to greet the agitating old man, Merlin reached out toward the dark form. “Welcome, Mórganthu. Our home is yours.”
Mórganthu grasped Merlin’s hands but quickly tried to pull away. Merlin decided to test the man’s character and held on. Mórganthu’s fingers were thick and strong, but why didn’t they have calluses? Even the monks had coarse hands from labor. Who is this man?
Mórganthu grunted, but still Merlin wouldn’t let go.
Finally, Mórganthu twisted a jagged fingernail into each of Merlin’s palms.
Merlin jerked his hands away.
“Enough impudence,” Mórganthu said darkly. “Enough. We will take our —”
“Excuse me if I continue resting.” Merlin lay down again. Somehow his bed felt colder than before. “I’m sure Mônda will be happy to greet you after so long. The house is that way.” He pointed and hoped they’d go away.
Their feet crept toward the back door, which Merlin’s father had also left open. Merlin lay quietly, hoping to catch the conversation.