Pendragon and the Sorcerer's Despair (Pendragon Legend Book 5) Page 4

  Igraine’s eyes were red. Megolin had seen that when they first met for breakfast and had known better than to ask why she had been weeping.

  She still wore the armor she had been wearing the day the Huns descended on her home. Most of the blood had been washed off, but there were still signs of battle, dents and scratches and whatnot, that could still be seen.

  “Once the people are ready, we resume the march,” Megolin said suddenly, as he crunched the last slice of bacon, and then used his soggy bread to mop up the oil. Fires were allowed when the sun was out.

  “At this rate, we’ll arrive at Gilidor within three days.”

  “The Huns are still pursuing us, brother, I’m sure. And we do not have the strength to fight another battle. Less than half of the people with us are soldiers, and those soldiers we have are either wounded or sick.”

  “Not all of them,” Megolin responded, chewing. “As Commander Clyde tells me, we still have about three hundred capable fighting men.”

  “If fifty thousand could not defeat them, what makes you think three hundred will?” Merlin said.

  Megolin looked at his son.

  “We are not looking to fight, Merlin. Right now, our focus is getting to Land’s End alive.”

  “Then we’ll have to hasten the march.”

  “And how do we do that?” Megolin demanded. “Have you seen them? Many are wounded and can only manage a slow walk. Some don’t even have legs. Others are dying. The Huns could be on the horizon now, and we wouldn’t be going any faster. The best hope we have to is to place as many of our soldiers as we can behind us to guard the column.”

  Merlin looked back at his own plate. The bacon grease was cooling, and the oil was beginning to congeal. “Yes, Father,” he said.

  Megolin turned to Igraine.

  “I see no better option,” she admitted.

  “It’s settled, then. Page!”

  They heard scurrying footsteps, and then the tent flap flew open and a young lad with dark black curls and a mockery of a mustache rushed in, tracking mud on the carpets. But that was the least of Megolin’s concerns.

  “Your Grace,” he said.

  “Send for Commander Clyde and the baggage master” Megolin ordered. “Tell them to see me immediately.”

  “At once, Your Grace.”

  He bowed and ran out of the pavilion.

  A few minutes later, the puffing and the chink of mail signaled Commander Clyde’s and the baggage master’s arrival. The Megolins rose to greet them as they and Harry, their page, walked through the flap.

  Commander Clyde and the baggage master bowed. “Your Grace.”

  The general wore a black leather jerkin and leather vambraces. Chainmail covered the rest of his arms, and iron poleyns his knees, in addition to the brown breeches he wore.

  Without his helm, his poofy patch of white hair stood up from his head unhindered. His skin was marked with the wrinkles and lines of his age, and bags drooped from his lower eyelids. But his cold blue eyes had lost none of their clarity, and they saw with an iron sharpness.

  Baggage master Royce was a very different matter, with countless folds that tugged at the buttons of his doublet. His wispy white hair was combed back, and his face was sullen and pasty. He’d never been fair to look upon, but he’d always been a true and loyal friend of the House of Megolin. There were not many people whom Megolin trusted as much as him.

  “Gather all the fighting men we have,” Megolin said to Clyde. “Send them to the back of the column. Place the wounded at the front and the women and children just behind. And I want scouts keeping a lookout at all times. We march once this is done. And Royce, I want all our provisions locked up and hidden away.”

  Royce frowned.

  “Your Grace?” he asked, surprised.

  “Father, the people are starving--”

  “And that is the very reason for this,” Megolin said sternly. “The road ahead holds desperation for us until we can get to Gilidor. If people start stealing food, fights are going to break out, and the camp will be divided. And that’s the last thing we need right now.”

  He turned back to Royce, a dark storm upon his face. “How much food do we have?”

  “Not enough, Your Grace. We only have enough to feed about a third of our column for another day. The retreat was so sudden, and all that we have here is what our people fled away with.”

  Megolin clenched his fists.

  “Ration the food. Divide it however you must. I want everyone fed for at least the next three days. Send word to the high huntsman. He is to find whatever he can within a mile of the column every morning and evening. But he is not to wander off any farther.”

  “Very good, Your Grace,” Royce said, and turned to leave.

  Megolin was turning away too when he realized the general was still standing there.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Clyde clenched his jaw. “We’ve already started losing people,” he said, quietly.

  Megolin straightened.

  “How many?”

  “Two. Both soldiers. One had a nasty ax wound. Bloody Hun almost cut off his arm at the shoulder. They tried patching him up, but he bled too much, and by last night he was infected. The nurses tell me the wound festered. He died in his sleep. The other lad suffered a club to the head. They said when he woke up, he couldn’t remember anything. He died last night.”

  Merlin looked down at the dirt. This pavilion had been built last night, so the ground here wasn’t nearly as soaked as the ground outside.

  Megolin shook his head. “These men died from their wounds,” he said. “Will we lose anyone else between now and the time we get to Gilidor?”

  “I hope we don’t, Your Grace,” Clyde answered solemnly.

  “Have the men dig two graves for them,” Megolin ordered. “Are their families with them?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Tell them I promise that once this war is over, I will find them and have them buried in Demetia.”

  Clyde bowed low. “At once, Your Grace.”

  Then, he turned and walked out of the tent.

  Megolin turned to his page.

  “Tell the servants to tear this tent down. And ready our horses.”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” the lad said, then spun around and darted out of the tent.

  Megolin turned back to Merlin and Igraine and saw his son’s cloak glowing purple.

  3

  Forgiveness

  It was two hours before the column resumed its march amidst shouting and crying and neighing. The roads were too dangerous and did not provide enough cover for the Demetians, so they walked through the woods, beneath the shade of the canopy.

  The hooves of Merlin’s mare sucked up mud as it trod forward.

  The air was so heavy that Merlin found it difficult to breathe.

  Each time he tried to suck in air, it seemed to just crowd his pathway like an army squeezing through a city gate.

  His neck was numb and ached at the same time. He tried moving his head around to get some feeling again, but to no avail.

  Fighting to breathe and keep off the damp and cold, Merlin sat silently in his saddle as the mare walked on, flies buzzing around its head.

  Every time one landed on Merlin, he shook it off with more anger than disgust.

  From behind, he could hear crying babes and sons and daughters mourning their dying fathers.

  He turned and spotted the wagon carrying Arthur.

  Uther’s body had been tightly wrapped with cloth that was packed with some fragrant herbs the foragers found near the camp and had been placed in a box. It was not nearly as fitting as it should have been. Uther Pendragon was one of the greatest men of his time, but more than that, he was loved, missed, and mourned. Megolin had promised Igraine that he would be properly
buried when they got to Gilidor, as befitted a Roman general.

  Since then, Igraine had not been able to go to him. She could not handle seeing her husband like that.

  Megolin had also ordered some of the servants to polish Arthur’s armor. His body was pale, and his eyes were sunken, but the spell of containment Merlin had cast upon his soul had stayed his degradation. And after the servants had cleaned his body and armor, he didn’t appear too horrid. His hair had been washed and brushed. His face, too, and all the blood was gone. He still wore his armor, and the points where the arrows had breached the iron plate could be seen clearly. The plate itself had been polished and shone with a regal brilliance, and the five dragons of his clan had never stood out more.

  Merlin turned back to look ahead, at endless rows upon rows of towering pines clinging to autumn.

  He feared there would be more heavy rains soon. Autumn storms were the worst of the year, and then the first snows would fall, and the drenched ground would freeze. Merlin had never had to endure the harshness of winter. Physically, he had spent his entire life in the palace and within the city of Demetia, with roaring hearths to chase away the cold, a roof to keep the rain out, and dry, crisp chambers made of oaken planks that held the warmth of the fire.

  Out here, in attire several days’ old, with the autumn storms gathering, with Demetia a pile of rubble, burned and looted and occupied by the enemy, and with his heart and mind heavy with grief, misery, anger, and regret, he was a long way from home.

  Merlin was shaken from his thoughts when his destrier suddenly neighed, and her legs gave out. They buckled, and she collapsed to the ground, throwing Merlin out of his saddle.

  He landed with a thud on the soggy leaves.

  Megolin’s own horse neighed at the sound as he reined up.

  “What happened?” Megolin asked as Merlin got up and dusted some of the leaves off his cloak.

  Igraine was looking on as well, and the column too.

  Merlin knelt down beside the horse.

  “She’s carrying too much weight,” he said, and started removing the lobstered steel on the horse’s neck, when he noticed a part of it was breached.

  The metal plates clanged as he moved them, and a foul odor suddenly emerged. That’s when he saw the blood.

  “She’s wounded,” he said, throwing the armor aside.

  It landed with a loud clang, and a boy from the first row of the column stepped forward. His face was black with soot stains, and he wore a faded leather vest.

  “I can look at her, Y’Grace,” he said. “Me dad’s the stable master at Demetia.”

  Merlin stood up and let the boy approach.

  He knelt by the horse.

  Dried blood had caked around the wound, and green pus had already appeared.

  “She’s wounded bad,” the boy said.

  He reached for the wound and held something.

  Cringing up his face, the destrier suddenly screamed and began to kick with its legs, but the boy did not seem to worry.

  His hand flew out suddenly, his fingers bloody.

  He was holding a bodkin, capable of piercing even heavy plate. A part of the haft still remained, cracked and fissured.

  The stable master’s son rose.

  “I’m sorry, Y’Grace,” he said, “but there ain’t nothing I can do. The infection’s already taken hold. We should end her misery. It’d be a mercy. My father always used to end it for the wounded horses when they couldn’t be healed.”

  Merlin looked at the destrier’s eyes as it whickered and flailed weakly.

  Mergus, Merlin had named her, for one of his predecessors from the elder days of the old kingdom. He had been his companion for ten years now.

  With tears in his eyes, he turned to the boy.

  “How old are you?”

  “Five-and-ten, if it please Y’Grace.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ryon, Y’Grace, if it please you.”

  Merlin looked back at Mergus.

  “I can save her,” he said.

  He knelt again beside his friend and placed his hand on her neck.

  He closed his eyes as the first rows of the column, the man driving the wagon carrying Arthur, his father, Igraine, and Ryon, looked on.

  He muttered something, too quietly for anyone to hear, and then a light began to glow from his palm. A breath of wind gusted between them, rustling the canopy, setting the leaves to swirling, and making Megolin and Igraine’s cloaks flap, just as the candles had guttered when he healed Arthur’s arrow wound after returning from Pittentrail.

  Mergus whickered as his wound began to heal. The flesh and skin grew to rejoin, and a moment later, Merlin pulled his hand back and stood.

  “She’ll live now,” he said.

  “Hey!” Someone shouted at once.

  The person was shouldering through the crowd.

  “You!” He shouted as he burst out of the column.

  His tunic was black with dirt and a few locks of white hair hung over his aged eyes.

  Clyde placed a mailed hand on his chest.

  “No, it’s fine,” Merlin said.

  Clyde looked menacingly at the man, then moved his hand away.

  The old man glared at Merlin, his eyes tearing.

  “You could have saved my son!” He yelled. “My little boy…cleaved by the Huns, he was, and died in my arms, he did. ‘Papa, I’m afraid,’ he kept saying, and what could I do? I would have given anything to bring him back! He died from his wounds because he fought for you!”

  He pointed at Merlin.

  “And what do I see?” He spat. “You’re here healing bloody horses, making sure that there foreigner is alive. Me and many more of us have lost those dear to us. And you didn’t do anything to save them.”

  Merlin looked at him.

  A hush had fallen over the woods and the crowd. Everyone was staring at Merlin, and he could feel his head turning light.

  Finally, Commander Clyde broke the silence.

  “How dare you speak that way to your prince?” He shouted at the man. “It’s because of him you’re still alive! If it--”

  “General…don’t…please,” Merlin stopped him.

  He looked at the old man.

  “I promise you, I would have helped, I--”

  “What? You didn’t know he was injured? The entire bloody lot of us is injured! And you didn’t help nobody”

  Merlin was about to say something when he turned to Megolin.

  “And you!” He shouted. “You lock up the food, thinking we’re all thieves. Me brother and I, and all of us,” he swept his hand across the crowd, “are starving.”

  He paused.

  Then he turned to Arthur.

  “It’s because of that foreigner there,” he said. “Ever since he’s arrived, there’s been trouble. First, he brings those savages along, then he goes and insults the north, and now the north is out to crush us for helping him! He brought those barbarians to Demetia. It’s because of him that Demetia is burned!”

  “Silence!”

  The trees rustled as Megolin’s voice boomed through the woods, carrying his words far and clear.

  Megolin looked at the old man with glaring eyes, angry and grieving.

  “That foreigner is my nephew,” he said. “Second in line to the throne, and therefore your lord! Show him some respect!”

  The old man looked at him poisonously.

  “Maybe he don’t need to be my king. I’ll just leave. All of you are going to die anyway.”

  “That’s enough,” Clyde growled.

  He turned to the two Royal Guards standing nearby.

  “Arrest this man,” he said. “Throw him in the back of a wagon and put him in irons. If he so much as speaks, cut out his tongue.”

  Th
e two Royal Guards walked up to him and walked him off, holding his arms with an iron grip.

  The column parted to let them through, and the man walked off, silent.

  When the crowd reformed, they disappeared, and Merlin looked down at the ground.

  Mergus was standing by his side, and Ryon beside her.

  “Merlin,” Megolin said, angrily. “Saddle up. We’ve stopped for too long.”

  Merlin turned and placed one foot in the stirrup, then heaved himself up onto the horse.

  Megolin wheeled around and started off again, and Merlin snapped his reins, looking at his father.

  He was in a red rage, and Merlin could sense that he was struggling to maintain his composure. He was the king, after all, and a king could not show weakness, doubt, rage, or fear.

  As the column started moving again, he retrieved his waterskin and poured some on Mergus’ neck, cleaning out the pus and blood with his hand.

  When she was clean, he poured a little more on his hand to clean it, and then put the skin away.

  But all the while, his mind had been fixed upon the old man.

  What he said had hurt Merlin more than he realized words could, but what hurt more was that he knew he was right.

  He could have saved the man’s son. He could have saved all the wounded that were with them.

  “So, I will,” he muttered.

  “Excuse me, Father,” he looked at Megolin. “Aunt.”

  He reined up, and Megolin and Igraine stopped as well.

  “No one but the hunters are allowed to leave the column, Merlin,” his father said in a tone that brooked no argument.

  “I’m not leaving the column, Father,” Merlin answered. “There is something I must do. We need not stop the march again.”

  Megolin looked at him.

  “Fine,” he said, brusquely, and turned his horse around to gallop off, going ahead of the column.

  Clyde and the Royal Guards galloped after him, but Igraine remained.

  “Be careful of your feelings, Merlin,” she said. “Do not let hate you consume, nor grief distract from you must do.”

  She looked at the wagon rattling ahead with Arthur’s body.