At that moment, a gruff voice addressed me. “What’s yer business, stranger?”
Turning around, I faced a stocky, dark-haired man with a ruddy complexion. In one hand, he held a spear—though he held it upright, like a staff. Seeing its gleaming tip, I felt relieved it wasn’t pointed at me. Not yet, at any rate.
“Well?” he barked, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Is this Caer Darloch?” I asked.
“First tell me yer business.”
“My business is yours, as well,” I replied, brushing some snow off the sleeve of my tunic. “I need to know if you’ve seen any signs of a warrior with no arms, but sword blades instead.”
The man raised his dark eyebrows. His face twisted. For an instant he looked as if he were going to be ill. Then, all at once, he released a huge guffaw. He began laughing raucously.
“A warrior, ye say? Without arms? Hoohooha-ha-ha!” He slapped his thigh. “Oh, ho-ho-hee, that’s a precious one, hoho.”
I scowled at him, wiping some snow off my tunic collar. “It’s no laughing matter. He has swords
instead
of arms. He’s a murderer, a maimer of children.”
Again the burly fellow slapped himself in mirth. “A great lot o’ ha-ha-harm he can do widdout any arms! Hahaha, hoohoo.”
“I speak truth!”
“Then yer truth, haha, heehee, is precious funny.”
“Not at all!” I countered, my rage rising. “Don’t you understand? Every orphan—every child—is in danger! Have you no heart, man?”
“Ya, ya,” he replied with a chortle. “An’ I also have arms.” He fell again into hysterics. “Hoho, that’s precious. Arms, heart, hoohoohoo.”
My patience gone, I pointed at the head of his spear, carved from black obsidian. “No doubt you’ll think it funny, too, when Rhita Gawr attacks this village and skewers you with that very spear.”
The man’s face grew suddenly stern. “Now yer no longer funny.” He lowered the spear, pointing it squarely at my chest. “An’ no longer welcome.”
“Who are you to turn me away?” I demanded. “I need to speak with your village elders, whoever is in charge. Someone with a grain of sense in his head.”
His arms flexed as he squeezed the spear. “I am Lydd, guardian o’ Caer Darloch.” He jabbed the spear, grazing my tunic. “An’ I am tellin’ ye to leave.”
Despite the fact that my fraying garb and snow-matted hair made me look more like a vagabond than a wizard, I replied, “And I am the one called Merlin! I command you to take me to your elders.”
His face flushed. “Merlin, is it? Ye think ye can pass yerself off as a mighty wizard just by stealin’ his name? Why, stories have it the real Merlin can dispatch a troop o’ goblins with naught more than a flick o’ the wrist!” He pushed the spear point closer until it pressed against my ribs. “Why, yer just a beggar, an insultin’ jester. Be gone, I say! Or yer blood’ll paint the snows o’ this common.”
Grinding my teeth, I stared straight at him. “Not my blood, but yours.”
With a flick of my wrist, I sent a bolt of blue fire into the head of his spear. He shouted, leaped backward, and dropped the weapon. Aghast, he watched as the obsidian point melted completely away, sizzling on the snow. A moment later, all that remained was a splotch of black on the white-coated ground.
He lifted his head, his eyes filled now with terror. “So ye really are . . .”
“Merlin. Now tell me. Are there any orphan children about?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it tight. He started to back away, one step, then another. I raised my hand to stop him—and he turned and bolted off, his boots pounding in the snow.
“Come back!” I called.
He kept running, disappearing behind the blacksmith’s house. In frustration, I looked down at my shadow. “Drat! He may be a terrible guardian, but I’m even worse as a wizard.”
The shape on the snow waved its arms at me.
“Try again?” I sucked in my breath, then nodded slowly. “Yes, yes, you’re right. I’ll look for someone else. And hope to fare better this time.”
Seeing no one else about, I walked across the common to one of the larger houses. As I ascended its porch steps, I heard someone’s feet scurrying inside. A child called out: “It’s a stranger, Mama! Looks like a beggar.” Grimacing, I rapped on the door. No one answered. Again I tried, with no more success. Angrily, I stamped my boot on the porch and left.
At the next house, the door at least opened—before it slammed in my face. Seething with frustration, I strode back to the common. I paced around, wondering which house to try next.
A sudden, shrill scream pierced the air, stopping me in my tracks. Another child with wet leggings? But no, there was something different, painfully different, about this cry. Again it came, from somewhere behind the thatched shed in the goats’ pen. Grabbing the hilt of my sword, I dashed toward the pen and leaped over the snow-covered railing.
I rounded the corner of the shed. There, on the straw beneath the overhanging roof, huddled a small, disheveled boy, squealing piteously. Standing with one foot on the child’s forearm, ready to slice off his hand, was a massive, square-shouldered figure. Beneath those shoulders, where arms should have been, hung a pair of wide, gleaming swords.
15:
S
LAYER
Halt!” I commanded. “Release that boy!”
With a flash of light on his deathly blades, the warrior kicked his prey aside, spraying straw in all directions. The small boy crawled, whimpering, deeper into the shed, trying to hide behind one of the goats. At the same time, his attacker whirled around. Seeing me, he stepped boldly into the center of the pen, his boot prints blackening the fresh-fallen snow. He faced me squarely, looking the very essence of brutality. He stood a full head taller than most men, with plated armor on his broad shoulders and chest. A mask, fitted with the skull of a man, covered his face. And at his sides hung a pair of heavy, double-edged swords.
“So,” he bellowed, “the cowardly whelp of a wizard hides no more!”
“You are the coward,” I shot back. “You who hunts down innocent children.”
He glowered at me, his weapons twitching. “I have my reasons. Sweet death of Dagda, I do.”
My hand, starting to draw my own sword, hesitated. Something about the warrior’s voice struck me strangely. Had I heard it somewhere before? Or dreamed it, perhaps? That must be it: another one of my dreams come hauntingly true.
“What is your name?” I demanded, planting my feet as best I could on the slippery snow. “And why should I not strike you down here and now?”
The massive man took another stride toward me. “Call me Slayer,” came the voice from behind the skull. “For that is how you shall know me.”
With a roar, he rushed at me, swiping both his blades at my chest. I had barely enough time to draw my sword, which rang in the air. Suddenly, with a flash of metal, the angle of his blades changed. They were coming at my knees! Just a fraction of an instant before they sliced into me, I leaped backward, barely avoiding them.
Seeing me land off balance, he charged at me with surprising speed. His hefty shoulder crashed into my side, sending me sprawling into the railing. Snow and bits of straw flew across the pen. I rolled away as his blades bit into the wooden rail, which splintered from the force.
Quickly, I pulled my staff out of my belt. Now I held two weapons, as he did. Again he bore down on me, this time swinging for my head. I ducked as his blades passed over, so close I felt the
whoosh
of air just above my ear. Both of his swords slammed into the top of my staff. Though the reverberations from the blow jangled me down to my ankles, the staff held firm, sending off a blaze of blue sparks. Taken aback, he retreated a step, which gave me time to move away.
Aha,
I thought. This staff is made from more than wood. Just as I am made from more than muscle and bone! Magic—that’s the way to quash him. And while my staff’s magic remained unpredictable, even for me, I possessed plenty more magic that I could control. And use!
Spinning on my heels, I flung a powerful spell at his swords.
Grow heavy. Too heavy to lift.
At once, streaks of black flowed down from his shoulders, wrapping around his blades like dark webs. In an instant both swords were swathed completely in black.
Slayer staggered, as if struck by some invisible blow. He started to raise his weapons again, but faltered, straining mightily to hold them aloft. At last, he doubled over from the weight, as his blades crashed to the ground. Outraged, he roared aloud, straining to lift them. But they wouldn’t budge.
I started to gloat—when I felt a strange sensation in the hand holding my own sword. To my shock, black threads poured out of the hilt, encircling the entire blade. Suddenly it felt heavy, too heavy to hold. Despite my efforts, it slammed down in the snow. Hard as I tried, I could not lift it again.
The same spell! He’s thrown it at me!
Or had I just aimed my own spell poorly? In either case, all our blades were now useless.
Urgently, I recited the counter spell, crafted to unwind the enchantment’s power. It took several seconds, owing to its complexity in both words and tones. And I took extra care to aim it exclusively at my own sword. At the instant I finished, the dark web withdrew, melting back into the hilt. My sword moved freely again. I lifted it, swinging it over my head with a shout.
An equally fierce shout came from my foe. He, too, had used the counter spell! I felt a rush of awe, tinged with fear, that he knew such intricate magic. Who could he be, to possess such power?
Just then he hurled himself at me again, slashing his weapons wildly. I had no time to think. All I could do was block his strikes with my upraised staff. Sparks sizzled in the air.
He beat at me ceaselessly, giving me no chance to return the attack. My arms ached from fending off his blows. Harder he pressed, and harder. All at once I realized his plan: He was backing me into the shed! In a few seconds I would be cornered, unable to maneuver. The shed’s wall loomed on one side, the railing on the other.
I must get out of here!
Another enchantment? Yes—one that would buy me a little time. Enough to devise a plan of my own! My mind whirled, even as my elbow jammed against the wooden wall.
Dodging a thrust, I threw myself to the ground. As soon as my hands hit the ground, I knew what to do. Lunging forward, not just with my feet but also with my hands, I felt new power coursing through my limbs. With a surge of strength, I leaped as high as I could. Slayer’s blades sliced through the air, barely missing the tan-coated back of the stag who bounded over the railing to safety.
Sleek and strong, I ran across the common, my hooves pounding over the snow. Finally, I turned my antlered head around. I expected to see my attacker staring at me, bewildered, from behind the goats’ pen.
Instead, a blur of brown came rushing at me. Another stag! How could that be? I jumped out of the way, but not before a sharp point of his antlers ripped into my flank. A wrenching pain twisted through my hindquarters. Blood streamed down my leg. With great effort, I bounded away.
Across the whitened ground we tore, my pursuer gaining on me with every stride. I veered sharply, leaping onto the porch of one of the houses, but the stag followed me. Hooves clattering, we ran down its length. Despite the deepening pain in my leg, I managed to jump just high enough to clear the row of snow-filled flower boxes on the far end.
When I landed again on the common, my injured leg buckled under me. My belly skidded over the cold snow. But I willed myself to stand again, scrambling out of the way just as the other stag plowed through the spot. Off I raced, swerving into the blacksmith’s forge. I careened, and my flashing hooves knocked over the bellows. Down it crashed, sending up clouds of soot and ash. My eyes burned, my leg throbbed, but I dashed through the dark clouds and out again into the snow.
As I hurtled across the common, the other stag drew close enough that I could hear his heaving breaths. His antlers grazed my wounded leg again. Around one house and behind another I ran, trying my best to evade him. But none of my maneuvers worked. I was tiring rapidly. I needed something to hide behind, even for a moment. Seeing an old wooden wagon, tilting from a broken wheel, I dashed toward it and threw all of my strength into a desperate leap. If only I could clear it—
But no! My foreleg struck the wagon’s side, pitching me out of control. I slammed with a thud into the wooden bed, splintering the planks under my weight. Spinning helplessly, I slid through the snow. When I came to rest at last, I was no longer a stag, but a man. My left thigh ached terribly; my legging was torn and bloody.
The other stag bounded around the wreckage of the wagon. As I watched in horror, he metamorphosed, changing into the sword-armed warrior. So he, too, knew the magic of the deer! Chortling with satisfaction, he stepped toward me, raising his gleaming swords to slay me at last.
I tried to stand, but collapsed weakly. My sword and staff, left behind in the goats’ pen, could not help me now. Desperately, I wriggled backward through the snow, even as Slayer’s shadow fell over my own.
My shadow? Perhaps it could do something. But no, I needed something stronger than that. Much stronger. Something as powerful as the wind itself. Yes! That was it. Even as the deadly blades flashed in the air above my chest, I hurriedly whispered the incantation to summon a windstorm, taught to me by Aylah herself. And I finished with the plea:
Blow him far from here, O tempest. Far away from here!
A sudden gust shrieked through the village, blowing over chairs and tools and water jugs. Doors flew open; a pair of wooden shutters pulled off from a window and sailed away. Cloaks and sticks and snowflakes swirled in the air, lifting off like so many flocks of birds.
“No!” bellowed the warrior as the wind threw him backward, then carried him up into the air. “Nooooo!”
He flailed and struggled, cursing at the unseen enemy that had borne him aloft. Then, as he flew over the nearest row of houses, a new gust whipped through the village. Ferociously it blew—in the opposite direction! Despite my efforts to cling to the corner post of one of someone’s porch, I myself was lifted high above the ground. In the swirl of debris, I caught a glimpse of my sword and staff, also airborne.