When there was an end at last, the drowned, scarred land was changed, had new bays, new rivers. Some of its substance had been lost to the eating of the sea, but in return it had gained in other places steaming spreads of stinking mud which had once been water covered. But man had survived—in some manner a handful of men survived. Shocked, mind-deadened, they crept forth into the new world. A few could remember earlier times, but only in fragments. The others were near imbeciles, wanting only to eat, sleep and sometimes mate brutishly with less grace than any beast.
They were lost indeed, that remnant and they sank back farther than animals. Some preyed on their fellows to fill their bellies, killing their quarry with rocks. A few strove to cling to their memories. Some of these had wit enough to draw apart, to establish themselves in areas they could defend against the mindless brutes. Once more came a slow, very slow climb upward. Truth became legend overlain with imagination; later generations had no belief that man had ever been other than what he was in their own time. But there were always some who remembered better, whose tales from one generation to the next were clearer, less embroidered.
Myrddin dreamed and dreamed again. His was a breed which clung to life, which might be defeated but which was never wiped away. And among man were always to be found the dreamers, the seekers…
There was a loud sound, like the ringing of a great mellow-toned gong. Within the box Myrddin stirred. His breathing, which had been so slow, began to quicken. The liquid completely covering his body was draining away. His eyelids fluttered.
As if that small movement was a signal, the columns which supported the lid of the chest began to climb steadily upward. His eyes opened and he uttered a feeble sound. His limbs felt stiff, no stiffer than if he had spent a night in the open. And his mind was returning fast to the here and now.
Was the voice right—had the force field been weakened? He crawled out of the box and stood upright, feeling dizzy enough to clutch at the edge of the lid. Around him the installations were afire with a beading of flickering lights. His body dried quickly. That moisture which had filled the box rolled from his skin in large drops, leaving little dampness behind.
He looked for his clothing. But when he stooped to pick up his tunic the linen was yellowed, so frail it tore as he pulled it on. Time—how much time!
Dressed again, he came to the mirror. How long had he slept was the foremost thought in his mind, how long? The voice, as strong as ever, answered that thought. “Sixteen of the years of this world. Merlin. But the confining field is now shattered. You are free. And that one who set this upon you can do no more, for her powers were greatly drained by what she did. Now she moves in other ways for your defeat. It is time that you take up battle.”
He stared at his own reflection. Sixteen years! But he was perhaps only a year or two older than he had been when he entered that box! How could such a thing be?
“It preserves life, Merlin. However, think not of the past. You must be about your mission. And that is to see Arthur truly king of Britain.”
“Uther?” He made a question of that name.
“Uther dies. There are great lords about him—two have married daughters of his body. But he has had no sons, no sons save Arthur whose claim you must make. Though you have not done for Arthur what was planned, taught him as you were taught, yet he is of Sky Blood and so ours, not theirs. Put Arthur on the throne. Merlin, and Britain shall have a High King whose name will be spoken by men for more than a thousand years.”
Myrddin nodded slowly. Arthur and the sword, they must come together. It was this thought which had lain far at the back of his mind since the time Lugaid and he had found that wonderously wrought piece of Sky metal.
“Arthur and the sword, with you behind him. Merlin. This is the task for which you were conceived and no greater one can be faced by any man living. Arthur and the sword …”
10.
Merlin stood looking down at the great camp where chieftains and petty kings flew their battle standards over brightly walled tents. He was no longer Myrddin, he must remember that. Now he wondered if any of those gathered here would remember him. Sixteen years—Arthur was man-grown and he had had no part in his teaching. Wholly of this earth would be any wisdom the boy had. But there was nothing to be gained by looking over one’s shoulder with regret; facing forward with wariness and hope was all that was left.
His time-tattered clothing had been changed by chance for a long wool robe such as bards wore. And he had allowed his beard to grow, though the hair was sparse enough not to impress unduly. He had found the robe in the baggage of a dead man lying beneath the summer sun, his horse cropping nearby. Three Saxons enriched the ground with their blood, escorting the stranger as a warrior should go. Merlin did not know who that benefactor had been, or why he had been so ambushed. But he had given the unknown spirit thanks for the horse and the robe folded into a bundle, and he had buried him face to the east under a morning sun.
He had met scores of travelers approaching this temporary capital of Britain. For Uther was dead for a handful of days, but the High Council had not yet named his successor. Having learned plainly how affairs stood, Merlin set his own plans accordingly. Now he studied with narrowed eyes the arrangement of the camp. The banner of Lot who was wed to one of Uther’s daughters—that was very prominent below. And there was the Boar of Cornwall—now upheld by a son of Goloris who was not in the legal line of descent, but about whom Cornish men rallied. Merlin saw other devices which he did not know, but he could guess that every lord here had come with at least a faint hope of advancement.
He searched for the one important to him, the Soaring Hawk that was Ector’s badge. At last he sighted it, not among the inner circle of the great lords, of course, but in the company of King Urien of Rheged, that northern kingdom which had held stoutly through the years to prevent the Picts from ravaging far south of the old wall. Circling off the dusty road, Merlin made his way toward that tent.
Before it stood a young man trying on a jerkin on which rings of bronze were tightly sewn, one against another, His head was dark and for a moment Merlin was nearly startled into hailing him by name. Then the youth raised his head and looked full square at the newcomer and Merlin saw in him a much younger Ector.
“Lord Cei,” he named the boy by guess. “Is Lord Ector within?”
“My father has gone to the Council of the Dukes,” Cei returned, eyeing Merlin with what might even be disfavor.
“Have you a message for him?”
“We are kin, distantly,” Merlin answered. Cei had a certain arrogant cast of countenance which had never been his father’s. “Aye, I have a message for him.” He longed greatly to ask for Arthur, to know how the fostering had gone through his years of imprisonment. But now he knew better of Cei than to bring that query into the open.
The son of Ector approached stiffly to pay him the courtesy of the house, holding the reins while Merlin dismounted. Perhaps because of his plain robe, with the dust of the road thick upon him, he made little better than a beggar’s appearance. But he accepted the boy’s attentions as rightfully his due, as indeed they were.
Within the tent they passed out of the glare of the sun. Cei ordered a manservant to bring wine. He eyed the long package Merlin carried which was the safely trussed sword, but had better manners than to ask any questions as Merlin settled on a traveling stool with it across his knees close under his hand.
“How does your father and your lady mother?” Merlin had spilled a few drops of the wine to the earth underfoot as was the custom of the clans, and now sipped appreciatively at a better vintage than he had found in any inn.
He remembered wistfully now his summer spent in the safe valley, and how he had labored beside Ector to gather the earth’s bounty.
“My father is well. My lady mother—“ Cei hesitated a moment. “She died of the coughing sickness last winter, stranger.”