He was no longer tired. Power was growing steadily in him, filling his body, his mind. He must hold it so contained until the moment came to release it to do his will. Time for darkness—time for light—but he did not mark the hours. Nor was he any longer cold. Power furnished heat in his body so that he threw off his hooded cloak in spite of the frost-breathing wind.
Chancing to glance down at his two hands resting on his knees, he was not surprised to see that his flesh was giving off a kind of glow. Why shouldn’t it? He was afire with force, and now he had only to contain it until the moment to come. His lips moved but not even a whisper emerged from between them, only in his mind did the archaic words echo in the proper patterns.
Merlin rose when the sky grayed. Though he had been sitting through the night his limbs were in no way stiffened. He felt instead like a runner advancing to the starting post, eager to be gone. His left arm cradled the beacon against him. His right hand held the belt knife, drawn and ready.
Long strides brought him to the King Stone and he stood behind that block ready to face the rising sun. He placed the beacon on the ground between his feet. And now he stretched out his hand, began to bring the knife blade ringingly down on the stone, while from him poured all those words he had gathered out of memory, arranged in the right pattern, ready for this great moment in his life.
Beat—beat—ever increasing in tempo. The sky showed the forebanners of the rising sun. His voice sing-songed an invocation older perhaps than even the stones about him. Beat—chant—beat—
The stone—it was coming alive, reluctantly, heavily, in grudging answer. But it was coming! The beat had increased to a flashing of metal; sparks flew from that meeting of rock and iron. Merlin’s voice rose as he called on the force which was imprisoned in the stone to answer to his will.
The block stirred, not as quickly as it had under the summons of the sword, but it was answering! His will harnessed the force—he raised the knife blade—one end of the stone followed.
His tunic clung damply to his body. In spite of the cold he was feverish with heat, sweat pouring from him. Up and up. Until that block stood on end. Then he said the single word he had never dared use before, one of the Great Bindings of Power. The stone remained on end, the place where it had lain was bare.
Merlin dropped to his knees. He began to dig with the knife point in the uncovered oblong of earth, working as fast as he could, for he had no idea how long that Word would hold an inanimate object. Dig, scrape loose the soil, dig again, deeper, deeper, faster—
At last he had the pit ready and he fitted the beacon to it, standing erect, its lighter end pointing to the sky.
Now he worked even faster, pounding back most of the earth he had excavated, hammering the soil down with both palm of hand and butt of knife. Finally he threw aside the knife and, with his earth-stained, broken-nailed hands, he touched the top of the cylinder at a certain place, turned it so that the cover itself slid around to the left under the pressure of his fingers.
Trembling from near exhaustion. Merlin threw himself back from the bed of the stone. He got to his knees, looking up at the towering block. In his mind he released the Word. The stone fell with a crushing force. He only hoped that his pit for the beacon had been deep enough to preserve it. But now he was so spent that he could only He, one hand against the King Stone, only half conscious that he had finished his task.
It was the touch of the stone which aroused him at last. He had always been able to feel the force imprisoned in this mighty block, but this steady throb was new. Merlin gave a cry of relief and joy as understanding reached him. He had succeeded. The stone itself was charged by the beacon—he had indeed lighted the way. But when would the ships come? How far, how many, when?
He was too weak to rise to his feet at once, but sat there, his head drooping on his breast, his hand resting on the rock, aware most of aB of that steady beat.
What roused him this time was an alert of danger, as if some warning or foul stench had carried down the wind. He groped in the withered grass for his knife, his only weapon. Now he heard the thud of hooves, a shout which could only have come from a human throat
Saxons? Outlaws? He was sure only by that warning of his heightened senses that those who came were enemies. So he did not rise to his feet, rather crept on his hands and knees into the shadow of a standing stone. From there he could see the party milling about They were not advancing directly toward his insecure hiding place, he thought they were reluctant to enter the enclosure of the Place of the Sun.
One of them came riding swiftly from the direction of Lugaid’s hut, urging Merlin’s horse before him. He could hear their excited voices but not make out the words. He was near enough, however, to see that the two who appeared to command the party wore the robes of the priests from overseas, while their followers were plainly liege men to some tribal lord.
The priests were urging the warriors on. But in spite of commands impatiently delivered, as far as Merlin could read their gestures, the tribesmen were not about to enter me ancient sacred place, which was a clue to their mission. For the oldest law to which all the tribes bowed was that no blood could be spilled within, no fugitive pursued into one of the Places of Power.
He was sure that he was their quarry but he could not guess the reason for their hunt. Arthur gave room at his court to the believers in the Christ and many of his people were worshipers, but he also followed the liberal policy established by Ambrosius, asking no man what god he paid homage to when he came armed and ready to join in the harrying of the invaders. There were still some of the old Roman breed who bowed knee to the Bull-Slayer Mithras, and others who served older gods of Britain.
Who had granted these hunters permission to come after him? Merlin would swear that it was not the doing of Arthur. Though the King had never been kin-close as Merlin had once hoped, he respected and sometimes listened to the man who had put the sword of Britain into his hand. No, Arthur would not turn against him. But someone had sent these hunters, and his guess fastened on Modred. Had the “nephew” come out of nowhere gained this much ascendancy at Camelot?
The priests were still urging on their followers, but the warriors drew back. So now the gray robes themselves came forward alone. One held aloft the symbol of his god, a cross of wood, and they were both chanting. Merlin saw that the sturdier of the two had drawn a sword, though that was foreign to the very teachings he was supposed to uphold: a man who was a priest was not a warrior.
Hiding like a hunted animal revolted Merlin so he now rose to his feet on the far side of the stone behind which he had taken refuge. When he stepped into sight he was as erect as a warrior awaiting an enemy’s charge.
Now that they were closer Merlin could see their features and he recognized one. He was the priest to whom Modred had been speaking in the feasting hall at Camelot So his suspicion was confirmed. This meeting was of Modred’s doing.
“Whom do you search for, men of a god’s service?” Merlin came into full view.
The one who held the cross chanted, in the tongue of Romans, an invocation against the forces of Darkness. Now he stuttered over a word, but continued his chant valiantly. His companion did not quite raise his sword. Though his eyes were those of a fanatic, he seemed not yet ready to ride down an unarmed man.
“Demon spawn!” he spat, his voice rising above the chant.
Merlin shook his head. “You stand now,” he said quietly, “in a place which has known many gods. Most are now long forgotten, because those who called upon their names in times of peril are also gone. As long as men realize that there is some greater Power outside themselves, a force which will aid them to better lives, to good will, and to peace in time, so there will be gods. What matter if Some men call that Power which is the greater Mithras or Christus or Lugh? The Power is the same. Only men differ, being mortal, while the Power was, is and will be— beyond even the death of this earth on which we now stand.”