It was also the dominion of Rugen the Leper King, Shadow Lord of the Damned. But gaining audience with such deadly company was a delicate dance, even for Merlin the Magician.
A boy with half an ear dropped a hunk of maslin on the table along with a jug of wine and a cup. Merlin flipped the boy a silver piece, and he snatched it like a baby shark. Merlin poured himself a full cup. It might be a long evening. He took a long swallow, set down the cup, and froze.
He turned slowly to a veiled woman, dressed all in black, seated in the chair next to him. “Gods, why must you sneak up on me like that?”
“I am the Widow” was her reply.
“Were you followed?”
She tilted her head, curious.
“Foolish question,” Merlin said.
“You told us the Sword of Power was destroyed.”
His burned skin tingled. “That was my belief. But the omens tell a different story.”
“The Shadow Lords consider this a final betrayal. You’ve lost what little trust remained between us.”
“Be that as it may, the sword has been found. And soon the War of the Sword will be rejoined. ‘Whosoever wields the Sword of Power shall be the one true king.’ Those who believe the prophecy will draw their battle lines. The Ice King’s fleets will gather in the north, the Red Paladins to the south, Shadow Lords to the east, and soon King Uther will send his armies. Now shall we spend our energies on internecine struggles or on the true threat at hand?”
“What’re you eating? Tables are for supper only.” The half-eared boy had returned.
“How is the rabbit?” Merlin asked, hoping it was actually rabbit.
“Sublime,” the boy answered with admirable sarcasm.
“I’ll have it. And another cup for my companion,” Merlin said, gesturing to the Widow.
“What companion?” The boy looked at Merlin sideways.
“You’re more distracted than usual,” the Widow observed.
“Never mind,” he said to the boy, forgetting that to the boy’s eyes the seat beside him was still empty. Merlin turned back to the Widow. “I called you here as a friend, not as an emissary for the Lords.”
“I tell you this as a friend. If they cast you out, it does not end there. You know too much and have too many enemies. They will hunt you down. And I fear who may rise in your absence.”
“Your concern warms my heart.”
“This business with the sword has also given new life to the rumors. They say either you are a liar or you truly have lost your magic. Well.” The Widow folded her pale hands on the table. “Have you?”
I am playing with fire, Merlin mused. He chose discretion. “Are we getting personal now? Shall I ask about your dear husband?”
The Widow tensed expectantly. “Have you heard something? Has someone seen his ship?”
Stop playing games, Merlin. The Widow was forever waiting for her husband to return from sea. Her sorrow was so powerful it had kept her alive far longer than any human lifespan and had bestowed upon her the gift to bridge worlds and earn her place as the Shadow Lord of the Dying. The final three lines of Feadun the Bard’s famous “Candletree’s Lament” said it best. Candletree breathes his final breath as his brave squire hovers over him:
What say you, dear Candletree?
“A gray veil rises,” he whispered.
“For it is the Widow’s face I see.”
Merlin saw no need to continue to antagonize one of Death’s sisters. “I have heard no news. I can only wish for his safe return.”
The Widow adjusted her veil. Smoothed her lace sleeves.
He continued. “Your vision, what does it show you regarding the sword? Where will it land?”
The Widow was quiet as she peered into the future. “The sword is finding its way to you, Merlin, but which end—the point or the pommel—is another question.”
“Then I must be ready for either.”
“And?”
“The sword was forged in the Fey Fires, and to the Fey Fires it shall return. I shall melt it back to its origins.”
“You intend to destroy it? And what of the prophecy?”
“They were the hopeful words of a gentler time. I am wiser now. There is no one true king. The sword is cursed and will corrupt all who wield it.”
“As always, you choose the most difficult path.”
“Few on earth know the sword the way I know it. This is the only way.”
“But the forges of the Fey burned out a thousand years ago.”
“I am aware. Fey Fire is now a rare, coveted treasure, possessed by only the most discriminating collectors.”
“Oh dear, tell me you’re not planning to steal from him?”
“I am.”
“Without your magic?”
“Rumors. Either way, I still have my wits. And my charm.”
“I fear you overestimate both.”
“Will you help me? Old friend?”
The Widow sighed. “I presume this is why you asked me to bring the necklace?” She slid something to Merlin beneath a black silk.
Merlin took it and hid it quickly inside his robes. “I hate to ask you to part with it.”
“I have no need for jewelry.” The Widow sighed. “Is that all?”
“I would also like to borrow your horse.”
The tavern doors of the Blind Juggler flew open, followed by Merlin. He tried to keep his footing, but the brawny innkeeper had him by the belt and threw him—sprawling—into a pile of manure. The moon was high and bright.
“I should piss on you, you sodding dog!” The innkeeper gave Merlin an extra boot to the chest as the mage tried to climb to his knees. Then he turned on his heel and stormed back into the tavern.
“The only reason I relieved myself on your floor is because that sour wine you serve is so bloody watered you have to drink a gallon of it to acquire an adequate drunk!” Merlin threw a ball of manure at the door as it slammed shut. “And, by the way, your ‘Mrs.’ Innkeeper gets quite over-friendly with the clientele!”
Merlin staggered to his feet, muttering. He weaved along the twisting main road of Harrow’s Pond, coins jingling in his purse, half singing and half arguing to unseen companions. He was only a few hundred feet from the Juggler when the shadows began to move along the walls after him.
Merlin took a swig from his wineskin, then cocked an eyebrow as four shambling figures, lepers judging by their boiling, peeling hands and black rags, approached him on all sides. Merlin stood still as the circle closed in around him. A dozen more appeared like wraiths, as though rising from the cracks in the street, while others clawed out of basements and ditches.
Once Merlin was thoroughly surrounded, he threw his wineskin defiantly on the ground and growled, “You know who I am. Now take me to your king.”
At this, the mob threw itself upon him and Merlin succumbed to their reaching, scratching hands. Within moments he had vanished inside the ragged swarm. It moved like a single organism, carrying Merlin away into secret tunnels beneath Harrow’s Pond, into ancient and abandoned Roman sewers, and into an infernal darkness.
EIGHTEEN
A FEATHERED ARROW WHISTLED THROUGH the cold forest and struck a rabbit in the haunches, spinning it like a top. A young Faun boy shouldered his bow and hurried to retrieve the animal. His footsteps made no sound on the brittle leaves.