Merlin's Gold

Merlin's Gold - Chapter 22 - Merlin's Sacrifice

Chapter 22 - Merlin's Sacrifice

The Saxons walked towards them, favouring the direct approach, and relying on sheer volume of numbers to overwhelm their enemy.

Arthur stood on top of the wooden palisade, his white armour glowing in the early morning sun, acting as a beacon of hope to his men, and a focal point of animosity for the approaching Saxons.

"What the hell is the mad old fool doing now?" Mark muttered.

"I suspect he'll think of something useful," said Arthur. "You keep an eye on the Saxons: Merlin has been planning a few surprises."

"I'd put nothing past that old devil, "said Mark. "I'm just glad he's on our side."

"Aren't we all," said Arthur. "Now, watch and learn, old boy, I suspect Merlin is about to give us all a lesson in the psychology of war."

Merlin had stopped a few hundred yards in front of the defending forces. The Saxons were still some way off, but approaching steadily. As Arthur's forces watched, the old man started to caper madly, cavorting and shouting odd chants in a strange language. The wind was blowing from behind the defenders and so carried his words towards the attackers who stalled in their approach, reluctant to approach the magician who stood before them. Many cried out to their gods or made signs of protection, some being goaded onwards by the roaring orders of Hengist and Oeric, the shrill cry of Morgause screaming counter chants and insults.

As they watched, Merlin pulled a black cockerel from inside his robes and slashed through its throat with a golden sickle. The glint of gold and sudden spurt of blood was easily seen in the clear early light, and Merlin stood, his hands held aloft as blood flowed along his outstretched arms. He lowered his gory trophy to his lips, drinking from the blood, and threw the carcass to the floor as blood dribbled over his chin. He grinned bloodily at them and undid the ties to his robe, letting the long flowing cloth drop to the ground. Blue whorls and lines of tattoos covered his near-naked form as he danced gleefully around in the dry dusty grass in just a loincloth, spitting out blood from the cockerel to smear it over his pasty white and blue tattooed skin. The defenders watched, dismayed and frightened as the magician spat curses and epithets at them, the entire Saxon force now standing stock still as they watched the display of insanity unfolding in front of them.

Merlin screeched, an unholy, throat-ripping sound that grated its way down the spines of all who watched, raising goosebumps and neck hairs even among the defending allies. He spread his arms once again to the heavens as if beseeching any gods watching over them, shrieked, and collapsed next to his discarded robe, disappearing without a trace into the long dry grass.

"Grayle, are you ready?" Mark spoke quietly into the silence pervading the morning air.

His grandson peered over the wooden edge of the low tower to his right and waved a hand at him in acknowledgment.

"Morholt?" he looked left to the other low tower and received another wave.

"Ballistae fire on my mark please."

There was an answering screech from the throat of Morgause, and the Saxons were bullied back into action.

As the front rank of Saxons walked past a hawthorn bush Mark had memorised as a marker, he shouted his first command "loose", and the four ballistae mounted on the towers released the long steel-tipped bolts. As they did, Merlin rose from the long grass like a phoenix from the flames, his hands pointed dramatically at the approaching men.

A shudder hit the front ranks of the Saxon war party as four men were punched off their feet, the bolts passing through them to lodge in the bodies of men immediately behind them.