The Merlin Prophecy Book Three: Hunting with Gods (Volume 3) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

M. K. Hume is a retired academic. She received her MA and PhD in Arthurian literature and is the author of The Merlin Prophecy, a historical trilogy about the legend of Merlin. She lives in Australia with her husband and two sons.

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Merlin Prophecy Book Three: Hunting with Gods

Chapter I

AN UNPROMISING WELCOME

Men are in the shout (of war); the ford is frozen over;

Cold the wave, variegated the bosom of the sea;

The eternal God give us counsel!

—BLACK BOOK OF CARMARTHEN

The most eagerly anticipated return to places of one’s past is often a bitter disappointment, for nothing stays the same. And so it was with Dubris, when the travelers returned after their sea journey from Gesoriacum.

Spring had barely come when they set sail, so the healers wore thick cloaks to protect their chilled flesh after some years in warmer climes where even the coldest of winters lacked a true bite. But weather apart, Dubris had changed in the six years since their departure for the Middle Sea. The Saxons had arrived in a slow trickle of traders that had escalated into a flood of unchecked immigrants. Without having to strike a single blow, the Saxon stain had spread throughout the city and out into the surrounding countryside where it began to take root.

Myrddion had learned that the isles of Britain were not the entire world and that their towns were small, unimportant, and bucolic when compared with the great cities of Rome, Ravenna, or Constantinople. More tellingly, the healers had experienced the great ports of the Middle Sea, so that Dubris, which had seemed so large and bustling six years earlier, now seemed a minor center of trade. This impression was not improved by a layer of grime, woodsmoke, and neglect that reminded Myrddion of the port of Ostia. The warehouses and docks were in a similar state of dilapidation, and the faces of the laborers had the same pinched tenseness as those of the inhabitants of the Italic port.

But there the similarities ended. Fish in huge wicker baskets added their own distinctive aroma to small docks of splintering wood that stretched out into the deeper waters. Piles of goods were stacked ready to be carried to the warehouses, while huge bales were being loaded onto vessels of all shapes, sizes, and styles for the voyages to their ultimate destinations.

The faces were as mixed in race as those they had seen in Ostia, but without the exotic tints of Africa and the east. Myrddion even recognized some Franks on a large, disciplined vessel and reminded himself that these northerners had been crude barbarians fifty years earlier when they were scrabbling for land and power in Gaul.

“But the Franks are now civilized and so the world changes,” Cadoc snorted cynically at his master’s comment. “Eventually, the Saxons will be indistinguishable from us.”

The healers began the arduous task of disembarkation, moving their many barrels, bales, chests, and packages into a neat pile on the dock. While they worked, Myrddion wondered at the ease with which the northern tribes had passed down through the land of the Franks and then crossed the narrow channel to Britain.

“At least our homeland still smells of the Britain we knew.” Cadoc spoke for them all. “Woodsmoke and rain!”

“Aye. But this place makes me nervous. We’re attracting far too much attention from the dockworkers, so I’d like to be gone as soon as possible.” Myrddion worried at his thumbnail with his teeth as he examined the mélange of faces. “Work your magic, Cadoc. Find us two wagons and sufficient horses for our needs. And make it as fast as you can, because my shoulder blades are starting to itch.”

“Too many sodding great Saxons—and all eyeing our baggage,” Cadoc whispered in agreement. “I’ll be back as soon as I complete my task, master.”

He disappeared into the crowd on the edges of the wharf.

In the bustle of the dock, Myrddion felt intimidated by the hostile stares that were fixed on the small party. He knew they presented an exotic and alien picture in their outlander clothing, but this wharf was part of home so he felt dislocated and disappointed. Uncharacteristically, he loosened his sword in its sheath, conscious that many covert glances had assessed every weapon of these newcomers.

“You can’t leave your shit on my wharf, my fine young cockerel,” a raucous voice bellowed from behind him.

Myrddion spun swiftly and fell into a slight crouch, one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other gripping his tall staff. The women huddled together nervously, and Finn handed his infant son to his wife, Bridie, in order to reach his own weapon if the need should arise. White-haired Praxiteles, the Greek servant who had accompanied them from Constantinople, merely grinned widely and waited.

“Who are you to accost my party and tell me where or what I may put on a wharf used for public access?” Myrddion’s voice was as imperious and as careless as the tone that would have been adopted by Ardabur Aspar, his father, at the eastern emperor’s court. Sometimes arrogance had its usefulness.

The man who confronted the small party looked, superficially, like any wharf rat grown powerful because of his added bulk and height. A large man, he was very wide in girth, almost fat, which was an unusual feature in a northerner. But, unlike Hengist and Horsa, whom Myrddion had admired, this man was filthy. His nails were black crescents on greasy, unwashed paws, and it was impossible to determine the color of his hair because it was so heavily thickened by bear grease and grime. His eyes were a muddy green, and his face was very brown and weathered, with a ruddy hue under a generous coating of dirt.

When he spoke, he revealed yellowed fangs and several missing teeth, especially in the front of his mouth. Myrddion noted the ridged scar tissue on the man’s knuckles and swiftly concluded that this thug loved to fight.

“I’m Hrothnar of Dubris, master of the docks, and you owe me a gold coin for landing.” The large man grinned as a small group of shifty dockworkers moved into position behind him. “Pay up, my fine cockerel, and I’ll guarantee your women will go untouched.”

Myrddion sneered back at the hulking brute with a contemptuous twitch of his lips. “Is this the way that Dubris greets travelers, Hrothnar?” He smiled as he waited for the big man to make an aggressive movement against them. “What law permits you to levy these ridiculous charges?”

“It’s not a charge—it’s a donation to the poor workers of the docks. And it’s your choice if you pay or not, but three men won’t stop us from taking what is ours to confiscate. What have you got that’s so precious, I wonder.”

Myrddion continued to smile reasonably, but he felt his slow anger eating away at his common sense, and he bit his lip to mitigate his rising fury.

“Beware, Hrothnar of Dubris, for I have friends in high places.”

“You? You’re a damned Celt! No matter how fine your clothes might be, you’re nothing but a stinking, Rome-loving shit eater like the rest of your cowardly tribe. What are you going to do that would stop us taking what we want from those packs of yours?”

“Little Willa began to cry at the raised voices, so Brangaine rummaged in a nearby pack and produced a small cake, drenched and sticky with honey. The lout barely spared the widow a glance, which was foolish, for Praxiteles saw her palm one of her master’s scalpels in her right hand.
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