Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

"Benedict, Falvo," I greeted them, nodding to each in turn. "Your security is weak. Your guards are useless. None of them saw me walk in here. No one challenged me and I made no attempt to hide. Is Ambrose here?"

Benedict answered me. "No, Ambrose rode off late this afternoon with Derek and a hundred Scouts. We fought a battle here, today."

"And now your guards have earned the right to sleep on duty? I know you fought today. I watched it from the mountain top to the north. But you fought inconclusively. Their shield walls thwarted you. They gulled you into following' them on to their chosen ground, and then they outfought you with Roman tactics. You achieved nothing. Will you' offer me a cup of wine?"

There was an awkward silence as they absorbed my rebuke, but then Falvo said, "No, but we have mead, will ; that suffice?" I nodded. Falvo looked unhappy, but he said nothing more and moved at once to pour me a cup of mead.:

I knew I had been harsh, and that after a separation of ! long months he might perhaps have expected me to be more friendly, but everything I had said was true. The Danes had held the higher ground that day, and they had used the tortoise formations of the ancient legions to frustrate our cavalry, holding their big, round shields in overlapping rows that formed a solid front against our horsemen, who were thus forced to charge uphill to reach them and might as well have been attacking the towering sides of floating ships. The battle had been broken off after a useless spell of wasted hours, without victory going to either side. I had watched it from afar, discovering it by merest chance, and had been angered by the confusion I had witnessed, as much as by the fact that there was nothing I could do to influence any of it.

Falvo offered me my mead and I took it from him with a nod of thanks and drank the half of it, feeling the fiery, honey sweet bite of it exploding in my mouth, throat and chest.

"My thanks, Falvo. When is Ambrose due back? Or do you, too, call him Merlyn nowadays? Everyone else does, it appears. " I knew I was being unpleasant, but it was as though someone else had control of my tongue.

Falvo gazed at me, opening his mouth as though to answer me, then turned to Benedict, who had been sitting watching me with a peculiar expression on his face. Benedict turned his head slightly to catch Falvo's eye, then shrugged.

"What is it? Why do you look at me like that, Falvo?"

Benedict grunted. "He thought you dead. We all did. "

"Well, it's not so, as you can see. Why did you think that?"

Falvo spoke up. "Word reached us from the south that your body had been found burned and mutilated. "

I shook my head. "That sounds to me like someone's wishful prayer. It's author will be disappointed. "

Benedict evidently found no humour in my comment. "Aye, well, that was months ago, and no one has seen or heard from you since then. We have mourned you. "

"Arid Ambrose has taken my name. Why so? The word is everywhere that Merlyn of Camulod leads this army. "

Again they exchanged glances, and this time it was Falvo who shrugged his shoulders. "It was his wish and his decision. He says that Merlyn is a name to conjure fear. Merlyn is known, and Merlyn has the respect of Cambrian warriors, so Ambrose fought and campaigned as Merlyn right from the start of this campaign. No one remarked the difference. Then, when the word arrived that you were dead, he swore that while he lived, you would never die." He paused, and stuck out his jaw. "Your brother thinks highly of you," he said then, his tone implying that not all men did.

I heaved a short, sharp sigh and sat down in one of the chairs before his desk. "Aye, well, I dropped from people's sight, but not from life. I have been occupied as much as any of you, here in Cambria. Have you heard tell of Merlyn's Vengeance?"

Benedict's head jerked up. "Aye, everyone has, though we know not what we should make of it. We hear tales of rampant death and sorcery, of slaughter without bloodshed and of nightly terrors without end. It seems the Danes, and all their other allies; now live in fear of nightfall and the creatures that prowl there, among the shadows."

"That's true, and so they should. They live in terror of the night, and I have worked to make it so."

"You have worked to make it so?" Falvo's eyes showed a spark of curiosity. "Are you responsible for all of this, this sorcery?"

"Aye, and for the fear of it. I am. I've been moving openly among them for almost three months now, spreading terror by night."

He hesitated. "Why are you dressed like... that?" He nodded at my clothing.

"Because it helps conceal me, when I move through the dark. In daylight, I wear different clothing."

Benedict's voice was calm. "What can you tell us of this star thing, then? Is that your doing?"

"Aye. They call it the star of Merlyn's Vengeance. I work among them, posing as an idiot and doing menial tasks. I carry water to the cooks and do those things that warriors will not stoop to do, yet cannot live without. And in doing them I poison drinking water, and I poison food, and often wipe out whole encampments. Each time I do that, and can arrange my message without fear of interruption, I leave a grouping of eight corpses round a fire, their heads in the ashes so that they burn, their feet all pointing outwards to form an eight pointed star.

"At other times, I murder guards, or drunken men I meet among the woods at night. Those, though, I kill with poisoned thorns, leaving the unmarked corpses to be found by whomsoever might next chance that way. My purpose is, and has been, to spread terror. And to that end I have sometimes appeared in bursts of smoke and fire, frightening drunken men "who have already frightened themselves by talking of my deeds. Then, at those times, I tell them who I am, that I am Death, bearer of Merlyn's Vengeance."

Benedict laughed aloud, but the sound was strained and nervous. "By the Christ, Merlyn, you almost had me believing you, there..."

"Wait you."

I rose and walked away into the shadows of a dark corner, passing a small fire that burned in an iron basket upon the bare earth as I went. There, standing with my back to them, I reached into my robes and withdrew the warlock's mask. I placed it over my face, throwing the tangled locks of its wig over my head, and pulled my cowled hood up and forward to throw my face into shadow. That done, I reached again into my clothes to find a pinch of fire powder, then turned around and walked towards the fire, head down. I threw the powder in the fire. When the blinding flash of flame and sparks had died and all the space within the tent was. filled with roiling smoke, I stepped forward again and let them see my face.

Both men were rigid, straining away from me, petrified with shock and gazing at me in utter horror, seeing only the hideous visage of the mask. I stood silent for a moment, then intoned "I am Death", bearer of Merlyn's Vengeance!" in sepulchral tones. Finally I threw back my hood, pulled off the mask and opened the tent flaps to their widest, allowing the acrid, sulphurous smoke to dissipate. Neither man' had moved when I returned and their eyes were still staring in shock.

"Of course," I said, "you know me well, both of you, so you would not be fooled. But these Danes are pagans, terrified of insubstantial things and beings they cannot hew with axes. They believe in demons and in creatures that dwell in awful darkness. And so I feed their fears and sap their confidence in their invincibility. It is mummery, but it is effective."

Benedict appeared to have relaxed slightly, but when he spoke his voice was tight. "Aye," he muttered. "Mummery, perhaps, but it reeks of sorcery, and murder, too. What was that... that flash and all that smoke?"

"It was produced by throwing a certain powder upon a flame. No more than that." :