Chapter 14

Borlyn never believed half the things that came out of his father's mouth. The man was crazy and a genius; the likes that Albion had never seen before, or ever would again. The particular expression that his father touted was that is better to lucky than good.

Borlyn never bought it. Why should he? His father was the most talented silversmith ever born. Words alone couldn't do his work justice. He created things from gold, silver or even pewter that were stunning works of art. Queens and princesses nearly swooned while they looked at them. Flowers in gold thread so lifelike, a woman swore once it smelled of roses. Borlyn thought she was probably drank more ale than water, so he wrote that one off. But the fact remained, Borlyn's father defined the word good. Luck had nothing to do with it.

Borlyn could still hear his voice in his head, "Better to be lucky than good, my boy, don't forget it."

Borlyn figured it was his father's way of reassuring him. Borlyn wasn't half the silversmith his father had been. However, being half as good as his father made him better than anyone else in the kingdom. He had always had work and admirers.

His father's advice hit home one dank morning when he woke up later than he should have. Borlyn had finished a flask of wine the night before. It was the only thing that seemed to hold back the chill of the night. Consequentially, he fell into a deep sleep woke up almost at midday, with a pounding headache.

Initially he cursed his bad luck. He had a winter home on his grandfather's estate just south of Camelot's main castle. Waking up late, he would have a hard time making even to the citadel before dark, much less his home. He didn't want to spend another night out in the open in the dirty weather.

Borlyn stumbled up, hastily packed up, and then threw everything back onto his old nag of a horse. The thing was getting on in years. Borlyn would probably need a new one before the spring. He wondered briefly if his grandfather would grant him another one or if he'd have to buy one of his own.

As he settled on the horse's back, he realized that there was a fire nearby. Not surprising given the time of year and the weather. But still, there weren't many travelers on the roads so close to winter and there had been talk of raiders around. Borlyn took to the road and rode carefully. The smoke thickened as he rode until he came into a clearing.

His jaw dropped.

What had obviously been an encampment of soldiers was being consumed by a huge fire. Horses were still tied to trees, swords lay scattered about like twigs, shields were dropped randomly like rocks. There were only a dozen or so men there and they were just hastily picking up supplies and running for the trees on the North side of the field. There were perhaps a half a dozen dead bodies strewn about the field and other lumps that might have been burned people. Borlyn really didn't want to think about it.

Borlyn watched as the remaining men fled, never looking back. Up above him he could see something flying away and it was too large to be a bird.

Luck indeed, Borlyn thought at that moment. Had he woken up earlier, he would either have been killed by the men here – they were not men of Camelot, he was sure of that – or he would have stumbled into the attack that routed them.

The clearing was large, Borlyn decided not to push his luck. He directed his nag ride through the trees on the South side of the clearing, to keep him out of view of anyone that might return. It took him three times as long, but he made it to the other side without trouble.

He rode maybe another fifteen minutes before he saw something ahead. It looked like a person half on the road, half in the bush along the side of the road. With the scene he had just passed it would be likely that there would be causalities.

Borlyn rode up. If it was one of those foreigners, he would just leave the man to die. But when he got there, it was obvious it wasn't a foreigner. Borlyn climbed off his horse and looked at the figure on the ground.

He wasn't much more than a kid, maybe in his late teens, early twenties at most. He was lying face down in the earth on the side of the road. Borlyn noticed the young man wore a cloak of a noble house, but not one that he recognized. Being a silversmith, he next noticed the bracelet on his wrist.

Borlyn heart stopped. The bracelet was made by his father. Borlyn had been young at the time, maybe only six, but he remembered that bracelet. The dragon pattern was truly beautiful and the stone, Borlyn knew now that it was obsidian and it had come from a mountain that spit fire. His father told him it was for a Dragon Lord, someone who could command a dragon to do his bidding. Borlyn spent the next few months pretending to be a Dragon Lord.

Here it was; the bracelet again. Borlyn looked back toward the clearing and then back at the man by his feet, and then remembered the thing flying away. It must have been a dragon, and the carnage in the clearing was its doing. This man was a Dragon Lord and he had called a dragon to defeat the men lying in the clearing.

Borlyn rolled the young man over. His face was smudged with dirt and there were several bruises on his cheek. His skin, were it showed, was waxy and pale. Other than the bruises on his face, he didn't seem to have any injures.

Borlyn gave him a slight shake on his shoulders and said, "My Lord, wake up."

The man in front of him opened his eyes blearily. He looked at Borlyn for a moment and then his eyes shut again.

Borlyn tried again, "My Lord, please. You need to wake up."

"I'm awake," the young man said, his eyes still closed.

"My Lord, what is your name?"

"Merlin."

"Are you injured Lord Merlin?"

The boy opened his eyes and stared at Borlyn for the first time. "My hand."

"Can you sit up?"

Merlin nodded and with Borlyn help, Merlin got into a sitting position. Borlyn took both of Merlin's hands into his own. The left one was fine. The right one was clearly broken at the wrist and it was burned besides.

"Ouch," Borlyn said, looking at it, feeling his own hand tingle. "How did you injure it, my Lord."

"I held off the Saxons back in the clearing."

"I saw that," Borlyn said. "In fact, I owe you my thanks. Had you not burned the whole thing to the ground, I probably would have been killed when I traveled through."

"Are they gone?"

"I believe so. I saw a few stragglers heading North when I arrived."

Merlin slumped forward. "Good, they're safe."

"Who my lord?"

"My mother, my aunt, and my cousins. I held them off so they could get away."

"You did more than that sir. You routed them. My lord, we need to remove your ring, before your finger swells anymore."

Merlin nodded, and Borlyn pulled the ring carefully off. He flipped it over a few times. It was also done by his father. Borlyn would have known it anywhere. He helped Merlin put in on his left hand. Borlyn ripped off a part of Merlin's shirt to make a bandage for the boy's hand. He wrapped the burn as best as he could, and then using a length of rope, and a few twigs, he immobilized the wrist. Then he helped him up off the road.

Merlin started to wobble precariously. Borlyn sat him back down next to a tree.

"Do you have any more injuries my lord?"

Merlin shook his head.

"Then what is wrong?"

Merlin didn't answer. He leaned his head back on the tree and his eyes lolled shut again.

Borlyn stared at him concerned. Had he hit his head? Borlyn knelt down next to him and thought he'd check his head for knocks. He put his hand on Merlin's face and realized the problem.

A fever, terribly high, burned. Borlyn sighed, the man was in no fit state to care for himself. He would probably die within the next few hours. Whether this fever stemmed from the injuries he had sustained or some other malady, he didn't know. What he did know was that this man certainly wouldn't survive out in the open. He probably wouldn't survive even if he was treated in Camelot.

Borlyn sighed in frustration. The man would be a pain to move. There would be no way they could make it to Camelot by sunset with him in this condition. It would delay his return to his home by at least two days. He thought of his comfortable bed and a raging fire. He could just take the ring and bracelet right now, ride for Camelot, resell them, sleep at an inn for the night and be home the next day.

Borlyn sighed. No he couldn't do that. This man saved his life. He couldn't just leave him here. Borlyn racked his brain. Then it came to him. There was a little tavern next to the river probably five or so miles away. It was secluded, not likely that the raiders would have found it. If he could get Lord Merlin on his horse, they might make it there in a few hours. They could stay there for the night, and if Merlin lived to the next morning, Borlyn could figure out his next move from there. If not, there would be no reason that Borlyn couldn't take his jewelry as payment for the help he had given him. Dead men need no adornment, his father used to say.

His mind set on the idea, Borlyn helped the young man into a standing position. Then he laid him into the saddle and secured him so he wouldn't fall off. He took the reins to lead the horse and started the long walk.