The smell of the mutton stew was tantalizing, as Eryla brought the pot to the table. Maelmadog took in the aroma appreciatively, and gave his wife a smile as she ladled stew into his bowl.
"Ah! Thank you my dear. Not even the king's fanciest cooks can rival your stew, try as they might."
She knew it was a lie, but returned his smile, nonetheless. "I'm surprised you ever eat here, what with what's available at the king's table." She settled into her chair with her own bowl as Maelmadog dug into his. She had a good-natured face, framed by bright red hair going gray. She was not a small woman, and was sturdily built—but was not nearly as large, nor as sturdy, as Maelmadog. He had been a famous wrestler in his youth before he had caught the eye of King Mabsant, Morgant's father. It was not long until he led the palace guard, and with his natural skills in planning and warfare, had risen quickly through the ranks, until Morgant finally promoted him to War Leader.
"You do need to trim your mustache again, or you'll be having the same stew again later…unless you wash up after dinner."
Maelmadog laughed as he continued to ply his spoon. Although he kept his beard shaved, his huge brown mustache was a matter of pride, and would remain in all its glory, no matter how long he re-lived the stew. "Where are the children this evening? I was hoping to see them tonight…I'll be heading out in the morning with the king for a few days. He has a mind to visit the Marshes of Morva, for some reason or another. He first mentioned it after Prince Gwydion left this past winter…and he's decided now is the time."
Eryla started and almost dropped her spoon. "The Marshes of Morva…and you're just now telling me? Whatever has gotten into him? I've heard nothing but blood-curdling stories about that place, ever since I was a child." Although it was normal for Maelmadog to accompany Morgant on his travels, it was usually to a neighboring cantrev for trade discussions, or Caer Dathyl to meet with the king or Prince Gwydion. Never to such a ghastly place as the Marshes.
Maelmadog's large face creased into a worried frown. "He asked me not to mention it, not even to you…and I have no idea. I'll admit, I would have preferred it if he had announced we were headed to the beaches of Mona, or back to Cantrev Caddifor for another wrestling match with King Smoit…I'm still up on him two to one, and he's dying to get even. But no, it's the Marshes—and what's more, it looks like it will be just the two of us this time."
"My word! You usually have a war band with you. Why would he want to go anywhere without his usual protection? Especially to the Marshes of Morva!"
"Again, he wants to keep it quiet. He would have my head if he knew I had even mentioned it; so no telling the children, your mother, or anyone else. Speaking of the children, I don't think you mentioned where they are."
"Oh, they will be along any time, after their chores are done and the blacksmith is done for the day—but never mind that now. I just don't understand it." Eryla stood up restlessly and took her bowl back to the larder. "I've told you before, there is something about Morgant that makes me nervous. He's not like his father—King Mabsant was not the friendliest man most of the time, but he could be warm on occasion. Morgant is always silky smooth, and oh so polite…but ever so cold, and with such a distant look in those falcon eyes. You know when you see that look—he isn't thinking of us, or his kingdom…or anyone but himself."
Maelmadog sighed as he continued to eat his stew. "That's not the worst of it. Remember back in the winter, when Prince Gwydion was here. You know we pulled off our warriors supporting him, because we got word there was an impending attack on Caer Cynfael from a force from Annuvin—which never happened. I've been trying to quietly gather more information, because it doesn't seem to be a subject the king wants to discuss; every time I bring it up, he gives me that distant look and changes the subject. I've learned enough not to bring it up again. It's important to me though, to know what happened. We left the High Prince of the land unguarded, and he was nearly killed for Belin's sake! I would never have forgiven myself, and thank goodness we got back there in time. Think of the unrest it would have caused with the High King, and all of Prydain for that matter. Anyway, I went back to every scout involved in that report, and in the end, the trail went up in smoke. The first scout in the line swears he heard it from villagers near the Red Fallows, who described the force in what seems like authentic detail…but when I went there, no one remembers anything about it, or ever saw anything remotely resembling a company of warriors from Annuvin."
Eryla had been smoothing her hair as she listened, but dropped her comb and spread her fingers on the table. "Oh my. Everyone in the cantrev has heard of that attack… it's just taken as a fact that it almost happened, and was called off at the last moment for some reason. What do you think really happened?"
Maelmadog sighed again, and pushed his empty bowl away. "I don't know. It's strange…I know how much Morgant cares for Gwydion… It sounds odd, but if he cares for anyone, it's him. You know how he has saved him in the past, and you should have seen him in that battle in the hills! He took out those two riders attacking the prince as pretty as you please, as cool as the falling snow."
Maelmadog looked his wife in the eyes. "Lately though—well yes, he's always been a distant man, and a man who keeps his own council—but now, even for him, something has changed. He's worked something out in his mind, he has some sort of plan…but whatever it is, only he knows.
"Again, not a word of this to the children, or anyone! Likely it's just my own mind, thinking the worst, as usual. We'll be there and back again before you know it."
Soon after, their three children arrived from their chores—and in the case of their oldest son, whose large knotted arms were beginning to resemble his father's, his blacksmithing apprenticeship. Their home was a large and comfortable cottage, in the heart of the village outside the fortress. Given the War Leader's station, they easily could have taken a residence within the fortress itself, but Maelmadog preferred raising his family in his own place, without having every coming and going questioned by his own guards.
When the children arrived, they stopped talk of serious things, and chatted and laughed on into the evening. Maelmadog went to bed early, planning to rise before the dawn to meet the king.
The spring sun was warm, as the two men rode side by side. They had skirted Annuvin to the east—the western path was shorter, but the coastline near the dark kingdom was never safe, and Arawn held too much influence there. It was far too easy to become waylaid or trapped on that road. The southern entrance to Annuvin was now well behind them, and they were riding along a quiet trail through forested land. King Morgant rode his finely muscled black mare, built for speed and trained for battle. Maelmadog was astride his huge brown and white dappled stallion—built to carry a man as large as Maelmadog. Neither was dressed to announce their station. Morgant wore dark clothing, as was his custom, and nothing that would draw attention to himself as much more than an ordinary traveler, besides the long sword at his side and his own regal bearing. Maelmadog could easily pass for a well-fed merchant, although those who had met him in battle had a very different impression of him.
The stout war leader was a master at reading the king's emotions, and knew better than to query him too much about the trip—the king did not suffer many questions about his orders. Instead, Maelmadog spoke of the state of the army of Madoc, and of his newest officers, both subjects that he knew Morgant would be interested in. Usually, his goal in these situations was to get Morgant to open up a bit, and begin to speak—once conversation had started, it usually flowed well enough. On the other hand, he had never been on a journey before that only included the two of them.
The situation made Maelmadog a little nervous. He felt exposed and vulnerable—both to their possible physical danger, for which he always felt responsibility, and to close, one-on-one scrutiny from the king.
"So sir, I believe the leadership of the southwest division is in good hands with young Ifor. He has a good head on his shoulders, is a fine planner, keeps good discipline—but is quite popular with the men. He might become a good choice to replace me, when I am ready for my walking stick and fireside chair."
Morgant smiled grimly, "I hope that will not be for a few years yet, but I will keep it in mind. Watch him carefully, and develop his leadership talents as you can. We will have need of such men."
Maelmadog was one of the few people who could manage to get the king to smile. He knew that Morgant was quite fond of him, and he felt that he knew why. He was aware that Morgant saw him as a guileless man, a family man, quite simple in his tastes, with abilities far exceeding his ambitions, and intensely loyal to the house of Madoc. So no threat to his king, as some popular war leaders came to be. A very useful servant, in other words. He excelled at keeping the armed forces of Madoc in line and happy to serve. As long as he did all these things, he would continue to enjoy the king's favor.
After a long inscrutable silence, Morgant again spoke. "I think we need to prepare, my friend, for the days that are to come." His eyes seemed fixed on a far distance and a future that was only visible in his mind, as the trees circled closely in the present reality. "I fear that the House of Don will no longer be the premier power in Prydain, before too many years have passed."
This took Maelmadog by surprise, and he looked at his king sharply, heedless of the consequences.
Instead of issuing a rebuke, Morgant ignored the look and went on. "The High King is old, and the High Prince, for all his virtues, is too mild-mannered to hold the kingdom together for long. Even when he vanquishes his enemies, he allows them to live, believing that mercy will serve as a good example to inspire future loyalty—a better example than their crow-pecked bodies hanging from the ramparts. It is a weakness that has failed him more than once. I would have taken quite a different approach in those situations… It is not that I love killing, but a firm hand in leadership is sometimes necessary, and in the longer term, there is less violence and bloodshed as a result. Don't you agree?"
Maelmadog could only nod; this turn in the conversation had made his blood run cold.
All his life, he had served the House of Madoc; but in a larger sense, he saw himself as a liege to the Sons of Don, serving a greater purpose, and Prydain itself. He had never seen Prince Gwydion as weak—quite the opposite: he liked and admired him greatly, and often held him up to his own children as an example of what a leader should be. It was not that Morgant was not a good example—he was a good and just king most of the time, for all his distance. When it came to inspiration though, and to telling stories to his children by the fire—well, he was not Prince Gwydion.
It was also true that Morgant's discipline within his kingdom had certainly been firm in comparison. Maelmadog could think of two incidents in particular where Morgant had made such examples of criminals—but in both cases, as he himself had been put in charge himself of the administration of justice, the culprits had gotten what they deserved. The punishments had been warranted and had not crossed the line into wanton cruelty, in his opinion.
Finally finding his voice, Maelmadog said, "Oh, but the House of Don has lasted a long time now, haven't they? It seems they always find a way to prevail in the end, so hopefully that will continue. As for Gwydion, yes, he is more prone to mercy than previous men of his station, that is true—but he also has the mind of a great war leader. Some of the strategies he used in the great war with Arawn—simply brilliant, in my opinion. All of Prydain owes him a debt," he said quite pointedly.
Morgant nodded curtly, before continuing. "Yes, his strategies were exemplary in that conflict, although he was very fortunate that we were there to save him in the Battle of the Red Fallows. He does have a great mind…but paired with too soft a heart. Why win the war in strength, when you lose the peace in weakness?
"I fear that we will never overcome Arawn while the Children of Don lead us. It will be constant stalemate, and constant loss of life, like the slow drip of an old leaky bucket. No, these times, they call for decisive leadership. As I said, we need to prepare, and make sure we are ready in all our strength and resolve when the opportunity presents itself—that is, when the House of Don no longer rules Prydain."
Maelmadog fell silent for a long time. Morgant was his king, he was sworn to do his bidding, and he always had done so proudly and without reservation. Yet, he thought of what Eryla had said… He had always passed the coldness off as just as part of Morgant's personality—the price of being in power, of making difficult decisions on a daily basis. Still, something was different, he had never heard Morgant use such words before. He had felt a change growing over the past months, something stirring behind those dark eyes that he had not seen or felt prior. He felt now that there was a struggle happening, as if Morgant were at war with himself, and the treasonous things he had said were as much to convince himself as Maelmadog.
Another day's ride brought them out of forested lands and to the edge of grey moors that stretched to the southwest, crisscrossed by crevices in the earth that made passage difficult. At the far horizon, a grey misty line resolved itself into thick clumps of gorse and furze as they grew closer. The ground grew spongy and soft, and in some spots the horse's hooves sank deeply into the muck, and the foul odor of untold seasons of rotting vegetation filled their nostrils and permeated everything. Even at mid-day, the air was close, dense, and dank. The two riders became forced to pick their way slowly, skirting foul pools covered with a scum of green algae, as they searched for a solid path through the wetlands and perilous quicksand that stretched as far as the eye could see. The sounds of thousands of marsh birds and frogs surrounded them, coming from all sides in a raucous uproar as their passage disturbed the creature's habits.
"Certainly one of the most remote and erm…interesting corners of Prydain, my Lord," Maelmadog said, just to pass the time as he carefully guided his horse through the weeds and mire. Morgant only nodded in return.
"What are we looking for here, Sire?" he finally ventured to ask.
Morgant stared at him, but Maelmadog returned his gaze directly. He did have a right to know, didn't he? If not now, when?
"I am not quite sure," Morgant finally said. "Knowledge, I suppose. Knowledge is power… No, power is power. However… knowledge can be turned into power." His eyes became distant and hard again, and Maelmadog asked him no more. He felt a sudden chill, and wondered to himself if Morgant might be going mad.
After hours of slow progress, they entered an area of denser forest, where vines straggled from the twisted trees. Here, the sounds of the marsh fell silent, as the two moved into a dark and shaded wood. Maelmadog had never shrunk from danger, but the feeling here made his skin scrawl. He recalled the stories Eryla had recounted to him; he had heard them himself, as a child. There was a reason everyone, friend and foe, avoided the marshes. According to the stories and legends, there was something here—something unimaginably old, dark and forbidding, that did not wish to be disturbed.
Suddenly Morgant stopped. "We're here," he said, half to himself and half to Maelmadog.
Maelmadog looked ahead, but could see nothing but the side of a hill. As he stared, however, he slowly began to make out the outlines of a rude, sod covered cottage, with a low doorway and at least one window, half hidden behind marsh weeds and grass.
Maelmadog glanced away, blinked and looked again. The cottage was still there, although he would have sworn it was not, the first time he looked. Now, he could also see a few tumbledown structures on each side of the cottage, that faintly resembled a long neglected stable and chicken coop. No animals were to be seen, nor life of any kind.
"Wait here," the king said, handing his reins to Maelmadog.
"No, Sire," Maelmadog said resolutely. You are my king, and I am sworn to protect you."
Maelmadog tied both sets of reins to a branch of the strongest, least rotted tree in the area.
"It's only an old cottage, after all," he added a bit less forcefully.
Morgant looked annoyed and appeared about to speak a reprimand, but finally nodded in agreement.
Slowly, the two men approached the doorway, and as Maelmadog watched in fear and disbelief, a short, plump figure emerged from the darkness within. Her face was old, wrinkled and lumpy, but cheerful in its own way. Her long straggling hair was adorned with tarnished old jewels and pins, and her intelligent dark eyes sparkled mischievously. Her dress was altogether unremarkable, patched and shapeless.
"Ah, King Morgant! We've been expecting you for some time," the old lady said. "I hope the journey was not terribly unpleasant. So many horrid things lurking about these days, even spies from Annuvin and the Fair Folk, and who knows what else."
"Orwen, Orgoch!" the woman called. "We have company, do please light a candle."
From the interior of the cottage, a dim light now glowed. Two more figures approached that resembled the first but were vaguely different. The second was adorned with a string of what appeared to be large white pearls at her throat, and the third's face was nearly concealed beneath a dark hood.
"Oh Orddu!" spoke the one with pearls. "When was the last time we were visited by royalty? I mean, real royalty, not the kind from Annuvin."
"Why it's a good question Orwen, I can't even remember when," replied Orddu. "Perhaps that toad that wanted to be a prince? Or was it a prince that wanted to be a toad. Anyway, that's how it ended up, as I recall."
"I love toads," said the hooded figure, whom Maelmadog now gathered was Orgoch. Beneath her robe, her features twitched in a most unpleasant fashion, and her lips smacked in what appeared to be anticipation.
"Oh, and who is this fine specimen of a man with you, your Highness?" queried Orddu, as her sharp eyes settled on Maelmadog. "I hope you are offering to trade him for something… He would keep Orgoch… shall we say satisfied for such a long time."
Maelmadog, as bemused as he was by the whole scene, was startled by the sudden feeling that his last day might not be in battle, as he had always imagined, but here—in this miserable, forsaken corner of Prydain.
"He is Maelmadog, my war leader," spoke Morgant at last. "He is my servant, but not part of any…bargain we may make."
Inwardly, Maelmadog thanked his king for that.
"A pity," grumbled Orgoch. Her lips were still smacking and twitching, undoing the small bit of relief that Maelmadog had felt.
"So be it then. Please do come in, and forgive the untidiness of our chamber," spoke Orddu. "It was Orgoch's week to clean, and things did not go as well as one might hope. In all honesty, it's always Orgoch's week to clean…but she was still just getting used to being Orgoch; she was Orwen last week."
As Maelmadog was still sorting that out in his head, Morgant entered the cottage. Maelmadog was about to follow, but Orddu blocked the way.
"Forgive me, but you look like much too dear a calf—do walruses have calves, or are they pups?... Whatever they are, you look much too kind-hearted to get yourself all mucked up in this sort of business. Please make yourself comfortable out here; we won't be a moment."
With that, the door to the little cottage was slammed shut in his face.
Maelmadog raised his fist to pound on the door, but then thought better of it. He moved to the window and listened. There was no sound, of conversation or otherwise.
As he peered within, all he could see now was an impenetrable deep well of black, as if his king had been swallowed by darkness forever.
In spite of Orddu's promise, it was hours before Morgant emerged, and the door slammed again behind him. Maelmadog was alarmed when he saw his king's ashen face. His eyes had sunken, with a dull gleam that was not life, but throbbed with something else. His cheeks were haggard, as if he had aged twenty years in a few hours. Even his back was uncharacteristically bent, but sighting Maelmadog, he straightened quickly, and with resolve walked to where his war leader waited.
"Let us be gone," he said curtly, and Maelmadog nodded as he handed him his reins and mounted his horse.
The two men again rode mostly in silence, on the long road back to Cantrev Madoc. As Morgant's countenance brooked no conversation, Maelmadog did not ask what had happened within the cottage. Morgant seemed to recover a bit as the distance from the marshes increased; the color returned to his face, although it was set in an impermeable mask. His only word was to command Maelmadog again not to speak of the journey, or of anything that had occurred.
Maelmadog could see though—as taciturn as his king normally was— that the man who rode back was very different from the man who had ridden out. Something else had changed—or worse, something was missing; the king was now a shell of what he had been before. There were no statements; no more attempts to convince himself. There were no more questions. The decision was made, whatever that decision was, and the path was set, whatever that path was to be.
Maelmadog remembered again the empty, bottomless blackness within the cottage, and felt that same shadow within his king as he regarded him. His chill returned and he shivered inside, to think of what Morgant might be capable of now.
