Merlin's Secret (A Broken Throne Novella) Read online

  Once Mother pulled Ricky through the gap in the fence, they started running along a winding path that twisted and turned as they tried to lose their pursuers among the buildings.

  The mob was gaining.

  They managed to turn a corner and get out of sight.

  Mother turned to Ricky. “I want you to keep running. Don’t stop no matter what, do you understand?”

  “No, Mommy. I want to stay with you.”

  “They’re going to catch us unless I do something. You keep running. Head west, toward the setting sun. Follow the road to Liverpool and get onto one of the ships. Promise me that you’ll do that.”

  “I—I promise.” Ricky’s eyes were filled with tears.

  “Go. Now. Before it’s too late.”

  Mother fumbled with something around her neck, then removed the silver chain and pendant she always wore.

  “Take this and never lose it, Ricky. I’ll stop them, but only if you keep running. I have one last trick up my sleeve and just enough power to do it. But run now. As fast as you can without looking back.”

  Ricky gripped his mother in a final, frantic hug, then she shoved him away.

  He ran, the tears that had been filling his eyes now streaming down his face.

  Shouts of alarm bellowed behind him. Ricky dared a glance over his shoulder. Mother was blending fire and air until there was a barrier across the alleyway, blocking the mob from pursuit.

  This fueled their anger.

  Searching around them, the small group of middlings started picking up bricks, rocks, and sticks from the alleyway, hurling the projectiles through the wall of fire at the woman casting her spell.

  The first stone struck Mother in the head. She didn’t try to deflect the blow or even duck away. That would have stopped her casting. Instead, she kept her arms high, forcing the fiery barrier into place even as the stones started to strike her.

  Blood painted her face as she held the angry mob back.

  Ricky ran, thinking of nothing but his mother’s final words.

  I want you to keep running. Don’t stop no matter what, do you understand? Head west, toward the setting sun. Follow the road to Liverpool and get onto one of the ships.

  And so, Ricky did.

  CHAPTER 4

  The refugees streamed in from the remains of the East Country, more joining the hordes already held inside the refugee camps. The ill-named hospitality centers were already overwhelmed, to say the least.

  Artos Merrilyn shook his head as he looked up from the daily reports. There were only two passenger liners still in Liverpool’s harbor. Only two to transport a pitiful few survivors to the United Americas.

  Artos had known they could never accommodate the millions streaming west to escape the desolation that had already claimed the European continent and now threatened to overwhelm the British Isles.

  Still, he had to try to save some.

  He had yet to find the one for whom he was looking.

  As a mender, a practitioner of magical healing arts, Artos could feel the world trembling at the edge of a breaking point. As a survivor from an earlier age, Artos knew the cause of the devastation. He also knew of the prophecy that might save them all.

  Of course, it was too late for Europe. The leaders of the great nations had used the magic and the people who could cast it to enhance their lives and public works in ways that had once seemed so marvelous.

  But in the end, that had been the source of their downfall.

  No one was sure exactly why, but the more magic that a city used, the broader the swath of desolation and drought surrounding it became.

  Eventually, the desolate areas had crowded out all the arable land. Then famine had swept in, causing the collapse of civilization from the French coast to the fringes of Russia.

  For some reason, the British Isles had held out a little longer. It was almost as if the land itself fought the country’s declining ability to grow enough food. Artos had his suspicions about why that was. This had been the seat of the Fae once upon a time; it was to be the home of the new Avalon, once.

  But that was all was moot in the end. England and the other parts of the United Kingdom failed, same as the mainland. The last of the food and supplies would run out here in the western reaches within weeks.

  The United Americas had initially taken all comers from across the ocean. But that generosity had waned as the sheer enormity of the crisis loomed. They closed all their ports, one by one, until only Baltimore remained open to refugees.

  That port would close, too, with the arrival of these final two transport liners. It fell to Artos to try and choose who would survive and who would remain to wither and die here in Europe.

  While every life mattered to Artos, there was one for whom he was searching.

  One man, woman, or child who might represent mankind’s savior, the child of prophecy promised by his old mentor, Merlin, countless centuries before.

  Magic had been given to mankind in the darkest of the dark ages, magic that had been loaned as a gift. In time, it was supposed to have been returned to its caretakers, the Fae. That time was to have been marked by the rise of a king to unite the disparate clans of Britain into a new golden age.

  Artos knew only too well what had happened: the king had never come, and the magic had never been returned to the Fae.

  And so, Artos was in this time and place, waiting for the coming of the prophecy’s new child. Research told him that the subject of his search would come from the masses of humanity in the camps surrounding Liverpool. Locating that individual might just save the world. Surely the task wasn’t as impossible as it sounded.

  “Mr. Gunderson, fetch my coat and hat,” Artos called to his young assistant. The able young Swede had arrived in one of the first refugee convoys from the mainland — a competent scholar with a quiet reserve that Artos had come to rely upon in times of trouble.

  “Here you are, sir.” Gunderson handed Artos the overcoat and hat, cocking his head to the side. “Are we off to search the camps again?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid we must brave the camps one final time.”

  “If you’d tell me what you’re looking for, sir, I might be able to assist you.” Gunderson paused in thought, then continued. “If it is a woman, or even a number of women you seek, there are many suitable candidates in the city hotels. You needn’t look in those filthy camps for a companion.”

  Artos shot the young man a sharp look. “Do you think so little of me, Mr. Gunderson, as to think I seek a concubine? With everything at stake?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry sir.”

  Artos felt bad for snapping, but he couldn’t exactly tell the man what he wanted, in part because he didn’t know what or who it was he sought. But there was also the sacred trust that his old mentor had placed in him centuries ago. It was his charge to make all of this right, to somehow return balance to the world.

  And Artos could never surrender.

  They went downstairs, leaving the office they used in the second floor of the harbormaster’s building. Throngs of people were already lined up for the registration tables, all hoping to get their names in the lottery for the final berths on the ships at the end of the quay.

  Artos studied the sea of desperate faces, desperately hoping that he would recognize something about someone, something that would tell him they were the one.

  He was startled by a group of young boys running past, jostling him as he approached his black sedan.

  Gunderson shouted, reaching out to grab one of the youngsters by the shoulder as he ran past. Artos was surprised to see his assistant pull a wallet from the boy’s clutching fingers.

  Artos patted his blazer pockets to realize that the wallet was indeed his. The boy continued to struggle as the other boys scattered, abandoning their friend to his fate.

  Artos was about to instruct Gunderson to let the boy go with a wave when a flash of something caught his eye.

  There was a silver chain around the boy’s n
eck. A strange pendant swung as the lad struggled against his captor’s grasp.

  Artos grabbed the boy by his shoulders to still him, then stared at the chain and pendant. He saw the oak leaf and staff he knew so well: the sign of Merlin.

  “You there, boy. Stop your struggling. Answer my questions and I’ll instruct my friend to release you.”

  “I’ll not rat out my friends, if that’s what you’re after, Mister. I’d rather die. I mean, who cares? We’re all gonna die anyhow.”

  The boy stared up at Artos in defiance. He had curly dark hair and a rather plain face. He was dressed in rags and his accent placed him from somewhere in the east—Yorkshire, perhaps.

  “Where did you get that necklace? Tell me and I’ll let you go.”

  The boy’s free hand clapped to his chest then he tucked in the chain under the rags of his shirt.

  “No sense hiding it,” Artos laughed. “I’ve seen it already.”

  “You can’t have it. It’s from my mother. She gave it to me.”

  “I see, and where is your mother now?”

  The boy’s eyes filled with sorrow before he moved them to the ground. “She died in one of the riots to the east a weeks ago.”

  Artos stared at the lad for a moment longer, trying to decide if this was all it took to find the child of prophecy. It seemed strange that, after all his searching, he would run into the answer amid this mob of boys, picking his pocket like any common thief.

  He considered a moment more, then made up his mind. The pendant sealed the deal. Tuning his magical vision and muttering a delving spell, Artos set a hand on the boy’s head, looking inside for magic like his own.

  Artos was rewarded with a strong spark of magical ability. The child was a chanter. That — coupled with the pendant — identified him as a probable descendant of Merlin, probably in direct line from Fenris himself.

  “Change of plans, Mr. Gunderson,” Artos declared. “Bring the boy back upstairs. I think we’ve found what we’re looking for.”

  “A boy, sir?” Gunderson’s surprise showed in his eyes. “Are you sure this is the one you want? He’s a thief. I’m sure if that is what you want, I can find you a nice boy from one of the families in the city proper.”

  “Good God, Gunderson, what kind of monster do you think I am? I’m not looking for that, either. I told you, I’m looking for a specific individual before we leave the city. I believe I’ve found that person. Bring him upstairs.”

  Artos turned and went back inside, heading back to his office. The boy protested, struggling behind him as if it were possible to escape Mr. Gunderson’s grasp. He pulled the boy behind him, dragging the lad upstairs and into their offices and tidy apartment.

  With the three of them in the second-floor office, Artos sat behind his desk and gestured for Gunderson to put the boy in a chair opposite him.

  The lad sat, rubbing his shoulder. “You said you’d let me go if I answered your questions.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, I answered your questions, and now I want to go.”

  “I have not yet received all my answers. When I do, you will be free to go. In the meantime, I will make sure you are fed, clothed, and most importantly, that you escape this city on one of those two ships. Is that agreeable to you?”

  The boy looked out the broad, multi-paned window, staring out at the two ships tied at the end of the long pier.

  Artos knew what he was thinking. Those ships represented life to the people in the city. Everyone knew that once they left, Britain’s fall was close behind.

  “You’ve got food?” the boy asked.

  “Yes. What is your name?”

  “It’s Ricky. Ricky Canter.”

  “Well, Mr. Canter. I’ll have Mr. Gunderson here fetch you a sandwich if you promise not to try and escape the moment he leaves.” Artos raised an eyebrow, surveying the boy on the other side of his desk.

  Ricky glanced upward at Mr. Gunderson, then back at Artos before giving a slight nod.

  “Fetch the boy something to eat. It looks like he hasn’t had anything substantial in a while.”

  Gunderson nodded then left them alone. Artos was silent, waiting for Ricky to speak. Then, finally: “What’s your name, Mister?”

  “I’m Artos, Artos Merrilyn. I’m the man in charge of filling those ships out there with those citizens who might offer Britain the best chance of survival in the United Americas.”

  “Why me? I’m nobody special.”

  “Perhaps. I don’t yet know. But whether you turn out to be the person I’m looking for or not, I’ll offer you a berth on the boat with Mr. Gunderson and myself. You can be his assistant. He’ll teach you to be a gentleman’s gentleman. And I’ll have a few things to teach you as well. Now, show me your magic.”

  “What?”

  “Show me your magic. I know you’re a chanter, that much is obvious. So please, boy, show me what you can do.”

  “Mother always told me to keep it to myself. She didn’t go for a show of magic everywhere. She said it was disrespectful to who we were. That we were meant for something more.”

  Artos nodded. “She might’ve been right. Chanters aren’t very popular right now. Those who can use magic are being blamed for many for this world’s ailments. Still, I’ll not betray your secret if you don’t wish for others to know what you can do.”

  “Mother said the magic was failing us. She can see things what others can’t. But no one would listen. They called her crazy and a worrier. In the end, the mob saw her use magic to shield me and they pulled her down.” Ricky stopped talking, staring out the window into the unchanging gray sky. “She told me to run and then she was gone.”

  “It is alright if you want to cry, Ricky. That’s how we show our humanity. And how we honor those we remember in sad times.”

  “I’ll never cry again,” Ricky snapped back, then stared at Artos. “I only want to honor her wishes. I want to keep the magic to myself, for myself.”

  “As you wish. You are very powerful. That much I can see. I will instruct you if you’d like, make it so you can reach your full potential. Would you like that?”

  The boy paused, thinking before giving the old man a nod and a grim little smile.

  Artos felt a chill, but shook it off as Mr. Gunderson returned with a tray: a pair of sandwiches and a tall glass of milk, moisture beading its side. The boy’s eyes widened. He barely waited for Mr. Gunderson to set the tray in front of him before he began to devour its contents.

  Artos watched the boy eat, planning his next steps. The prophecy was real — he was certain of that. But how this child fit into it … that he did not know.

  CHAPTER 5

  Later that evening, Artos stood looking out the window above the harbormaster’s offices. Crowds below pushed at the harbor gates. Despite the armed cops and soldiers, people kept trying to rush past the security cordon to the pier where the two passenger liners were docked.

  Looking out the window, Artos said, “I think we should remain here for now. It’s hostile outside the harbor. We’ll let the authorities regain control of the docks and surrounding areas. We can return to the apartment and finish packing for the voyage later.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Gunderson, already on his way to the door. “I’ll see if I can scare up some blankets.”

  Artos watched his man-servant leave with the characteristic clicking of his heels and deferential nod to his employer. Ricky had drifted to the window, too, looking out at the throngs of people still gathering at the gates.

  He stood by the boy’s side. The child was wringing his hands, watching the shouting people with a worried expression. Artos wondered what the boy had been through in his flight from the east.

  “It will be alright, Ricky. Those people are merely scared. That’s all.” Artos gestured to the rest of their spacious office. “We’ll make an adventure of it and camp out here for a few days.”

  “If you say so, sir,” Ricky said, never moving his eyes from the
mob. “I’ve seen crowds like that before. At every stop on our way to Liverpool. Mother said they were afraid, too, but people like that chased us, hated us just because we were chanters. I hate them. I hate them all.”

  A small tremor shook the building.

  Artos looked down at the boy’s clenched fists. He’d stopped talking, but his lips were still moving and Artos couldn’t make out the words.

  The tremor returned, this time spreading through the building in a single wave of power. Artos switched his vision to the magical spectrum as the wave reached the gates. The crowd was knocked from their feet, several rows deep.

  The mob screamed in confusion, anger, and fear. The police and soldiers seemed unsure of what to do.

  “Ricky,” Artos commanded sternly. “Release the magic. Now.”

  Artos watched until the boy’s fists unclenched, and Ricky finally released his grip on the magic.

  The flows faded, startled by the sheer force of the boy’s command — so strong for one so young. Artos shook his head. No. Ricky was strong for any chanter, of any age or ability.

  Artos gripped the boy by one shoulder and turned him away from the window. Then he kneeled, coming face to face with Ricky. He stared into the darkness reflected back in the boy’s eyes.

  “Ricky, listen to me. You must never use your magic to attack people like that again. Do you understand me?”

  “They’re like the ones who wanted to hurt me and Mommy. And I couldn’t help her.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “She told me to run, but I should have stayed and helped her to fight them.”

  Artos fished a white handkerchief from his pocket then passed it to the boy. That anger was a problem, especially with the strength of his magic. Artos had to be careful. If he couldn’t do something to help the boy control it, Ricky could become addicted to Sable, the darkest magic there was.

  “I think your mother would tell you that using your magic to hurt others isn’t how our powers are supposed to be used. Am I right?”