The Broken Kings: Book Three of The Merlin Codex Read Free Page B

as they bounded across the walls, baying fiercely then mournfully as they vanished into the world of men, shades only, but alive again.
    Hounds and horses, buried with kings, now seeking the ghost-trails of the wild hunt.
    *   *   *
    And then I saw for the first time the echo of the ancient man who lay there, the founder of the citadel himself. Durandond.
    He rose, naked and unarmed, a water-spectre presenting himself in his middle years, older than when he had listened to my prophecy, so many generations ago, but still years away from the brutal moment of his death.
    He looked to the East, to his homeland, then to the skies. Did his gaze catch mine as he turned back to survey the enclosure? I couldn’t say.
    The expression on Durandond’s face was of sadness, then of anger, as if this sprite, this liquid ghost, was aware of what was coming to take his proud fortress once again.
    The water dissolved. Durandond returned to the bone-chamber below the hill.
    The moment had passed.

Chapter Two
    The Sons of Llew
    On the third morning the sun seemed to break at dawn towards the west, a sudden, startling flash of gold against the dark of night. The gleam faded as quickly as it had come, only to sparkle again and again, as if it moved through the forest that separated fortress from sacred river, and the unknown realm beyond.
    When the true dawn came, so flocks of birds rose in outrage from the woods, and that fire-fly kept on coming, finally emerging onto the Plain of MaegCatha—the Battle Crow—in the form of a bright chariot, with two screaming youths driving a pair of red-maned horses.
    One of these wild figures leaned forward at the reins; the other straddled the chariot, feet on the sides of the metal car, naked save for a short scarlet cloak and the torque of gold at his neck and the tight belt around his waist. He held a thin spear in one hand and a bronze horn in the other. As the golden chariot struck a rock and lurched, so he tumbled to the floor of the car, and a furious argument commenced, though the driver, long yellow hair streaming, laughed as he whipped the steeds.
    The chariot sped across the plain; the deep horn was sounded; the gathering crowds on the fortress fled around the walls, following the wild riders below as they passed to the north, between hill and evergroves, before turning across the eastern plain to approach the spiralling road with its five massive gates. One by one, as the triumphant youths howled up the steep road, the gates were opened and closed behind them.
    They came into Taurovinda, racing in a wide circle three times before the fiery arrival was calmed. They jumped from the chariot, buckled on their kilts and cloaks and unharnessed the panting horses, holding the weary animals by the muzzles and stroking them. They seemed unaware that Urtha and his retinue were standing close by, waiting to greet them.
    “Well run!” said one.
    “Well driven,” said the other.
    The new dawn set a new and blinding fire to the golden-wheeled chariot.
    These breathless arrivals were Conan and Gwyrion, sons of the great god Llew. They were stealers of chariots. I had met them before. Half god, half human, they were the world’s greatest thieves, and they were constantly being hunted by their father and their angry uncles, most particularly Nodens. Indeed, the grim-eyed, bearded face of Llew himself glared from the side of the vehicle, an image that appeared to writhe with new fury and the silent promise of retribution.
    It was the gift of these boys that they were incapable of judgement or fear until harsher judgement invoked semimortal dread. And yet they always turned up again, as cheery as before.
    They bowed low to Urtha; then Conan saw me and grinned. “Well, Merlin! As you see, we have escaped from that old bastard our father again. Though this time not without cost.”
    He held up his right hand; brother Gwyrion did the same. Their little fingers had been cut away and replaced with