Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (17 page)

Merlin was confused. “You’re not a Briton?”

“Briton? Nah, nah.” And then he began to sing again:

We travel and tarry — we go and make merry.

Not Picti, nor Britons — who share but a pittance;

Not woebegone talkers — for we are the Walkers

Who travel and tarry — to go and make merry!

“If you’re not a Briton or a Pict, where did you come from? You’re not Roman, so . . . are you Eirish?”

“Eirish? Haha. Nah, nah, once more yar wrong. Ya see, we owned
all
this land before the Romans or even ya Britons came, a very long time ago it was, aye. Ya Britons killed us, stole it from us, and now we are vera few. We’re the first people, and our bones have been here since the island made us.”

Gogi lifted his chin and called to his daughters. “Wengis! Gweya deena sa kalpe grof stradictin! Difin sgwher gweya nak sgreat.”

Merlin couldn’t remember ever hearing speech such as this, said without accent but entirely puzzling nonetheless.

Gwenivere was talking to Culann at the time, and didn’t respond to her father, but Gwenivach answered without looking back. “Revy noosa, grapap. Seb shapent. Gweya veha sgooks grot stesa reeha.”

Gogi nodded and then turned to Merlin. “Ya see, we have a different language, aye . . . and ya thought we were Britons! Haha!” And he laughed so much that his horse shook under the tremors.

Merlin acted ambivalent, but he disliked the fact that they could talk without him knowing what they said. It reminded him of the feelings he’d had when the Picti had first made him a slave.

“And by the way, what would it cost ma to buy that un’s horse?” Gogi said, pointing at Arthur’s black stallion, Casva. “I’ve noticed how old he is compared to yar others. He won’t last much longer, ya know, and I’d take him off yar hands, so to speak.”

“Artorius’s horse is only nine — ”

“Ah, but he’s too broken-down for such a fine, hearty lad. When they get to being useless, I even make things from ’em: sinew, leather, horsehair for weavers, hooves for combs, bone for needles. Ya can always make something to sell.”

“I thought you were a tinsmith, not a . . . horse . . .” Merlin tried to bring the word to memory.

“Knacker?”

“But you don’t
eat
the horses, do ya?” Peredur asked, a sick look on his face.

“Nah, nah. We’re with ya Britons, on that one. Horseflesh should nah be eaten. Even if the Picti eat the eyeballs as a dainty, ya know, I’ll never do such. But I do make a meager bit buyin’ and sellin’ live ones too. A man’s got to get money to eat, ya know. In fact, I’ll trade for just about anything I might be able tah sell. For instance, would any of ya be interested in this?” He pulled from a sack what looked like two pewter cups, strangely shaped, and tied together with a long leather band.

“What is it?” Dwin asked.

“Why, ya don’t know, do ya? Well, that goes to show the ignorance in these parts. It’s tah catch the drops of tears from the eyes of yar horse. If ya gets any, ya drip ’em around yar campsite each night for good luck.”

Merlin looked, and sure enough, Gogi’s own horse had a tear-catcher tied under its eyes.

“Not interested, eh?” he said. “Well, how about this?” And he pulled out a flat piece of pewter polished to a smooth finish.

Peredur cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me . . . it’s for catching the tears o’ the sun, and — ”

“Nah, nah, young talker. It’s a mushroom checker. Ya hold it up to a ’shroom and see what color ya see. If it’s green, then the mushroom is safe tah eat. If it’s brown, then it’s gone rotten. If it’s red, then it’ll kill ya, aye, just like that.” And he snapped his meaty fingers.

“And what does yellow mean?” Dwin asked in a slightly mocking tone.

“Yallow? Ah, that means ya should cook ’em with butter.”

“I don’t think I’d trust your methods,” Merlin said, thinking about how dangerous mushrooms could be. A boy Merlin had grown up with found some wild mushrooms, ate one, and died.

“But ya have to buy somethin’, ya know. We’re a poor, poor, family, an if ya don’t buy something, then ma and ma daughters’ll starve, aye, it’s true.”

“Do you have anything more practical?” Merlin asked. “Something useful?”

“Aye, aye. Here’s the thing.” And he pulled out a large leather sack with pewter rivets around the top.

“And this is — ?”

“A dung hauler. The most practical thing I sell for those that keep horses. Ya shovel it all in here, and then haul it where ya want to dump it, an yar hands never touch it. Like to a garden, say, or into yar enemies boots. Normally, I’d charge six coynalls, but for ya, just for ya, ya know, I’ll drop the price to one screpall. An it’s even stitched tight with me own handcrafted sinews, so it’ll never rip and spill, or else I’ll give ya yar screpall back.”

Merlin hesitated. He really didn’t —

Gogi sucked his cheeks in. “Remember that we’ll starve afore we get much farther. Aye, we’re
that
low on rations, an I got nah money to buy more.”

“One screpall?”

“One. And it can even be bent or scratched, ya know. I care not.”

Merlin clenched his teeth. He really didn’t need this . . . thing. But if it helped them not to starve, then it was kind of like charity, wasn’t it? And maybe giving them some coins would free them from the boy’s false obligation to protect the girls. Merlin could only hope.

“Sure . . . I’ll . . . take it.”

Gogi smiled, showing the gaps where a few teeth were missing, and a little broken one on the bottom.

Merlin handed him a screpall coin, and Gogi tossed him the dung hauler. Unfortunately the thing had already been tested in its . . . purpose. He turned his nose away and rolled it up, tying and tucking the reeking thing behind his saddle. Maybe someone back home could use it.

Mórgana stood on a rocky headland overlooking the fortress of Dintaga, and the waves crashed in chorus behind her. The smell of salt tainted the air like a hint of blood, and before her stood five hundred or more warriors, each with a steel sword belted over his plaid.

“What do you think, Loth? Are they ready?” She turned and looked to her husband, who had just returned from Lyhonesse, having completed the construction of their new fortress. His long black hair blew in the wind, and his rugged, handsome features made her smile.

“Ya have performed a wonder, my queen. I canna’ even fathom their power, nor the destruction they’ll pour upon our enemies. When shall we set ’em loose?”

“Soon, very soon,” Mórdred said. “Am I right, Mother?”

“Exactly so.”

Mórganthu strode forward, his gait uneven and his hair unkempt. “But I grow impatient with this Voice of yours. Why has he not commanded their release?”

“You have touched the Stone, grandfather, and its power felled you long ago, remember?”

“Yes, yes.”

“The Voice’s power is much greater than the Stone’s.”

Mórganthu coughed over the sound of the surf. “Yet I have only heard the Voice
through
the Stone. To me, they are one and the same, yet you tell me they are not. And I myself have not heard the Voice in all these long years. How am I to believe you? Why should we not release these warriors now?”

Mórgana looked at him and sighed. Oh, how Grandfather had aged. So pathetic and frail, with his hair completely gray now. He had once been vigorous, yes, but as his strength had waned her own power had grown. No wonder he was impatient: he would soon die and his spirit would depart his lonely body. He wanted to
see
his vengeance.
Taste
it.

Ah, but what paltry insolence he chose to offer up to the Voice. Did he think he would please such a one? No, he would not. Perhaps, after all these years, it was time for her to call the Voice and ask him to appear to her grandfather. Then the old man would be silent and do as he was told. Such an annoyance. As well, these unruly warriors that Gorlas had provided for her could use a taste of fear to keep them in line.

And Mórdred? Yes, the lad could use a taste of fear.

“Well, then, Grandfather,” she said. “Why don’t you ask the Voice yourself?”

Placing a hand upon the fang sheathed at her belt, she snapped the fingers of her other hand. Her voice cried out then, and Loth joined her in the chant:

Voice of blood, Voice of Nudd, come now to us.

Lord of air, dark despair, walk among us!

And this they kept chanting until the winds began to swirl around them. The waves crashed higher, sending gray ribbons of water and spray to dash upon the rocks. The clouds grew dark, curling and boiling with great black tendrils. Lightning shattered the sky and shook the ground, striking an ancient willow that stood nearby. Its trunk exploded with searing white light. Mórgana shut her eyes as bright spots burned inside her head. Thunder crashed and crackled through the air, shaking and almost toppling her. Flaming bark flew through the air as the tree split completely open and caught fire.

“Behold!” Mórgana screamed. “The Voice, whom you doubt, appears!”

All of the warriors fell to their knees, but her grandfather’s legs seemed locked in place, imprisoning him upright. His staring eyes protruded, and his open mouth hung slack.

A dark shadow stepped out from the charred center of the tree.

A
fter some time creeping down the road at the snail’s pace set by Gogi’s massive draft horse, Merlin and the others arrived at a small, muddy stream with a clearing beyond, and they stopped to water the horses. During this delay, Arthur, Culann, and the girls talked some more and decided it was time to have a quick meal.

Gogi didn’t protest, but Merlin had to bite his tongue. He looked at the sun — it wasn’t even midday yet. What was Arthur thinking? Ah, but he knew. He just had a hard time stomaching it.

In the center of the clearing sat a huge, twisted oak that had been struck by lightning. The bark was ripped open down one side, and there was a large hole about halfway up. In its shade, Gwenivach spread out a plaid blanket of black, white, and burgundy, while Gwenivere searched their father’s wagon.

“There’s nah food there, Gweni, but we can at least rest the horses while these good men eat.”

A look of alarm passed over Arthur’s face. “No food? How can you — ”

“We go without food all the time,” Gwenivere said as she returned to Arthur’s side. “That’s part and parcel o’ being a Walker. But we’re hopin’ tah sell a few things at Deva’s faire and fill our empty . . . ah . . . buy some food there.”

Culann stepped up. “We have more than enough. Don’t we, Artorius?”

Arthur nodded, exasperating Merlin. It was one thing to share money with Gogi, but Merlin was concerned that their own scanty rations might run out soon.

Merlin dismounted and found a safe, soft place to set his harp. A bee flew in his face and he swatted it away.

Dwin dismounted and untied their food bag. He was making straight for the blanket when Gwenivere stepped in his way.

“Oh, we couldn’t take yar food, nah. But we thank ya very much.”