Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (18 page)

“We insist,” Arthur said as he took the bag and opened it. Culann was already sitting down on a corner of the blanket, and he drew in a deep breath when Gwenivach sat down close beside.

Arthur, Gwenivere, and Dwin also sat on the blanket, with Merlin and Peredur choosing a shady spot on the dry grass. Gogi, who was still on his horse, was rebraiding part of his beard.

Arthur passed out the food: hard bread, dried goat meat, slices from a half round of rather smelly cheese, along with some dried apple slices. Once, his hand briefly touched Gwenivere’s, and she blushed.

Merlin looked away and wanted to roll his eyes. This was not supposed to be the purpose of their trip south.

Gwenivach paused her loud crunching on the bread. “Are ya coming, Papa?”

Gogi nodded, grabbed a lone low-hanging branch, and stiffly swung his leg over. Then he began to slide down, but the branch snapped off with a loud crack, and he collapsed to his knees.

Arthur hurried over to help Gogi to his feet, waving away several
more bees that flew from the trunk near the broken limb. The insects buzzed around the draft horse, which trotted off to the other side of the clearing, the wagon bumping after it.

Gwenivere joined the two men and dusted off her father, who towered a full two heads taller than Arthur.

“Look!” Gwenivere said, pointing at the tree. A long thin line of golden honey had leaked from the hole and traveled halfway down the trunk. A few bees twirled around it before flying back inside.

“Oh, Father, can I have a taste?”

“That ya can, me great Gweni!” the giant said, and he reached up to his tallest height and touched the very end of the golden streak. He brought it down and Gwenivere dabbed some off and tasted it.

“Mmm . . .” she said, closing her eyes and sucking a deep, blissful breath in through her nose. “I would
love
some for my bread! Can you reach the hole, Papa?”

“Nah, nah, and nah. Someone agile would have tah climb.”

Culann jumped to his feet. “I’ll do it.”

Arthur followed suit a moment later. He leapt over to the tree and started to climb first — but the trunk was too thick and he couldn’t get enough of a grip.

“Ya could use some rope,” Gogi said, “if ya had any.”

Culann was already at his horse and had pulled a rope from a bag. “I’ve got one,” he called.

Arthur ran to his horse and checked his bags, but didn’t find any.

Someone tapped on Merlin’s shoulder. It was Dwin. “Do either of you have any rope?”

Merlin looked to Peredur, and both of them shook their heads.

Dwin sighed.

By this time, Culann was trying to throw one end of the rope over a high branch, but it kept falling short.

Arthur cracked off the thick end of Gogi’s fallen branch and tied it to the end of the rope. “Here, let me try.” He spun it in the air and threw it straight up . . . and over the high branch.

Culann frowned.

Pulling the broken wood from its knot, Arthur threaded the other end of the rope through and pulled on the rope until it was secure on the branch.

“It’s my rope. I get to go,” Culann said.

“I threw it!”

Merlin was annoyed at both of them, but principles were at stake here. “Culann,” he called, “come here . . .”

The young man looked angry, but stepped over. He was taller than Merlin, even taller than Arthur, and he had handsome features, with a straight, fine nose between inquisitive, dark eyes. His hair was a wavy brown, and it fell down carelessly to his shoulders.

“Arthur is your king. I think you should — ”

“Horse hooves! If I’m going to — ”

“Things have changed, Culann. Use that cool head of yours and think about the future.”

“I
am
thinking about the future.”

But he said no more, for Arthur had begun to climb and was soon halfway up.

Gwenivere and Gwenivach cheered him on, their claps, whistles, and calls filling the glade.

Arthur pulled himself up, feet on the trunk, swaying back and forth. Step over step, hand over hand on the rope until he reached the hole where the honey lay. Once there, he locked his legs around the rope and, with one hand, pulled out a large wooden spoon from the bag at his belt. He carefully reached the spoon into the hole as the bees began to buzz around him.

He scooped the spoon down, and then hundreds of bees swarmed out.

Augh!” he yelled, and had to pull his hand out, leaving the spoon behind. He began swatting at the bees, but they crawled over his face and neck, stinging him.

“Augghh!” he screamed as he slid down the rope, the bees chasing him. Everyone scattered.

Arthur ran off to the little stream as the bees thinned and
returned to their hive. When he came back, he had smeared mud on his stings, which covered most of his face, neck, and shoulders. Merlin almost laughed, but held it in.

Culann jabbed Merlin in the ribs and whispered, “I think you were right: always let your king go first.” And he began to chuckle — until the girls ran over to Arthur.

“Oh, that must hurt terribly!” Gwenivach said.

Gwenivere hung on his arm. “You were so brave! All to get me a little honey.”

Culann sighed, and Dwin looked on, longingly.

“Now we’ll never get the honey,” Gwenivere said. “Climbing is just too dangerous, though it was very kind of you to try.”

“Hey!” Dwin called. “Two of our horses are missing!”

Neighing came from down the path, and then the sound of galloping.

“Thieves!” Merlin shouted.

Mórgana stepped back as her grandfather gaped. The Voice had come: what would the old man do? He had been such a fool to question the Voice’s decisions. Grandfather had stewed this pot of reckoning, time and time again. Now Mórgana would let him eat his own soup.

The Voice towered over them, his dark cloak snapping in the salty spray, and a blue radiance lighting his body. With each step, fissures split in the rocky ground, and up from the cracks groped human fingers, pawing and trying to grip the sharp edge. Screams resonated from below, and the Voice slammed his massive boot down. The ground boomed and shook, the fingers disappeared, and there was silence once more.

Loth and Mórdred fell to their knees.

And, Mórgana noticed, the Voice’s face had changed from the last time she had seen him. Hadn’t he looked like her father? But now he was different. His beard was gone and his chin had lengthened.
And were his eyebrows more arched? His ears had grown smaller, and they were lacerated with bloody scars, as if the Voice scratched them incessantly.

There were, however, two things the same — his eyes were still pits of blackness with no end to their depth, and the old scar was still there on his forehead, nearly hidden by his red hood. The jagged scar ran upward — as if his cranium had been smashed once, but had since healed.

Without warning, the Voice swept down with a giant hand and picked Mórganthu up off the ground. The old man sucked in his breath, his face contorted in terror.

“Arch druid,” the Voice whispered. “Do you remember me?”

Mórganthu shook his head. “I . . . h-have never seen you, my lord. B-but I . . . know the sound of your — ”

“Then why do you question my commands? My servant, your granddaughter, stands before you, relaying my instructions. Are you not to honor her?”

“Y-yes. Yes.”

“Then why,” the Voice asked, “have I been disturbed to speak to you?”

Mórganthu said nothing, his lips trembling.

“Do you fear me?”

Mórganthu nodded.

“Rightly so, but I will show you just why you should fear me.” He reached forward, ripped Mórganthu’s head from his body, and though the man’s limbs went lifeless, Mórganthu’s head started screaming.

The Voice brought the head upward until the two were eye to eye. “Silence!”

Mórganthu’s head shut its mouth.

“Good. Now listen. You have been given a task, and in that task you have done well. Have you not raised up and trained a throng of new druidow and sent them throughout the land? And these warriors before you, are they not also ready to do my service?”

Mórganthu made a noise of assent, but his face was turning blue.

“Through the host of druidow you have raised, I am bringing the Pax Druida back to my land. The Romans are gone, and now I shall rule through Mórgana and the druidow, who are mine. But my plan cannot be accomplished when
you
think it best. The army may not attack until exactly the right moment. Any sooner and it will not have the desired effect. Any later would be pointless. Do not question my orders again. Is this clear?”

The arch druid nodded, his face now green.

The Voice slammed Mórganthu’s head back onto his body, gave it a double twist, and dropped him, whole, onto the ground. Mórganthu coughed and cowered down to hide his face.

The Voice laughed as he faded away. By the end, all that was visible of him were the pits of his eyes, and these, too, finally disappeared.

Loth stepped over Mórganthu’s shaking legs and called out to the men. “Arise, warriors!”

The army stood to attention.

“Shall we have victory?” he yelled.

The warriors shouted and grunted in response.

“Shall we have revenge?” Mórgana shouted.

The warriors howled now from their wolflike snouts, and the very air seemed to grow colder.

The plans of the Voice would succeed, and Britain would never be the same.

M
erlin jumped onto the nearest horse and galloped after the thieves. Two others were right behind him, but he didn’t turn to look. The thief, or thieves, were ahead, and Merlin caught site of a man’s brown hat as he hunched over his horse and held the reins of two more.

Behind him, he heard a shout.

Merlin turned just in time to see Arthur go down. His saddle had slid sideways, and the young man fell from his horse. Next came Culann, who almost ran right over Arthur. Yanking the reins, he swerved his horse to the side just in time, but ran into Arthur’s horse.

They both crashed in a heap.

Merlin urged his mount forward, faster, and made gains on the thief. It was a lone man, right? What if there were more hiding in the woods, ready to cut him down? He checked to make sure of his sword and rode on.

He gained on the thief, who had to handle three horses instead of one. Merlin would soon be in striking distance, and goaded his horse faster.

But the man rode to the right where a sapling bent down into the path. The man maneuvered the horse closer to the branches, unleashing the tree from some hidden peg, and it shot upright just after he passed, pulling a rope taught in Merlin’s way.

But Merlin’s horse had been well trained, and leapt without hesitation. The sound of the pounding hooves stopped. Merlin’s body arced backward. The forest tilted. A jolt, like a hammering, rippled through the horse’s front. Merlin jerked forward, grabbing the mane.

The black mane . . . he should have known. This was Arthur’s stallion, Casva. The best of them all. The horse took off again and overtook the thief, who snarled at Merlin, accentuating a thick scar across his chin.