Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (26 page)

Arthur heaved a sigh of relief as he rode out of the battle behind Culann. He wouldn’t have survived ten heartbeats more if it hadn’t been for the help of his three companions.

When the other leader of the Saxenow learned that Horsa was dead, he had called for a retreat and regrouping. This man’s name, Arthur learned, was Hengist, Horsa’s older brother.

Word of Vortipor’s death had spread quickly among the British, and most of them had begun to run back to Dinas Marl in disarray.
A select few, however, carried Vortipor back on a makeshift bier made from the spears of fallen warriors, and Arthur and the others joined these.

Peredur had caught Casva, while Dwin had gathered Arthur’s boots and shield. Arthur’s sword, however, had been lost — a Saxen probably claiming it for his own.

When they entered the fortress, Arthur was surprised to find that a flock of nine druidow awaited. Arthur had heard tales of the druidow, and so knew a bit about their appearance, but he’d never seen one himself. Ector had never allowed them in the valley.

Well . . . at least Arthur thought they were druidow. The man in front had thin bluish scars covering his arms in the shape of deer, bear, and fish, along with antlered figures, twisted snakes, and the like. The man was thick-limbed, short, and had a brown, bristly beard tinged red. His cloak was the color of a roan horse, and he wore black-checked breeches. Upon his shoulder were two pins . . . one of the golden lion, and the other the heads of two dragons, one of reddish-gold and the other silvery-white. Dual loyalties? Arthur had never seen such a thing.

The druidow marched around the men bearing Vortipor’s body.

“Hmm. Looks horrid,” the leader said. “Which of you lug-ears is responsible?”

“For his death?” Arthur asked. “None of us.”

The druid shook his head and made a sad face. “So there’s no traitor to hang?”

“It was Horsa, and he’s dead now.”

“Hmmm . . . a pity. Taranlos likes a good hanging.”

Arthur laughed. “I don’t think he would have cooperated.”

The druid stared at him with bloodshot eyes. “Yer a fool, then, and must not know me. I am called Podrith, and I am appointed as chief druid to serve the High King’s household. If someone doesn’t cooperate, then I push them. That is the command of the arch druid, and I obey it.”

“I see.”

Podrith took out a short branch with sea shells attached to it by threads, and he shook this in circles over Vortipor’s body, chanting along with the other druidow. He had just finished when Vortigern arrived from the upper wall. His cloak was fringed with the fur of wolves, and under that he wore a fine, embroidered tunic that had been ripped. His white beard was strung out, his face red and his eyes puffed, with tears streaming down. He wore a thick golden torc, but it was unlike other British torcs Arthur had seen, being of a solid tube construction with Roman eagles fashioned on the ends.

Behind him bustled a retinue of officials, scuffing their feet and biting their lips in dismay — followed by four servants carrying an ornate wooden throne. The chair was placed directly behind Vortigern, but the king ignored it and stared at his son, unmoving, with his dry lips parted and quivering.

Podrith directed that they bring the broken body before Vortigern, who embraced his son, howling, heedless of the blood on his hands and tunic. Finally, he kissed Vortipor’s cheek, smearing the blood of his family line on his beard.

Arthur watched in silence. Intellectually, he wanted to hate this man, but seeing him for the first time, thus in his grief, he could not. Wasn’t Vortigern his uncle, and Vortipor his cousin? These were kin.

Vortigern took note of Arthur then, and stood, his lip trembling. “You!” he said, and pointed a blood-marked finger at Arthur. “Stand before me.” His voice was raw, and he gulped.

Arthur stepped forward and knelt before the High King. “My lord.”

“Are you . . . ? Are you not the . . . the one who has avenged my son’s death? I don’t know you.”

“I’m named Artorius, my lord, and we arrived at Glevum for the muster — but did not find the city as we expected.”

Vortigern wiped away some tears. “Was it not . . . more glorious? My feasting hall . . . my feasting hall, it is — ”

“Destroyed, my lord.”

Vortigern blinked, and the bristles of his beard twitched.

“Burned, my lord. Gorlas has attacked you and either driven away or slain all the inhabitants of the city.”

“My feasting hall?”

Arthur nodded solemnly.

“My . . . my grandchildren?”

“I cannot say for certain, my lord.” Arthur hesitated. “There were many slain in your hall, including children.”

Just then the envoy, Fodor, who had been standing in the shadow of the gate, stepped forward and bowed before the king. “I wish I could negate his words, O illustrious sovereign of the line of Vitalinus, but it is as Artorius the Great Hero has announced. When I heard the news, I rushed to Glevum and personally found all your family and descendants dead.”

“My wife?”

“Sevira has passed away, my lord. I have heard it said, however, that she preserved her purity and chose a dagger rather than be taken by that uncouth warlord, Gorlas. The warriors left behind to defend your house, they fought bravely to the end, each one killing three-score enemies before they died.”

“Three-score?” Vortigern asked.

“Yes, my lord, each one — ”

“Be quiet.”

“But, my lord, there is more — ”

Covering his ears, Vortigern cried out, “Silence! I don’t want to hear another word from your flabby, flapping lips.”

“But your sons . . .” Fodor shouted.

Vortigern blinked and took his hands off of his ears. “My sons?”

Arthur wanted to contradict these obvious fabrications, but was afraid to interfere. “As the Superb Hero of the Battle, Artorius, has postulated, your grandsons, Kedivor and Teyrnon, are no more, but they died bravely defending your hearth. In fact, your battle horn was only wrested from their faithful hands at the cost of many lives.”

“My grandsons are dead?”

“And not only that, my lord, but the Painted Ones — ”

“Who?”

“The Picti, my lord. Rheged has fallen to the northern barbarians, and King Urien, the brave soul that he was, has failed to protect your flank. Soon, they will march down from their frosty mountains and attack.” Vortigern staggered backward and collapsed upon his throne. There he beat the back of his head against the wood, his neck tense and pulsing.

Arthur stepped forward, afraid to speak but compelled by the urgent need that pressed against his heart. “Mighty lord, God has permitted me to slay one of the Saxenow leaders . . . and if I may be so bold, the time to attack is now when they least expect it. If we could slay the other leader, then the invaders would be driven back and our victory would be complete.”

Vortigern shut his eyes and shook his head, a snarl slowly creeping over his face.

“Turn aside,” he shouted, “and leave me in my grief. A truce . . . we need a truce with the Saxenow, or all is lost!”

Arthur opened his mouth to speak but shut it when the king began fumbling at his belt near the hilt of his blade.

“My horn,” Vortigern said absently. “I can hear it blowing again.
Who is the traitor?
it always demands . . . always . . . Will you stop it, Artorius? Please stop it up . . .”

Arthur cocked his head, but heard nothing.

“Havoc . . . havoc . . .” the High King whispered, “. . . the battle is lost . . .” The king stood, approached again the corpse of his son, and then turned and walked away, his eyes like glass. Yet his hand trailed for a moment on his son’s boot, and then he pulled it away as if singed by an unseen flame.

The shadows of crows swept across Merlin’s vision as Arthur and company rode toward the edge of the wood where Merlin had hidden himself. Earlier, Fodor had made his way down to Dinas Marl
even as Merlin chose to stay and witness the battle, forcing himself to watch as Arthur and the others risked death countless times.

Though gladness filled his heart that all four had survived, he could now see their wounds and bruises: Dwin had a slice across his forehead, Peredur had taken a blow to his leg, and the armor on Culann’s left shoulder had been slashed through. Arthur himself only had three scratches on his right arm yet was wearier than Merlin had seen him in many a year. The wounds would need careful tending, and thankfully Colvarth had taught Merlin well in that regard.

As they rode closer, a small raven, black and grizzled, landed on Arthur’s boot to peck at the blood and gore. The young man noticed and kicked it away — but it took to the air and then dove at his face, cawing and raking its claws at his eyes. Three times it attacked him before he was able to drive it away.

As they arrived, Merlin dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Hail, victor of the battle.”

“Ah, get up,” Arthur said. “I’ve had enough of that at the fortress.”

Dwin clucked his tongue. “Truly, truly — you should have seen the ladies. Falling down and worshiping the very ground he walked upon.”

“There weren’t . . . no . . . don’t believe him.”

“Ah, but you wished for them,” Culann said. “I saw you looking around.”

Merlin stood, smirked, and hugged Arthur. “Vortigern didn’t know you?”

“Not a screpall.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“And Vortipor . . . ?”

“Dead.”

“And the fortress grieves?” He wanted to say Vortigern’s name again, but it was so acidic on his tongue the first time, he couldn’t even stutter out the word.

“That’s not all,” Arthur said, bitterness coloring his voice. “With Glevum destroyed, the Picti attacking in the north, and his son dead, Vortigern has called for a truce.”

“What? After you saved them from losing the battle?”

Arthur sighed, dismounted, and checked Casva’s bit. “He’s asking for peace with the Saxenow so they’ll help him fight the Picti. They’ve set a meeting tomorrow night at Hen Crogmen.”

“The old stone gallows? That’s a pagan place.”

“Vortigern has druidow advising him.”

Merlin raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “No surprise.”

“It’s five leagues, so we should leave immediately, unless you want to travel with Vortigern in the morning.”

“Are you sure this is the right course?”

“Vortigern requires my attendance.”

Merlin spat. “He does, does he?”

“As the victor of the battle — ”

“He wants to parade you around.”

“I don’t think so. I killed Horsa, one of the Saxenow leaders. That would only enrage them.”

Merlin thought for a moment, trying to sift out the right course from the clamor of his conflicting desires. “I don’t like this, and I advise you not to go.”

Arthur shrugged. “It’s already been arranged. Besides, Fodor told me Vortigern makes peace with the Saxenow every few years.”

“This may be different. In the past, Vortigern was only admitting that the Saxenow could keep the land they had taken, which was in and of itself a travesty. From what you say, it sounds like he’s giving up.”

“You think so?”

“You said it yourself. Glevum is destroyed. Vortipor is dead. No help is coming from the north. How can Vortigern fight on?”

“The people would never surrender. The kings and chieftains would never — ”

Merlin looked away, afraid anger could be seen in his eyes. “They
have
allowed it. Farm by farm . . . village by village . . . hill fort by hill fort.”

“And you think us running away will fix it? The Saxenow will just leave?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“We’re going.”

Merlin had to chew on this. Nothing seemed right. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to go to the Stone Gallows, didn’t want to help Vortigern.

But Arthur did, and no matter how rancid the bite, Merlin had to swallow it.

They traveled south that day and camped in the fastness of the woods. After the sun had set, taking along with it the dismal heat, a half moon appeared high in the western sky, fringed with the hint of flames. And far off in the southwest, amongst the Dobuni hills, there came the sound of wolves howling.