Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (32 page)

The other men scrambled to find uninjured horses, and soon a force of three hundred men rallied behind Arthur. If used properly, they might save many Britons who were being slaughtered.

Arthur pointed his sword back the way they had come as the men reined their horses around. Picking up speed, they rode across an ancient causeway traversing the ditch and bank and thundered down on their enemies. Thankfully it was easy to tell the bare-chested Saxenow from the British, and Arthur swung his blade at everyone near enough to strike, downing many. Penetrating through the ranks of the battle, he led the impromptu army out the other side. Arthur motioned for the mounted warriors to turn back and make another run through the battle lines, but just then a new sound shook the earth, . . . pounding hooves from the northeast.

Arthur turned and saw a host of mounted Saxenow bearing down upon them, with Hengist in his chariot riding at the fore. A spear was in his hand and British blood was spattered across his chest.

Ruin. Ruin and death it was, for a vision wrapped in shadow appeared before Arthur’s eyes: Hengist, victorious, striding over a field of the dead then pausing to kick over the body of a Briton. It was Arthur himself, his eyes gouged out and the rest of his body hacked and torn. All the Britons were dead, and none now existed that could stem the tide of domination and destruction that would blaze across the island. One by one the villages and fortresses of Britain burned in Arthur’s vision, and with it the churches and abbeys. The newly established faith would disappear unless . . . unless Arthur helped a remnant survive. A remnant that could grow to oppose Hengist and his barbaric horde of Saxenow. Oppose Gorlas. Oppose the Picti.

The weight of this burden came crushing down upon Arthur so that he felt his arms weaken and his sword begin to slip.

The vision faded, and Hengist’s chariot clacked closer. Arthur turned and saw the rage of imminent victory upon his visage.

If Arthur stayed to fight, then would his vision come true? Would they all die? For all his efforts Arthur had only bought them
a little time, and that time was up. He needed a place to regroup, and remembered that Vortigern had left over one hundred men back at Dinas Marl to man it in his absence. Arthur would lead his remnant north — back to Dinas Marl, where he’d have time to think about his next step.

“Through the ranks once more!” Arthur yelled. “Save as many as you can and then ride away with me!”

The warriors around Arthur hesitated only a moment before turning their mounts away from Hengist and his horsemen. Onward they rushed, back through the camp and the fighting footmen. Down fell hundreds of Saxenow as spear, sword, axe, and hoof made imprints upon their flesh.

And all along the way, whenever possible, the horsemen picked up stray British warriors and pulled them to safety on the back of their horses. Arthur himself pulled up a young man with desperate eyes who must have been less than fourteen winters. The youth had a bloody gash on his side, and bare feet.

“Thank you!” the young man shouted.

“What’s your name?”

“Ol, son of Olwith.”

“Do you have a sword?”

“Only an axe.”

“Well, use it, then!” For enemy warriors were running at them from all sides and Arthur had to hack his way through.

“Retreat! Follow me!” Arthur cried as he rode through the mob, the gore thickening upon his blade and the Saxenow falling like barley sheaves at harvest. When they reached the other side, he turned to look back and saw that some of the horsemen had perished, but there were still two hundred or so left, along with the footmen they had saved who were now scrambling over the bank and ditch to find their own horses. Merlin and Peredur were among them, and seeing his father gave Arthur the final courage to lead the retreat.

Forward he rode, turning toward the rest of their horses, and there he paused while Ol found a horse along with the other men.
He led the ragged survivors into the darkness of the night, finding a broad forest road heading west. Behind him he could hear Saxenow in pursuit, but it soon broke off. Despite this, their company rode tightly together, squint-eyed and white with fear.

Leaving was one of the hardest things Arthur had ever done, and he prayed that God would forgive him for the men who died because of that decision.

A long while later they left the road and found a clearing behind a wide knoll where they might stop and rest for the remainder of the night.

After Merlin had seen to the binding of many wounds, and the men had fallen into a fitful sleep, he moved a little bit away, laid down, and wept. Despite God’s protection of Arthur and the others in their company, a great evil had befallen Britain, and the terror of it made Merlin’s breath come out in great gasps. In one blow the Saxenow had duped Vortigern and had slain many of the nobles of southern, western, and eastern Britain: men from Bolgi, Kentow, and Dubrae . . . of Dobunni, Eltavori, Bregantow, and Ekenia . . . and even some who had escaped the fall of great Lundnisow itself.

Only the kings of Kembry and some of the old north remained. But for how long?

Merlin could see clearly how this one blow would destroy their will to fight, even for Arthur. Why should the provinces send more men? With Vortigern dead, the only High King Britain had known for the last fifteen years, and with Votipor and all their princes and minor kings slain — it was hopeless now, wasn’t it? And the Saxenow weren’t the only enemy: now the Picti attacked from the north, and Gorlas ravaged from Kernow. What could the people do? What could Arthur do?

It would be every village, every fortress for himself, and they would all fall, one by one.

Merlin closed his eyes and tried to shut out the screaming that
even now filled his head — the screams of hundreds of men being simultaneously slaughtered inside Hen Crogmen. Merlin had tried to follow Arthur, to try and reason with him, but it had happened so fast, and he had only found time to warn Peredur, Culann, and Dwin.

What else could he have been done? Well . . . he should have spoken the truth to Vortigern while he had the chance, that’s what. But would he have been believed? Probably not. After all, he hadn’t known what was planned . . . or when. The only thing he had known was that Hengist and Reinwandt did not plan on keeping the peace with the British. Could Merlin blame himself for not shouting out such an obvious thing? And if he had, what then? Would the Saxenow have attacked immediately, killing Merlin and Arthur too?

He wanted to trust God through this tragedy, but his heart beat like a hammer and a sharp pain hovered behind his eyes. Instinctively, his hand went to his bag and he pulled forth the scrap of skirt.

Natalenya. Oh, what he would give to hold her right now. To take her and their children and sail away from this cursed island where no refuge was safe.

But as he brought the cloth up to his eyes, he felt a dry stain upon part it. He wiped his face anyway, and tasted . . . blood? Sitting up, he examined the skirt in the dim light and saw a black stain across it. Checking the bag, he found it clean.

How had Natalenya’s scrap of skirt come to have blood on it?

Once again he prayed for his family. Would he ever see them again?

S
itting with his back to the tower, Taliesin ran his fingers absently through Gruffen’s fur. The clouds had come in thick that night, and the face of the moon was hidden from the world, making this the perfect night to send for help.

The Picti had made an assault upon the fortress the night before, but the steepness of the approach had made it impossible for them to break in. However, the defenders wouldn’t last long without help, his mother had said, and so here they were. Four men were climbing down the back cliff face of the mountain spur that Dinas Crag had been built upon — and one, the miller who carried a pack of supplies, was being lowered down using a rope. The plan was for them to spread out and alert all the western settlements of Ector’s death, as well as of the siege so that a sufficient force might come to their aid.

Beside him sat Tinga with her puppy, Gaff. In front of him stood Caygek and, farther away, Bedwir. The two men were carefully
lowering the miller down the back cliff face. Brother Loyt and his mother stood lookout upon the wall, watching the progress.

Gruffen gave a little growl from deep in his chest, and Taliesin cradled the dog closer, whispering in his ear, “There’s no need to snarl at Caygek. He’s our friend.”

But Gaff growled too and started scrabbling her paws on the ground in an effort to break free from Tinga’s grip.

It was almost as if some invisible enemy lurked nearby.

“What’th gotten into them?” Tinga asked, turning her puppy on her back and pressing a hand into her chest to hold her still.

From over the wall, a scream pierced the night.

Mother bent over, squinting into the darkness.

Another scream. And another, until the whole mountainside beyond reverberated with the cries.

“Pull him back up!” Mother hissed.

“The others . . . they’ve fallen!” Loyt called.

Caygek kicked off his boots to get a better grip on the sandy ledge of rock, and he and Bedwir began to heave the miller back up. When the man’s hands got to the top of the wall, Mother and Loyt helped him climb over. But something was wrong, for he threw the bag of supplies away and collapsed at their feet, all of his limbs shaking.

Mother knelt down and took the man’s jerking head into her lap. His breath was nothing but shallow gasps of pain and quiet sobs.

Taliesin handed the now-whimpering Gruffen to Tinga, and ran to get a torch from the tower. Something was wrong, and they needed light to see exactly what.

But there wasn’t a lit torch on the first floor, so he had to run up the stairs to the second before he found one. By the time Taliesin got back, the man wasn’t breathing, and there was a strange smell, like burnt hair, only worse. He held the torch closer, illuminating the miller’s lifeless staring as if in a final plea for mercy. And there, upon the rock, was a small pool of blood, and some of it had soaked into his mother’s skirt.

Caygek rolled the man over onto the rock. A small hole in the back of his neck still gushed blood as well as a thin, snakelike trail of smoke.

“What happened to him?” Bedwir asked.

Taliesin closed his eyes, shut his mouth, and turned away from the foul smell. First Ector, and now the miller and the others.

Bedwir shook his head. “No help will come now,” he said under his breath.

Tinga began to sob, set Gruffen down, and ran away with Gaff.

Gruffen sniffed and growled again, and Taliesin picked him up.

Mother ran after Tinga, catching her before she had gotten to the other side of the tower. Sitting down, she hugged Tinga, rocking her and the puppy while she sang “Tingada’s Cloak.”

Taliesin turned back to the dead miller and stared at him. There was something strange about his eyes . . . They weren’t just dead, they were glowing! Deep inside raged a small green flame, and it grew and grew until the man’s pupils began to smoke.

Taliesin dropped the torch, picked up Gruffen, and ran to his mother.

He wanted to hug her, but felt foolish. Yet it was unnerving the way the miller had died, and though he had a hard time holding back his own tears, he managed to do so . . . in case Withel happened to be watching from the tower or from some shadow near the wall.