Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (33 page)

Mother finished the rhyme and started it again, and her soothing voice comforted Taliesin, not that he would say so.

Tingada’s cloak is pied, pied.

I made it from a wolven hide.

Once we were shackled — bang, clang!

But the time came when eight slaves sang.

Now father goes to hunt, hunt,

A club to swing, a spear to bunt.

He brings along the hounds, hounds;

They seize, they catch, in leaps and bounds.

Mother glanced over to the dead miller, and a tear slipped down her cheek, landing on Tinga’s brown hair. When she continued, her voice sounded choked.

He’ll trap fish from his boat, boat.

Beyond the Falls of Derwent, float.

Just like a lynx’s paw, claw,

He’ll throw his net, and, filled, withdraw.

When father climbs the crag, crag,

He’ll slay a roe-buck, boar, or stag,

Or certainly a grouse, grouse,

Some tasty meat for hearth and house.

“When is Tath coming home?” Tinga asked. “He’d get uth out of here.”

“Yes, he would,” Mother said, and Taliesin saw her blink up at heaven with a sort of pleading look.

“Tas can catch anything, can’t he?” Taliesin said.

“Unless it has wings,” Natalenya said, nodding.

Tinga frowned. “Some o’ them geth away?”

“Yes.”

“I wish we had wings,” Taliesin said. “Then the Picti could never catch us!” But he knew that was impossible. Bedwir was right — they were already caught, and no help would come.

Arthur held up his hand in a request for Merlin to stop speaking. The sun would soon reach its zenith, and their chance to successfully ambush the Saxenow baggage carts was slipping away. The scouts had returned with news of the enemy’s movements, and the time had come.

“Go, then!” Merlin said, stepping back. The stone walls of the inside of the blockhouse made his words resonate.

Arthur strapped on his sword and Merlin followed him outside. “I’ll pray that you meet with success.” He fell silent, but Arthur heard what he didn’t say:
And that you don’t regret ignoring my advice
.

As Arthur marched out into the daylight, he looked out over the camps of the men who now called Dinas Marl home. Many more had found their way back, swelling their ranks to just over four hundred — still a pittance compared to what Vortigern had ruled just a short day ago.

And not only that, but his own leadership of the warriors was in doubt, for other, better-known men began to vie for control and to express their own divisive opinions on their next move. It seemed that Arthur’s slaying of Horsa and his elevation by Vortigern meant little in their minds, and to cement his leadership with them, he had devised his daring new plan.

So when Arthur climbed the ladder and looked out from the walls of Dinas Marl, he cringed. Far away to the south and east the land was dry and brittle. Was he foolish to use fire as a weapon against the Saxenow? Yet the present situation left little choice. Not with Hengist and his Saxenow coming to take their fortress.

Maybe Merlin is right
, Arthur thought,
and I should just leave with the men. Empty the fortress and abandon these lands to the Saxenow.
But the idea smoldered inside Arthur and its fumes blurred his vision. Deep down he didn’t want to concede even one handbreadth of British land to the Saxenow, and if they were going to take it by force anyway, then let it be burned. So be it.

Culann and Dwin approached, and Arthur gathered them in a circle.

“Do you know that old, broken fortress we passed?”

Dwin squinted as he scanned the vale south of Dinas Marl, finally pointing to the horizon. “You mean the one on that hill way over there?”

“You can see it from here? That’s more than a league.”

Dwin smiled. “Can’t you?”

“It’s the one with the road right below it.”

Culann raised an eyebrow. “Is that the place we passed on our way to Hen Crogmen? Now that
is
an interesting spot.”

“In more ways than one,” Arthur said.

Dwin yawned. “Nice spot for a picnic. Too bad Gogi and his daughters disappeared.”

“A picnic?” Arthur said, knocking Dwin playfully on the head. “
A picnic?
Look, I need twenty of the best archers along with twenty horsemen and the forty fastest horses we have.”

“Looking for a bit of revenge?” Culann asked.

“No. I just want to defend our land.”

Culann nodded and ran off toward the camp of men while Dwin went to pick the horses. Within minutes Arthur had all the men and horses he needed and they were tightening their saddles and mounting.

Just as Arthur pulled himself up onto a horse — sadly, not Casva, who had disappeared at Hen Crogmen — Merlin strolled by, whistling.

“If you die, don’t blame me.”

Arthur ignored him and began passing out pine-pitch torches to all the men who didn’t have a bow. Once every man had two, Arthur raised his arm to signal that they were leaving.

Merlin grabbed onto the bit of Arthur’s horse, looked up into the young man’s eyes, and whispered, “If all of Britain burns, don’t blame me. And if you survive, you think we’re going to hold this gap-toothed fortress with four hundred against five thousand? You might as well just bury me here, then, right on Marl mound.”

“I never said this is going to be easy, but we do have one advantage that no one’s thought of.”

“And what’s that?” Merlin asked.

“Hengist doesn’t fear us.”

Merlin got a puzzled expression and scratched his scalp. “That’s an advantage?”

“He won’t be expecting us to try anything.”

“Right.”

Arthur lowered his arm and gave his horse a quick kick.

The rest of the warriors followed him out of the fortress.

Merlin swallowed a catch in his throat as Arthur left, riding out the southern gate of Dinas Marl. Would he come back from such a foolish venture? Merlin wanted to go and find Peredur where he was busy dealing with a horse that had thrown its shoe, but the man had backed Arthur’s plan and Merlin would find no commiseration there. Everything had failed in the south, and Arthur’s presence had done nothing more than preserve a small, ragged band that had little chance against the monstrosity of Saxen domination.

But since when did Arthur ever think about odds? He had always been reckless, even when he was little. Once, when Arthur was eight, Merlin had taken him on his first overnight hunting trip. They were supposed to be looking for deer, but encountered a large, tusked boar instead. Had Arthur shown any fear? No, the boy had run right into the path of the charging fiend and nocked an arrow. Despite his hammering heart, Merlin had run out and pulled Arthur behind a tree. And the funny part was that Arthur still got his arrow off and sank it deep into the beast’s chest. Merlin would never forget that day.

But I’m not like Arthur
,
am I? At least not anymore. When did I lose my recklessness — my youthful idea that nothing can stop me? Was it when I was a slave and saw everyone dying? When I saw Natalenya suffering and slowly fading before my very eyes? Now I just want to go back home. It would be so easy. A few weeks on the road
,
and I could fall into Natalenya’s hard-working
,
loving arms once more and just rest there in her embrace. I could go hunting again with Taliesin. I could braid Tinga’s hair
,
so soft and tangly . . .

He took out the scrap of skirt once more to pray for them all, happy that the cloth still felt clean and soft under his touch since he had washed the blood off. Yet within moments, its surface began to feel slimy.

He looked down, and there was a black liquid oozing off of one end.

He dropped it, then bent down to look more closely. The rumpled piece of cloth was clean on one end but smeared with ooze on the
other.
What was happening? Had the disease returned to Natalenya? The same foul illness that had long ago afflicted her while a slave?

He closed his eyes and prayed for her safety, but even as his quiet amen was spoken, he heard a ripping sound. There, below him, the piece of skirt cloth had been shredded into three pieces.

Merlin gasped.

T
aliesin broke into a run along the top of the wall. He had to get to the stair. Something had happened to old Brice, and the man needed help. One moment they were keeping watch together — the old man telling him the well-worn yarn of how he had come to be a porter for the valley at age ten — and the next moment he had fallen to his knees, barely able to breathe.

Taliesin found the stair cut into the rock wall and took it, three steps per bound. At the bottom he rounded to the tower, ran in the doorway, and bump-bounced into Great-Aunt Eira, who was changing the bandage on Caygek’s arm.

“Old Brice,” he panted, picking himself up off the floor, “. . . he . . . he needs help!”

“Whatever could have happened?” Mother asked.

Bedwir stood from where he’d been sitting in the back of the room, looking alarmed. “Are the Picti climbing back up for another attack?”

“No! Brice is hurt. Come see!”

He ran out of the tower and up the stairs once more. Caygek and Bedwir were right behind him, with Mother and Great-Aunt Eira following. By the time they made it to old Brice, the man had collapsed upon his back and his body was shaking.

That was when Taliesin saw the man’s cheek. A black, thick, bulbous boil had grown there. His arms had the same growths, and there were smaller ones on his leg, just above his boot. It was some sort of sickness that Taliesin had never seen before.

Natalenya pushed her way through, but when she saw what had begun to grow on the man’s skin, she halted, her hand going to her mouth.