Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (40 page)

Where I must fear no more.

Boom!

The whole tower shook.

Tinga whispered in Natalenya’s ear, “Mammu, why do I see Tath’s drinking bowl when I shut me eyes? An’ I feel funny too, like little happy angels are danthing on my skin.”

Natalenya hugged her closer. “I don’t know, honey. I don’t know.”

Loyt raised his voice to continue the psalm, and Garth joined in.

The Lord God, my War Hammer, clouts my haters

And lights hearth fires with sumptuous meat on the spits,

Where I may mock my foes.

The Lord God, my Great Delight, makes the honey

And fills unto me bowls of drink from the vats

Where I will join the feast.

The Lord God, my Torc Bearer, gilds my own neck

And runs after me to goodly joy on high,

Where I may always dwell!

Boom!
smote the battering ram, and Natalenya heard the doors below burst inward amidst the shouting, angry Picti.

Outside, flames licked as high as the window, and Natalenya began to cough as rolling smoke poured across the ceiling.

Garth called out for them to sing a hymn in these, their final moments.

“What can stop them?” Tinga asked. Her face was pinched up in a scowl and her hands shook.

“Only the dead can stop them. Only the dead.”

She pulled both children close and let the silent tears flow.

Mórgana screamed as she lifted the fang from the orb. A searing pain shot up her arm, and what did she get for her trouble? Natalenya’s little girl was
still
unharmed. Mórgana hated it . . . hated
her
. In fact, she hated all young girls, including her own, brief childhood. The Voice had taught her to despise her former innocence. To kill off all childish, girlish desires. To be willing to sever all ties and familial love unless it advanced her master’s plan. To serve no one but him.

“Is the girl sick yet?” Mórdred asked.

“No, the little beast.”

“Perhaps she is sae protected because she’s your brother’s daughter?” Loth asked.

Mórgana swore. “Blood has nothing to do with it. Merlin has no relation to the two warriors standing there, but they are protected as well.”

“What . . . what are those warriors waiting for?” Mórganthu asked, his question ending with a wheeze and a cough.

“They await in futility to attack my servants, the Picti,” Mórgana said, returning the fang to the safety of its sheath.

Mórdred peered eagerly into the orb. “Have they finally broken in?”

“I do not know, but even if the Picti fail to break down the doors and smite the inhabitants, the flames will devour them more surely than the moon can conquer the sun.”

The image in the orb shifted to the Picti below, and Necton Two-Torc, their High King. They heaved the battering ram back one more time and slammed it into the tower doors, which burst and shattered, the right one falling off of its hinge.

Mórgana snapped her fingers as she looked into the orb. “They’ve broken in! They’ve broken into the tower!”

M
erlin awoke to Arthur’s hand pressing his shoulder. The slanting rays of the sun blinded him, and the camp stirred with the sounds of breakfast.

“’Morning. Did you get good sleep?” Arthur asked as he turned to wake Dwin.

Merlin stood and stretched his legs. “None worth mentioning.”

“So what do we do? You never answered me yesterday. I’m out of ideas.”

“Let’s gather everyone,” Merlin said. “We need a council of war.”

Arthur agreed, and the word was spread throughout the camp that anyone could come share his opinion. At Arthur’s direction, several fallen logs were placed in a circle near the center of the camp, and the men selected five warriors to represent them, though all were allowed to speak.

Merlin brought his harp concealed in its leather cover — not because he planned to play it, but because he wanted the men to
think hard on who he was, and to see his support for Arthur. He positioned himself to Arthur’s right as the leaders sat and the entire camp gathered around to listen.

Merlin scanned their faces. There he saw sadness, anger, curiosity, and hopelessness spread among them, with varying shades of pain. One man had lost his hand and the stump was covered with a stained bandage. Another stood with the help of a crutch. Beyond him was a warrior who had lost an eye. All the men were filthy from many days of battle and they stank of sweat, dirt, horse, and blood. These were the survivors of one of the greatest calamities ever to strike Britain, and Merlin could feel their fear and frustration gathering like a storm — ready to beat upon the rock that was Arthur.

“My fellow Britons,” Arthur said, standing, “for those who do not know me, I came from Rheged with my companions in answer of Vortigern’s call to fight the Saxenow. Many of you have heard that my name is Artorius . . . but that is a false name, and for this I ask your forgiveness. As I declared yesterday, my real name is Arthur, and I am the lost son of High King Uther.”

Murmurs spread, and it was obvious that not a man among them was unfamiliar with Arthur’s declaration at the fortress wall. A bearded man stepped forward, a seasoned warrior wearing grimed scale armor with a notched battle-axe hanging from his belt. His arms were thick, and his bald head shone in the morning light.

“I am Percos mab Poch, and I speak for the rough-blade lads . . . right?” He turned around and raised his arms as the men behind him hooted and jeered. Turning back to Arthur, he spat on the ground and then smeared it into the dirt with his boot. “And we heard yah, an’ have been followin’ ya for the last day . . . But ye can hardly grow a beard yet . . . and where’s the proof? No one here’s heard bone or breath of Arthur in nigh a score o’ years.”

Arthur opened his mouth, but it was clear he didn’t know how to respond.

Merlin stood and raised his voice. “Legends live again,” he said. “They walk among you. Behold the Harp of Britain, which has lain
in hiding all these long years!” He unwrapped the instrument and held it before their eyes. None of these men had witnessed his ballad in front of Vortigern.

“I am Merlin mab Owain, heir of Colvarth, the chief bard of Britain and bard to High King Uther mab Aurelianus. It was I who took Arthur away to safety and hid him from the world until he was old enough to reclaim the torc of his father. If any man dares question my testimony or Arthur’s claim to the High Kingship, let him speak.”

But Percos spat again, and this time the glob landed halfway between him and Merlin. “If a piece o’ wood makes you the chief bard, then my axe can make me the high blacksmith!”

The crowd roared in laughter, and the nearest man slapped Percos on the back.

He took another step forward and thrust his chin out. “And how’re we to know you didn’t kill ol’ Colvarth and steal the harp? Maybe you’re the one who killed Uther too!”

The crowd went silent at this accusation until a man to Merlin’s left stood and cleared his throat. He wore a thick leather jerkin, and his face was weathered and lined, centered with a reddish, pitted nose. His long pepper-gray hair was pulled back and tied with a leather thong, and he had a thick sword at his belt.

The man jostled through and found his way to the center of the gathering. He stepped close to Merlin and peered at his face, then he turned to Arthur and did the same. The man’s eyes were watery, and he blinked many times.

Finally, he turned to face the crowd.

“You all know me, for good or ill. I’ve seen each one of you join the war band as fly-catching fools with yer thumbs still in yer mouths. Yes, I’m the eldest o’ you all, and you know that I used to be a war chieftain under our
goodly
king, but then lost my position when my sight went bad.”

Here some of the warriors smirked, and one of them called out, “You mean you gutted Vorty’s horse wit’ a spear!”

The men laughed.

“Ah, well, sure, but that was a tough battle, and yer changing my tune. What I’m here to tell ya, you see, is that I was one of the very few in strict confidence with ol’ Vorty, and I know a sight more about him an’ his dealings than anyone else alive. An’ when he took my position away, I threatened to tell all o’ you the truth.”

Merlin began to recognize the man’s voice. Had he heard it somewhere before?

“An’ do you know what ol’ Vorty did? He threatened to kill me. To take my guts an’ feed ’em to his pigs. To poke out my eyeballs and stuff ’em up my nose. Called me a sot, he did!”

“You
are
a sot, Rewan,” called a voice from the crowd. “So sit down and shut up!”

And when Merlin heard that name, a memory came back to him. Rewan was one of the battle chieftains that Merlin met that fateful day in Uther’s tent . . . so long ago. Rewan had been the bloodthirsty one, and Merlin had recoiled at the man’s advice. Taking a step back, Merlin sat down on a log to give the man room to speak, but part of him shuddered with worry that Rewan might lie.

“Well, I am a sot, but so are you, Tethion, and I’m not going to be quiet anymore.”

Tethion swore, but Rewan ignored him.

“I let Vorty kick me in the shins an’ sew me mouth shut, but I’m done with it. Here’s the truth, so open yer ears wide, my lads.”

Merlin held his breath.

“The truth is that Vortigern is a traitor and a murderer. He slew High King Uther in cold blood and blamed the druidow. He even had the man’s daughters slain. I . . . I . . .” And here he faltered, allowing Merlin to exhale.

Rewan studied his own dirty boots for a long while. “I . . . helped Vortigern do it. We shot ’em both with arrows, an I could’a stopped it, ye see? I did it for gold and the gold is all gambled away, and all I’ve left is the guilt, see? An’ this Merlin, what with his marked face, he was in fact a sworn and faithful servant of Uther. I met him
myself sixteen years ago and heard Colvarth declare that he would teach Merlin to be a bard.”

Rewan gestured to the whole crowd. “But there are others who have more shame on their head than me in this bloody business, and it’s my hope they’re right sorry and’ll confess it.”

“An’ just for all o’ you scoffers,” Rewan said, pointing at Arthur, “this one is the nose-to-nose image o’ his father — of High King Uther.”

Arthur blushed slightly.

Rewan looked around. “None o’ you ever met Uther? Percos, how about you? Well I did, an’ he was a
real
High King. And the hoof of it is that there’s no one else in all the world who could be his son except that one there. This man is Arthur — true and truest.”

Rewan fell to his knees before Arthur. “An’ I beg you, Arthur — real and rightful heir of two High Kings, Uther
and
Vitalinus, to forgive me for my drink-lovin’ tongue an’ my gold-lovin’ fingers. I’m not worthy to be yer warrior, but if you’ll have me, then I’m yer man. If not, then just kill me quickly, for I’ve the innocent blood of your sisters on my hands.” He set his sword down in front of Arthur and lay prostrate on the ground.