Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (41 page)

A range of emotions flickered across Arthur’s grim face, but Merlin couldn’t sense his feelings.

Arthur picked up the sword, and set the sharp edge upon the back of the man’s exposed neck.

“Rewan,” Arthur said, “the price of murder is . . . blood for blood. That is the law of the land, and also God’s law.”

The man caught his breath.

“And so I now exact the blood debt from you.”

Arthur cut a thin line across Rewan’s neck, just deep enough to bleed. Then turning the blade, he cut another one across it to make the sign of the cross.

“Now rise, Rewan, rise with the Christ and with his forgiveness upon you, for you’ve been found faithful today to the truth.”

Rewan began weeping. “I will not rise until I swear fealty to you
as I once swore to your father . . . and I promise you that I will keep this vow.” Here he spoke the old oath, just as Merlin had done weeks before.

When Rewan was finished, Arthur helped him up, and they embraced. Other men followed, each swearing fealty to Arthur. Eventually Percos bowed, and soon more than half of the men had done likewise.

Those that would not — the prideful ones, as Merlin thought them — quickly packed their belongings, mounted their horses, and rode off northwest, toward Kembry. The core of these men served Cradelmass, the king of Powys, who had not been present at Hen Crogmen when the nobles were slain, having departed early on an urgent summons.

As it was, Arthur had less than two hundred men now.

Against five thousand Saxenow.

They traveled most of the day, making excellent progress toward Glevum, but still had another day of travel before they arrived. Their campsite was placed in proximity to a spring that still gave out a thin trickle of brown water. It tasted to Merlin like rotting, bitter oak leaves, but their waterskins were nearly empty, and thirst can make even foul water seem refreshing.

In the morning, Rewan was found dead.

A rag had been jammed into his mouth and an arrow shoved through his right eye deep into his head. Arthur called everyone together and questioned those who slept near Rewan, yet neither they nor the guards who kept watch around the camp had noticed anything unusual during the night.

This troubled Merlin. Was there treachery against Arthur in the works? Or was this just some personal spat? Arthur acted like it didn’t bother him, but Merlin saw the tightness in his jaw, especially during Rewan’s burial.

After a hasty breakfast, Merlin called the men together for a final meeting before they set off for Glevum. After the men gathered, he stepped to the center to speak. Now that half the men had
left, revealing their weakness, it was time to lay before Arthur and the men the plain truth of their predicament.

“Faithful warriors of Britain! Loyal warriors of the reign of a new High King! We are small, but not without strength. We are adrift, but not without guidance from on high. I declare to you that the source of our troubles is not Hengist and his Saxenow, but rather the secret power that has arisen in the west — in Kernow.”

The men stared at him blankly.

“Some of you have no doubt heard of the full-fledged Picti invasion in the north. All of you know the bitter blades of the Saxenow. And a few of you know that King Gorlas has attacked. But few of you know the full extent of what is going on in the west. He has not only destroyed Glevum, but Aquae Sulis as well. And his devastation will not stop, for a secret power is driving him on, and the men under him are enslaved.”

Merlin paused to let his words sink in as he slowly circled within the clearing, making eye contact with as many as he could.

“Think of it . . . we are giving our very blood fighting for Britain when our own countrymen are stabbing us in the back! It cannot be borne. These men should be helping us, not hindering us!”

“What do you suggest we do?” Dwin asked, his brow knotted and his eyes squinting.

“We do not have the strength to fight the Saxenow. We do not even have the strength to fight the Picti. But we
may
have the strength to fight Gorlas.”

Percos stood. “You want us to kill our own brothers?”

“Not to kill the warriors, although I know that some will likely die. The plan is to kill Gorlas and the powers behind him, if possible. Then his men will be free and be able to think clearly. And, by God’s grace, they may join us in our fight against the Saxenow.”

“How many of them are there?” a man called from deep in the crowd.

Merlin bit his lip. Of this he was not fully sure, but with what he knew of Gorlas and his men from his time in Kernow, and with what
Colvarth had taught him, he thought he could make a reasonable guess. “At least three hundred men. But hear me! If your friend is fighting you, you must first make him an ally. Then you can battle the real enemy with strength.”

“We have only two hundred to fight them, if that,” Arthur said.

Merlin spread his arms out and turned slowly around. “Our only other options are to either die at the end of a Saxenow spear . . . or run away without honor. But there is
some
hope, for today is the expected muster at Glevum, and when we arrive at the ruined city, we may find men willing to join us.”

Another man stepped forward from behind Arthur. He was broad, with a long beard dyed red on the left and black on the right, and tucked into his buckled waistcoat. He walked with a bronze pike in his left hand. “Neb mab Kaw stands before you and requests the right to speak.”

“If your words are shorter than your beard,” Merlin said, “then, yes, you may speak.”

The man bowed. “And I will abide such a request as long as Merlin the Bard keeps his answer shorter than
his
beard!”

Merlin rubbed his rough-shaven chin in an obvious way while feigning to think of a response, causing the men to hoot and chuckle.

But Neb raised his hand for silence. “Rumor has come that Glevum was sacked by wolves. Some even say they’re in the shape of men with wolfish pates. What do you say to that?”

“That what you’ve said is true. As I stated before, there are — ”

“
It is true?
” the man bellowed. “And you expect us to fight bewitched men? That’s not for me, no, no.”

“To Kernow. We must go to Kernow,” Merlin said. “Arthur . . . you support me in this? Surely
you
can see the truth of my words?”

Arthur looked pensive and said nothing.

Culann, sitting at Arthur’s right, scowled. “You think we have enough men to fight wolf-heads when those same creatures have destroyed two Roman cities? You’re a fool, Merlin. I’ve heard some call you that behind your back, but now I see it in full daylight,
and I’ll say it to your face.” He stood and looked Merlin in the eye. Culann was taller than Merlin, and he had a way about him, if not menacing, that could be alarming.

“You’re a fool, Merlin. This cause — any cause — is hopeless.
We need more men
.”

Merlin looked to Arthur, hoping for support, but the king avoided his gaze.

“All right,” Merlin said, a bitter taste on his tongue. Then he turned to Arthur and said under his breath, “Think on what I have said, please . . .” He picked up his harp and walked off, pushing his way through the crowd.

Merlin took his harp into the woods, found a fallen log, and kicked it. Finally sitting, he wanted to rip at the harp strings until his hand bled, but didn’t dare touch the instrument in such a way. He could speak, he could advise, but could he sway the hearts of men?

Did Colvarth have the same frustrations throughout his life? How many times had the man advised Aurelianus — advised Uther — and had them choose a different course? Had them make bad decisions in the face of the truth?

Merlin thought back to his first and only time advising Uther. The king had taken
most
of his advice, but Vortigern had twisted it to his own ends, which led to the death of the royal family. And like a hammer to Merlin’s skull came the memory of his failure at the Druid Stone. Uther had been tied and laid upon its craggy, glowing surface, and Vortigern, dark traitor that he was, came to the clearing to slay the king. And though Merlin was half blind at the time, he would never forget —

Drawing his dirk. Rushing headlong toward Vortigern’s shadow.

The strange blue flames of the Stone burning Uther.

Vortigern poised to slay the king.

The sound of his own yelling. Swinging wildly. Blindly.

The shock of their blades meeting.

Vortigern slamming him on the head with his pommel.

Pain. Collapsing. Choking for air.

And then the nightmare of Uther . . . screaming . . . dying.

The blade through the king’s chest.

Merlin had failed. Totally failed. And it had all begun when his advice had been ignored. Could he survive such a calamity again? If Arthur died, Merlin might be driven mad by his sorrow. One mistake. One failure. One poor decision. Hadn’t Arthur nearly died already? Thrice?

But none of this was under Merlin’s control. What did God want of him? To somehow go and battle Mórgana and Gorlas alone? Could Merlin even attempt such a thing?

No sooner had the thought come to him than he knew it was true. If Mórgana and the Voice were the real force behind the oncoming destruction of Britain, then any time spent battling the Saxenow or the Picti was foolish.

Merlin grimaced. Why had Culann galled him so? It wasn’t as if the boy wanted something stupid . . . more men would be welcome, certainly. It was that Culann couldn’t understand the direness of their situation. The more they fought the Saxenow, the weaker they became. The weaker they became, the more powerful Mórgana became. She was like a deadly snake, sneaking up on them from behind. And if Arthur wouldn’t support him and move to cut off the snake’s head, Merlin would have to do it.

Alone.

His feelings of fear and failure engulfed him. He set the harp down and wept. And there, alone and in need of comfort, he took Natalenya’s torn skirt scraps from his bag and held them lovingly between his palms. He could envision her as if she were right there with him, her eyes flashing with love and mischievousness. Her chin held just so. Her kiss — as only a true and faithful wife could kiss her husband.

Except that the pieces of skirt began to feel hot . . . so hot that Merlin almost dropped them. Soon he had to separate his hands
and blow to cool them off. The smell of acrid smoke stung his eyes, and like a blacksmith’s bellows, his breath seemed to fan the scraps into flame. Soon all the material blazed bright and searing. The palms of his hands were singed, and still he held on until the pain became unbearable and he dropped the precious scraps, flaming, to the rocks.

The glow faded and went out, leaving nothing but ashes. When the next gust of morning wind blew, the white powder swirled away into the air — and was gone.

Merlin screamed.

“Natalenya!”