Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (45 page)

She twirled her finger in her hair and leaned back. “Yes, although I’m not sure why. Merlin did not influence them as much as I had expected. Arthur made the decision himself.”

“That is surprisin’.”

“Quite.”

“What will we do?”

“Exactly what we planned. We leave tonight.”

F
or Merlin, their journey southwest was fraught with a heavy heart and a sense of deep foreboding. He had gotten his wish, hadn’t he? And now he regretted each plodding, jolting, hateful step of his horse. For every league meant he was that much farther from Natalenya and his children. From saving them . . . But who was he kidding? He knew the truth, and it bled his heart till it could bleed no more. Until all feeling left and the long road stretched out before him like a noose of his own making.

He was dead, wasn’t he? The nightmare would consume him. Rend him of limb, lungs, and laughter. Yet the laughter remained even when he could hardly breathe, for he was Merlin the laughing-stock. Merlin the lost. Merlin the lonely.

And in that kind of death an anger arose. A righteous anger. A seething, teeth-cracking, gut-aching anger at Mórgana — at the Druid Stone and the power behind it.

All of Britain would bow, the Voice had said — and that monster
had meant it, for the backbone of the island was nearly broken. Arthur had led Vortigern’s tattered little army away from the heartland, leaving it no defenders. Even great Lundnisow had fallen. Hengist and his dirty, treacherous brood could sack and raid to their spleen’s content, and no one would stop them. It made Merlin sick.

Yet the Voice was behind Hengist’s invasion. Merlin knew this. He had ignored it year after year after comfort-filled, peace-loving year. But he’d finally stepped out — and for that he had Arthur and Peredur to thank. He patted the hilt of his blade and squinted at the hills on the horizon.

The time is now
,
Mórgana. I’m coming. With my sword sharpened and with steel in my soul. Beware
,
Mórgana! You who have slain all that I hold dear . . . you have not yet slain me!

And if God wills it
,
I will prevail. And you — Mórgana
,
the Voice’s servant — will die.

But could he kill his own sister? She who had shared his porridge bowl? His childhood home? The very blood in his veins? Or was there a way to rescue her, to pull her away from the Voice’s talons? He didn’t know. And this uncertainty rusted through the armor of his bravado, letting the black cockroaches of fear crawl in so that he fairly shook and scratched to get rid of them.

As the journey wore on he stopped eating his share of the rations. He stopped shaving. He stopped washing his face and hands. And mostly, he just stopped talking. At night he would rub ashes on his skin to kill the fear. To confess his sins and lack of faith.

Believe the gospel
, he kept telling himself.
Just believe the good news that has already been given, and trust in God’s power . . . Please, Father
,
don’t let go of me!

And he would pray. Hours and hours he spent praying.

Peredur looked on him with pity mixed with sadness.

“Eat, Merlin,” he would say. “You have to eat. Look how thin you’re getting!”

But Merlin needed a different kind of strength, so he only shrugged and tightened his belt.

Peredur did win out on one thing, however: he found some extra scale-and-leather armor and finally pestered Merlin until he took it. But the thing stank of sweat and sour mead, and one buckle had been ripped off. Merlin wore it only under protest.

While fasting, Merlin found his strength from drinking water . . . that was life to him. Life to his bones and burning soul. And whenever his waterskin ran dry between the few acidic springs that still gurgled out their dark liquid and the shrunken ponds and marshes, Merlin would begin to slowly die inside. For the once green land of Difnonia and Kernow had become a wasteland due to the drought.

No rain had fallen, and all the trees were dead and the grass but a lie.

The villages they passed were empty, their crennigs like skulls and their windows empty eye sockets. Mocking him. Laughing out their noses as the dust-filled wind blew through the doors and swirled their death sentence upon the streets. Animal carcasses lay where they had fallen, nothing more than feeding grounds for clouds of massive horseflies. Once, the evil creatures attacked the traveling party and jabbed their blade-like teeth into their flesh until the men were all bleeding and yelling.

Some of the men begged that they turn back then, but Arthur refused to let them go. Who could blame him?

“Every man must stay,” Arthur told them, and this was true, for none knew what lay ahead, or how many men would be needed.

It took the better part of a week to travel the fifty or more leagues between Glevum and Kernow. Merlin had wanted them to take the coastal road, which led directly to Dintaga, but Percos had advised the interior route that led them through the moors.

“Less likely to be noticed, that-ways,” the man had said.

Arthur had agreed with him. “We need to surprise Gorlas at all costs.”

But Merlin wondered if that were possible with Mórgana’s demonic powers. His past experiences showed her to be able to fol
low him wherever he went . . . even as far as the lands of darkness across the sea. Could
any
precaution help them?

“We should turn northeast toward Dintaga once we get to Dinas Hen Felder,” Percos had said, and Merlin agreed. This was a good spot, as it marked the border between Difnonia and Kernow and was near to Dintaga. The plan was to then slip over the coastal road of Kernow unseen and approach through the woods so that they might surprise Gorlas at his sea-bound fortress and prevent his escape.

“And when we’ve whipped Gorlas,” Percos said, a broad smile on his face, “we can visit old Pelles one-ear, the chieftain of Dinas Camlin. Now
there’s
a strong fortress if you need a place to hole up in! And the feasts . . . oh, the feasts . . .” So after passing through the dead villages of Brewodwyn, Trendrine, and Penmoor, they finally approached Dinas Hen Felder on the outskirts of Bosvenna Moor. The sun would soon set, and the dusty road led down into a shadowed, deeply wooded vale where the gaunt branches rattled in the wind.

Percos had told them that the Dowrtam River lay in the bottom of the valley, and from there it flowed southward to the sea. But their chosen path went on and on, down and down, and Merlin saw no sign of the river.

Wolves howled from a far hill, and Merlin shuddered.

He asked Arthur if they had taken a wrong turn, but the king just shook his head. Beads of sweat had formed on the man’s youthful brow, though the air had cooled to almost a chill. Arthur loosened the blade in his scabbard, alarming Merlin and sharpening his senses.

From then on he began to catch the sound of someone or something walking through the wood, but he never saw what it was. When the sound grew louder, Merlin called for a halt to listen, but the impatient warriors behind him could not keep silent, and in frustration he agreed to move on again.

Then, out of the corner of his eye . . . he saw her.

A woman dressed in black walking between the trees. She held in
her hand a dagger, pale as bone, and her eyes burned in the gloaming with a purple flame.

Merlin blinked and she was gone.

A crow circled overhead.

Call to me! Call for me!
the bird seemed to say.
Claw! Caw!

The creature flew above the trees and down into the valley.

Merlin’s horse started to have tremors — but then Merlin’s hands began to shake too, and he knew that the trembling he felt was not from his horse. It was his own. He swallowed and tried to concentrate. The trees swam before him and tilted. It wasn’t until Arthur placed a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and shoved him up that he realized he’d been leaning in his saddle, dizzy and about to fall.

He shook his head. He had to focus.
Everything is fine . . . everything is fine . . .
he told himself, but knew it wasn’t. Within forty paces the path turned and dropped more steeply. At the bottom of the trail, Merlin and Arthur emerged onto a level plain traversed by the thin, shallow remains of the Dowrtam River. Like a mockery, a broad bridge crossed the tiny trickle. And there, on the other side, stood an army of foot soldiers. The sun was sinking behind them and the horns of the moon lay above them.

Arthur rode forward to a point just beyond the woods and blasted his horn. The men behind came rushing down the path and formed a long line, two horses deep, to face the army before them.

“Ride forward with me, Merlin, to see what challenge this may be,” Arthur said. His voice was void of all emotion save a grim determination.

Merlin nodded, and the two approached the river. From the other side, a single man walked forward and stepped onto the bridge. He wore a leather doublet covered with gold rings, and the helm hiding his face was of burnished steel with a plume of sea-blue feathers on top. He wore woven plaid of indigo, white, and teal, and his spiked gauntlets were of blackened leather. His breeches were the color of blood, and the sword at his side was finely crafted, both sharp and beautiful.

If Merlin’s quick estimate was accurate, behind him stood an army of more than five hundred men. All of them were on foot, but well protected by armor. Their ready weapons glinted in the fading light.

Merlin shifted in his saddle. “Who obstructs our path? Name yourself and your right to bar the way of the High King of Britain.”

“High King?” the challenger said. “You mean the rubbish-spawn of that pig, Uther.” The man laughed as he pulled his helm off . . . and it was Gorlas, the king of Kernow. He was older and balder than Merlin remembered him, but his sunken eyes and unkempt black beard told all. At his neck he wore the same silver torc, yet the tips of it were now red as blood. But for all that, there was something strange about the man that Merlin couldn’t distinguish . . .

Gorlas gave a menacing smile and looked at Arthur. “I am Gorlas, King of Kernow. And you are nothing but the son of a coward — for my love was faithful to me, and Uther tricked her!”

Arthur leaned over and whispered to Merlin, “So this is crazy Gorlas? I thought you said they were wolf-heads . . .
These men
can die with the simple thrust of a blade.”

“Mórgana is here . . . beware.”

“Ah . . . and
Merlin
,” Gorlas called, “I see you’ve come as well — Arthur’s ridiculous counselor and chief bard of hot air. Tell your brat that he can go home and suckle his thumb. This is the land of true kings, and he’s not even worthy to step on our precious soil.”

Merlin felt his cheeks redden, and if he could have spit bile at Gorlas, he would have.

“Turn aside your wrath,” Arthur said. “We’ve come to ask for your aid against the Saxenow.”

“The bastard of Igerna speaks! Let’s see how well his voice works with this lodged in his gullet.” Gorlas drew his sword and called his men forward.

The Kernow warriors sprang to action and came rushing toward the river, which in its current state presented no more of an obstacle beyond splashing and mud.

Arthur and Merlin drew their blades at once.

“To battle!” Arthur shouted, rearing up his horse.