Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (5 page)

Passing the guards at the door with a nod, Merlin entered Ector’s empty feasting hall and left the horseman who had helped him to wait outside.

Stepping to the middle of the room, he threw his black cloak on a bench and sat before the hearth, where a fire of pine logs sent sweet, pitch-scented smoke upward. In the corner on a fleece lay Ector’s long-eared hound, Goffrew, with her two sleeping puppies. When he went over, she sniffed inquisitively at the wolf blood on his hands while he scratched her behind the ears.

A servant came and, finding him hungry, gave him a bowl of
cold, roasted-onion broth, a barley cake, and a wet rag to refresh himself with.

He gratefully peeled off his mask — what a sweaty nuisance of a thing! But a necessary one. Sixteen years had passed since Vortigern, the current High King, had slain Arthur’s father, but his hatred had not lessened. If Vortigern knew Arthur was alive, he would do anything to kill the heir to the throne — along with Merlin and all those who harbored him. After wiping the blood away, he took a clean part of the rag and rubbed his face, feeling once more the familiar scars that covered his cheeks, nose, forehead, and eyelids. With no distractions to keep them at bay, the old memories of the wolf attack when he was nine forced themselves upon him —

His little sister surrounded by wolves. He’d run to protect her, but the wolves had attacked him, and not her. They’d scratched his eyes, mostly blinding him. And he’d endured that blindness for eight years, until he’d thrust Uther’s blade into the Druid Stone in an attempt to destroy it. God had healed his vision then, miraculously.

He shuddered, pushing the memory of the Stone’s enchantment away as best he could. His father had died that day, and Merlin had been swept into a treacherous world to protect and raise Arthur. After many trials, including slavery to the Picti and rescuing Arthur from a pagan sacrifice, he and Natalenya had married and fled to Dinas Crag. This was the village where his father had grown up, and where Merlin’s uncle, Ector, was now chieftain.

Sudden noise from the back rooms pulled Merlin to the present, and Ector himself stepped into the hall. He strode across the room with his thick arms spread wide in greeting, barefoot and wearing his usual dusty, matted fox-fur cloak over a long brown tunic and green breeches.

“Welcome, Merlin!” Ector roared, giving him such a hug that Merlin felt like he’d been squeezed between two massive oxen.

“Shah, don’t say that. I’m Ambrosius to you,” Merlin reminded him.

“Vortigern’s rats have no ears here. Your secret’s safe, nephew.”

“Not if the man standing outside heard you. I met him in the wood, and he wants to speak with you.”

“Who?” Ector said, cutting off a cold chunk of meat from the remains of a boar that had been roasted the night before.

“He won’t tell.”

Popping some of the boar into his mouth, Ector mumbled, “Send the warty toad away.”

“He says it’s urgent, but first I have a message from Urien for you.”

“Ah, yes, your talk with Urien. What does
he
want now? Send the wart in — I’d rather hear him than words from that bully.”

“Bully or no, I rode all night to tell you he wants warriors and horses immediately. The Picti have gathered east of Luguvalium, and Urien means to destroy them.”

“Hah!” Ector said, spitting out a bone onto Merlin’s boot. “He’ll just tickle their ribs and make them run away.”

“It’s a large force, uncle, ready to invade. And Urien — ”

“He can find his own bullied horses. Honestly, I’d rather help King Cradelmass in Powys.”

“That cruel, careless scoundrel?”

“Indeed. At least he’s an excellent hunter, and he dined me well last I visited.”

“And he makes his own citizens slaves.”

“But
I
won’t be Urien’s slave. No, no.”

“My lord, you’ve sworn Urien your allegiance. He asks for men and horses, of which we have plenty. It would seem — ”

“Let Urien’s beard rot in his mead, I say.”

Merlin gulped. “The king won’t invite you to the next boar roast if you don’t — ”

“He said that, did he? Well, pig’s feet. Let him throw the beast’s knucklebones at my effigy, I say.”

“And, you’ll be excluded from the spring fox hunt.”

Ector roared. “Now that is going too far! I’ll split his skull, I will, if he even — ”

Gathering his patience, Merlin took up his onion broth, dipped the barley cake into it, and sucked it into his mouth. It was warm and salty, and the onion had been roasted to sweet perfection. He chewed slowly before speaking again. “If you help, he offered to give you the bronze spear of Gordon mac Gabran.”

“My father’s trophy? That should have been returned to our house long before now. That thief — ”

“
And
the scalp of Dougal Mór, with a stand to prominently, uh . . . display it.”

Ector raised an eyebrow. “Hmmm . . .”

Merlin leaned back, tapped his fingers together, and looked at the king expectantly. He had him now.

“How many men? And, more importantly, how many horses?”

“I suggest two musters. One for those that can ride now, and another after the mid-meal tomorrow.”

Ector sat down next to Merlin, pulled the last of his boar meat into his mouth, chewed half of it, and then whispered, “He really promised the scalp? Oh, but that
is
a prize.”

“Truly.”

“And which muster will you ride with? Ah, but I’m dense. You just came back. You’ll want to see your Natalenya again, even if only for a bit. In fact, she brought the children over yesterday to check on the pups, and gave some good counsel to my Eira regarding a troublesome milker. Natalenya has a good head under that pretty hair. She even tried to tell me how to repair the front gate, if you can believe it.”

“I can. And speaking of my family, how has Artorius gotten along with his training?”

Ector smiled and his eyes lit up. “Arthur’s doing — ”

“Shah!”

“What — ?”

Merlin leaned over and whispered, “Uncle, I beg you. Don’t say his name so loud.”

“I’ll say it when I want to. He’s a man now, and a splendid one at that. You’ll let him join the muster?”

“I don’t see why not. As long as he hasn’t broken anything since I left.”

“Nothing that’s come to these old ears. Least I haven’t heard the smith complaining of any damaged blades lately.”

Merlin drained his soup and set down the wooden bowl. “I mean on himself. He had just smashed his left elbow the week before I left.”

“Ah, well . . . I guess you’ll have to ask him. And while you’re at it, it’s time you tell him the truth about his parents. He’s a man now, and — ”

“Not with Vortigern still High King. We’ll wait.”

Ector began pacing, his bare feet slapping the stone floor. “Wait until Vortipor wears his father’s torc? How will that solve anything? He leads the warriors against the Saxenow while Vortigern sleeps like a badger on his soft cushions. There’s never a good time, you know. But Arthur is ready. He’s ready, I say.”

Merlin shook his head, the fear of Vortigern rising up from his memory. “We’ll wait.”

“Well,” Ector said, growling, “at least you’re going to let him fight the Picti. That’s a start.”

“And what will we do with our mysterious guest?”

“Ah, send him in,” Ector said as he sliced off another huge chunk of the boar. “I’m in a good mood now. The scalp of Dougal Mór . . .”

After replacing his mask, Merlin picked up his cloak, threw it over his shoulders, and went outside to retrieve the horseman.

The man entered the hall first, giving Merlin a chance to closely study the man’s cloak. It was finely woven as to resemble a tapestry of colors, shades, and patterns. And his hat matched it for finery, if not audacity, with its silver threads and wide, floppy side pinned up with a brooch fashioned into the shape of a golden lion.

Merlin blanched. The lion had been selected by Vortigern to represent his reign. Why hadn’t he noticed it on the man before?

Ector had positioned himself upon a tall wooden chair at the far end of the hearth, and was still barefoot. A sword lay across his lap,
and lanced to its end were some boar ribs, from which he tore off a chunk of meat and popped it into his mouth.

The man removed his hat, bowed grandly, and then began to speak. “O most glorious Ector, Lord of Dinas Crag and the green valley of the horses of Rheged. I, Fodor map Fercos map Fichan map Firsil, have come to you with a most important message — ”

A bubble rose to the top of Merlin’s stomach, and he tried to hold it in, but it escaped in a loud burp.

Fodor twisted around and glared at him. Turning back to Ector, he declared, “I’m sorry, my lord, but I did not know this man had followed me in. I will not speak in front of someone who wears a mask. Kindly remove him from my presence.”

Ector raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side, chewing. “No.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I must I insist on it. My message is only for the most noble of chieftains, among whose number I count thyself.”

“This man is named Mer — I mean Ambrosius Àille Fionnadh,” Ector said, winking at Merlin.

Merlin blushed. Only Natalenya called him “Àille Fionnadh,” which meant “handsome hair.”

“And as my bard,” Ector continued, “he has my full trust. You will either proceed in his hearing, or you will leave at once.”

Fodor glared at Merlin out of the corner of his eye. “Very well then, I will give you my most precious news in the presence of this . . . this . . . bard, about whom I don’t even know his proper parentage.”

Ector snorted.

“I have been entrusted as an envoy to bring you a message sent far and wide by the Chief-Warrior of the land of Britain, Protector of our Seas and Coasts, and Illustrious High King — none other than Vortigern, the Lion of Britain.”

Ector opened his mouth as if surprised — but then popped in a chunk of boar meat with a layer of crunchy skin, and began chewing noisily.

“And so . . .” the envoy said as he pulled a thick stack of parchments from a tightly woven woolen bag and handed a sheet to the king with a flourish.

Ector held it up and tried to read by the dim light of the fire, scrunching up his forehead in a puzzlement of lines and wrinkles. “I can’t make it out,” he said, and tossed it back toward the man. The paper flew momentarily toward the envoy’s hands but then sailed back down toward the fire.

Fodor lunged and snared the edge. But as he pulled his hand away, the parchment slipped from his pinched hold and fell into the fire, where it lit almost immediately.

Merlin caught Ector’s eye, and a slight smirk appeared at the corner of the chieftain’s mouth as the envoy pulled another parchment from his bag.

“Let me see that one,” Ector said, reaching out his hand. “Maybe it’s written with larger letters.”

The envoy snapped the parchment away and stepped back from Ector. “No need, Lord Ector, I will read it out loud for your benefit.” Clearing his throat, he began:

“Hereby let it be known, on this day, that the glorious and most feared Vortipor, son of High King Vortigern of the land of Britain, has called all men everywhere, including warriors and such that wish to learn the art of war, forthwith, to muster at Glevum in the territory of the Dobunni, there with any horses, for the mutual defense, fortification, and strengthening of the southeastern coast and heartland of Britain, known under their former administrative names of Brittania Prima and Flavia Caesariensis, against the barbarian invaders from the land of the Saxenow — ”

Fodor looked up to find Ector whispering to a servant.

“Can you bring me a flagon of mead? No, no, the brown stuff. Aged better.”

Fodor stomped his foot and cleared his throat until Ector gave him his attention, and then began reading once more:

“Let it be known that all such warriors shall gather themselves
at Glevum to obtain forevermore unto eternity everlasting renown and a glorious remembrance among their surviving relatives. Remuneration and compensation for all such services shall be forthwithly determined by the High King and paid at regular intervals not to be exceeded by one-half the sum of one-twelfth of a gold solidus per new moon . . .”

Ector sneezed loudly and it echoed through the hall, interrupting the reading. “Is that all?”

“No, my lord, it goes quite on, giving preferential dates for the muster, et cetera, et cetera.”

Ector placed a small chunk of boar into his mouth and began chewing it doubtfully. “Then skip it. So Vortigern wants my warriors to fight Saxenow in the soft south to keep the northern kingdom of Rheged safe?”

“Yes, Lord Ector,” Fodor said, bowing. “It is quite an honor, I assure you, and — ”

“Don’t mention it,” Ector said, and then he spit out a chunk of cartilage, which landed on the envoy’s shoulder. “The funny thing is that I don’t recall seeing any Saxenow up here in Rheged. Have you, Ambrosius?”

“No, my lord.”

The envoy brushed the offending chunk from his shoulder and wiped his hand on the edge of a nearby chair.