Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (63 page)

Merlin pushed the goat away from the oats and knelt to scoop what grain he could find back into the bag. “How old?”

“Oh, the bigger one weren’t more’n yer age, an’ the other’s about fourteen, I’d say.”

“That’s do-nothing Rondroc and Dyslan. I meant the one with the harp. Was that the mother?”

“Oh, no,” Garth said. “Must be the daughter . . . but a lot older’n your sister. She held herself straight and ladylike. Does she come to chapel?”

“Natalenya and her mother came two weeks ago. Tregeagle doesn’t let them come every week.” Merlin had never heard the magister’s daughter sing so sweetly before.

Garth tapped him. “Hey, look at those horses!”

Merlin rubbed his chin and closed his eyes. “Pretty?”

“Very! That yellin’ wagon driver tied ’em to a post an’ — ”

“Must be Erbin.” Merlin chuckled and swatted Garth. “But I’m talking about Natalenya. I don’t remember what
she
looks like. Is she pretty?”

“Blurs don’t count for seein’, huh? I guess y
ou’d
think she’s pretty. Long brown hair and green dress, but
I
don’t go for that. The horses look fine, though. White, with such shiny coats — an’ so tall they match that fancy wagon. Me father’s old wagon just brought fish to market. Sure woulda helped us gettin’ the charcoal if I still had it.”

Garth paused for a moment, and Merlin remembered that the boy’s father had drowned in a storm not six months before while fishing on the Kembry sea. Twelve winters old, and Garth had already lost both of his parents.

After clearing his throat, Garth continued, “But
this
wagon’s a real beauty, with a wide seat up front. The back box is fine for sittin’ too, though you
could
just haul with it.” The chicken jumped on Merlin’s shoulder, and Garth swatted it away. “Get off, you!”

Merlin stood. “Better deliver these things and get the charcoal.”
He righted the barrow, and they refilled it. He could still hear Natalenya’s voice filtering from her home, and he wished he had something for her.

“Psst,” Garth said. “Those nasty boys are comin’ over.”

Merlin turned toward the approaching footsteps and extended his hands in greeting, only to have them ignored.

“What are you doing here? Spying?” Rondroc said as he stepped up to Merlin. The older of Tregeagle’s sons, Rondroc stood slightly taller than Merlin. His dark clothing lay on him like a shadow, and from his side protruded a short black scabbard.

Dyslan, the younger brother, wore reds and blues, with what looked to be a shining golden belt. He yanked on Garth’s voluminous robe. “What’s this for? Monks are getting smaller all the time.”

“It keeps me warm,” Garth said, his voice tight.

“It’s kind of like a dress,” Dyslan mocked. “If you had darker hair and acted kind of weird, I might have thought you were Merlin’s sister.”

“Leave Ganieda out of this,” Merlin said, feeling his pulse speed up.

Rondroc pointed to the wheelbarrow. “What do you have a goat for? Taking your whole flock to pasture?” He and Dyslan laughed.

Merlin gripped the handles tighter. “We just had a look at the fortress.”

“You?” Dyslan said. “Had a look? Ha!”

“Let’s go, Garth.” Merlin lifted the wheelbarrow, rolled it forward, and accidentally bumped into Rondroc’s leg.

Rondroc grabbed the front edge of the barrow, stopping it. “You did that on purpose.” His words were slow and dark. “No one uses
our road
without permission, so now you’ll be paying our tax.”

“Tax?” Merlin said. “My father pays every harvest.”

“I’ve heard that your father’s
behind
on his taxes.”

“Liar. Our smithy does a good business, so the taxes are never late. And there’s no tax for just walking.”

“There is now.” Rondroc rummaged through the barrow. His smirking voice made Merlin glad he couldn’t clearly see Rondroc’s face.

“None o’ that is ours to give,” Garth said.

“Hmm . . . a tasty goat feast would pay your fee.” The goat bleated as Rondroc picked it up.

“Stop ri — ” Garth began, but there was a thump, and his voice choked as he fell to the dirt. Dyslan stood behind him laughing.

“We’ll roast it on the fire tonight.”

“Leave it alone,” Merlin said as calmly as he could. He slipped his staff from the barrow, and the wood felt cold in his hands.

Rondroc set the goat down and swaggered over to Merlin. “Gonna make me?”

“Maybe,” Merlin said, offering up a silent prayer. With his staff he tried to push Rondroc away, but the dark form disappeared. Someone kicked Merlin in the back, and he fell, banging his arm on the side of the wheelbarrow.

Rondroc laughed.

In the distance, a harp strummed faintly.

Merlin scrambled up and turned to face his mocker.

“Look out for Dysla — ” Garth’s voice rang out.

Too late. Rondroc shoved Merlin in the chest, and he fell back over Dyslan, who was crouching behind him.

A sharp pain shot through Merlin’s skull as he bashed his head on a rock. Laughter swirled around him like thick fog, and for a moment Merlin lay still as his mind groped for its bearings.

“Stop it,” Garth said. “Leave him alone!”

The voices intensified and faded as Merlin sat up. Time slowed. Someone yelled in pain at his left. Using the barrow, Merlin pulled himself up to a standing position and winced at the throbbing in his head. “Garth?”

The horses whinnied, and Merlin didn’t hear the harp anymore.