The King's Wizard (3 page)

As he regarded Paschent, there was a sudden rumble from behind him.

He heard the screams of desperate men, the scraping sound made by granite blocks as they ground together like monstrous teeth
chewing workmen to pulp. The ground shook as the walls bulged and buckled, spitting out building stones that struck the earth
like the footsteps of giants. Suddenly the air was thick with rock dust and the powdered mortar that rose from the destruction
like morning mist before beginning to drift down the hill. The screams of the dying dwindled to whimpers and sobs, and the
frightened murmurs of the survivors were punctuated with urgent cries for help.

Through all of the upheaval, Vortigern didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. He could see all he needed to see in the architect’s
face.

“You were saying?” Vortigern’s voice was soft with menace. His hand dropped to the dagger at his belt and he watched Paschent’s
face go grey with the realization of the magnitude of his failure.

“Your Majesty!” a voice called from behind him.

Vortigern turned away from the trembling architect. A troop of his soldiers had just ridden into camp with the soothsayer
at their head. Lailoken actually looked pleased to see Vortigern. This was an event so unusual that it took the king’s mind
completely off the latest collapse of his stronghold.

There was a young man with Lailoken, an unprepossessing lad dressed in threadbare rags and animal skins. Vortigern was surprised:
Lailoken had actually found the fabulous creature he’d gone in search of.

The old Druid dismounted hurriedly and shuffled toward the king. The young man stayed by the horses, regarding the camp with
watchful eyes.

“Your Majesty, I’ve found him—the man without a mortal father!” Lailoken announced excitedly.

Merlin contemplated the king with interest. This was his first actual sight of the man who had haunted his entire life with
his bloodstained deeds, the man who had persecuted Christians and Pagans with a monstrous evenhandedness. Perhaps unconsciously
Merlin had expected to see a misshapen creature as fearsome as any he had encountered in the Land of Magic, but Vortigern
was only a mortal warlord.

In a way, Vortigern reminded Merlin of Idath, Lord of the Wild Hunt and the Kingdom of Winter. And Idath, like the winter
cold, could be a fearsome enemy.

“If this is another of your moth-eaten tricks—!” the king snarled, and Merlin saw Lailoken cringe back. The wind on this hilltop
cut through Merlin’s tattered clothing like a knife, and Merlin could see the more-warmly-dressed Lailoken shiver with more
than cold. He took a few steps forward, knowing that there was nothing he could do to save the old man from Vortigern’s capricious
wrath.

“No—no!” the old man protested. “It’s all true.”

Vortigern turned his attention to Merlin, and the
impact of the king’s arctic gaze caused Merlin to take an unconscious step toward him.

“There’s only one way to find out,” the king growled. With a swift stride forward, Vortigern punched Merlin in the stomach.
“Get a knife and a bowl and cut his throat.”

Merlin fell to the ground, gasping for breath. The winter-dry grass crackled beneath his weight. He could dimly hear Vortigern
calling for someone to cut his throat, and Lailoken’s feeble protests. Merlin shook his head sharply, hoping to clear it,
and struggled painfully to his feet, still panting from the pain.

“He doesn’t look much like a wizard,” Vortigern commented.

“You caught me by surprise,” Merlin answered honestly. What did Vortigern see when he looked at Merlin? A sacrifice for some
ritual the Saxon didn’t even believe in? “Why do you want to cut my throat?”

“It’s not personal,” Vortigern said. There was a dagger in his hand. “I have to mix your blood with the mortar in the castle.
This toothless old fool says it’s the only way to make the building stand. You’ll die easier knowing you die for your country.”
Vortigern smiled mirthlessly.

It wasn’t hard for Merlin to suppose who had put such an outlandish idea into the king’s head. Queen Mab must think that if
Merlin was faced with death, he would have to draw on the power of the Old Ways to save himself, breaking the oath he had
sworn over Ambrosia’s grave.

But Mab was wrong. Merlin had other resources
than magic to draw upon. He had his heart, his will, and his mind.

“I’m afraid Your Majesty is giving the impression of being invincibly stupid,” Merlin said kindly.

Vortigern’s head snapped around. “What was that last word?” the king asked dangerously.

“Stupid,” Merlin repeated clearly.

There was an electric moment of absolute silence, as everyone who had been close enough to hear what Merlin had just said
held their breaths and pretended they hadn’t.

Vortigern’s face revealed nothing. Then, suddenly, the king roared with laughter. Relieved, the others joined in.

“This man thinks he’s me!” Vortigern said, and then, barely pausing for breath, “Why did you call me stupid?”

Merlin took a deep breath and marshaled everything he knew of human nature. “Because it’s obvious why you can’t build a castle
there. Look—”

He gestured, pointing confidently toward a narrow fissure in the cliff just below the castle. When he had been a young man
growing up in the Barnstable Forest, Merlin had been taught natural history by an old hermit named Blaise. From the furrows
in the rock, he could tell that a stream had flowed there a long time ago. He also knew that by now Vortigern must be looking
for a face-saving excuse to abandon this building project without having to admit failure. Perhaps this could be it.

“I’m looking,” Vortigern growled.

“I don’t see anything,” Paschent said, clutching his architect’s tools nervously against his chest.

“Can’t you see the stream?” Merlin asked persuasively. He visualized the stream in his mind as it must once have run, a sparkling
rill leaping from rock to rock, and willed the others to imagine it as well.

“It runs into a great cavern below.” And that meant that if Vortigern ever managed to get the tower to stand, its weight would
cause it to collapse and break through the roof of the cavern below anyway.

“There’s no water there—I swear,” Paschent said frantically.

“I can see it,” Vortigern snarled menacingly, turning on his architect. “We can all see it. You wanted to build a castle on
water
?”

“But—but—but—” Paschent stammered.

Now was the moment when Merlin should have taken control of the situation, persuaded Vortigern that he’d discovered the underground
stream through his own common sense, and found some way to slip invisibly away from the king’s notice. But even as he formed
the thought it floated away, just as his consciousness was.
No! Not here!
Merlin cried silently, but the force of the vision was too strong. Merlin became only a fragment of awareness, a leaf in
the gale that was swirling him up to heaven. The mantle of prophecy descended upon him, blotting out everything else.

“That’s not all that’s wrong,” he heard himself say distantly. “You’ve woken the dragons.…”

The outside world vanished. With his inner sight, Merlin saw the vast grey landscape of dreams, and on
that infinite plain two mighty armies clashed. The winter chill no longer troubled him; though the wind was enough to loft
the armies’ banners into the sky, Merlin did not feel it. He was a disembodied observer, nothing more.

Above the two hosts flew their battle standards: one a white dragon on a black field, the other a red dragon against a background
as white as snow.

“I see two dragons, a red and a white.…”

“My crest has a white dragon,” Vortigern said excitedly.

As the armies ran toward each other, the bright flicker of light on their sword blades became the dazzle of sunlight on the
scales of two enormous dragons flying above them, one white as frost, one red as flame. As Merlin watched, the two beasts
and the armies they embodied met in a clash of swords and scales. Their roaring deafened him, the screams of fury and pain
chilled his blood.

In moments it was over. The dragons faded away to become pieces of cloth once more. The black banner hung limp and tattered,
while the red dragon waved triumphantly against a sapphire sky.

Merlin blinked, refocusing on his surroundings with difficulty as the images of his vision slowly faded. Everyone was staring
at him, some frightened, some hopeful.

“What did you see?” Vortigern demanded

“The red dragon conquered the white,” Merlin answered simply. He didn’t believe in lying, and even if he did, he suspected
it would be very unhealthy to lie to Vortigern, no matter what the truth was.

“It’s an omen!” Lailoken said, before he remembered who his audience was. Vortigern’s banner was the white dragon. “Er… wouldn’t
you say, Sire? I mean, it
could
be an omen…” the old man’s voice trailed off uncertainly.

Vortigern looked from Lailoken to Merlin, his eyes narrow with suspicion. Merlin could tell that Vortigern had not quite decided
what to do, but the king was legendary for swift and ruthless decision-making. He was obviously waiting for more information.

Just then, there was a clattering sound as a large party of knights rode into Vortigern’s camp in a great hurry. Before the
horses had stopped moving, the knight in the lead had vaulted from his horse and rushed to the king’s side.

“Your Majesty—Prince Uther has landed from Normandy with a great army!”

“He’s marching on Winchester,” said a second knight, coming up behind the first.

Vortigern’s response was an elemental howl of rage. He glared at his men, about to leap into action against this new threat,
when suddenly he remembered Merlin.

“You foresaw all this,” Vortigern said, his voice a deadly adder’s hiss.

“I am Merlin. I see things unknown,” Merlin said, with more confidence than he felt at the moment. It was as much truth as
boast, but saying it aloud made him uncomfortable. It seemed too much like tempting Mab to attack him.

“What are your orders, Sire?” Vortigern’s commander asked urgently.

“Gather my armies. We march on Winchester,” Vortigern said, turning away from Merlin.

The wind caught the king’s black cloak and filled it like a sail, whipping it away from his body so that his scaled golden
armor gleamed in the sun. The king took no notice. His knights hurried to obey him, and all around them the camp began to
seethe like a boiling cauldron as the news of Prince Uther’s landing spread through it.

The construction of the tower that had obsessed Vortigern for the last seven years was forgotten as if it had never been.
The king had a new and more urgent threat to face.

“Why doesn’t it ever stop?” Vortigern asked, as if only to himself. Suddenly he drew his sword with one fluid motion and laid
it against the side of Merlin’s neck. “I’ve been fighting my enemies for twenty years. I crush one and another takes his place.”

More knowledge than that of the white dragon’s defeat had come to Merlin in his vision. He had a part to play in Vortigern’s
destruction, though he did not know precisely what it was yet. But perhaps through destroying Vortigern, he could strike at
Mab as well.

“Perhaps you need me to foretell the future,” Merlin said smoothly, trying to ignore the cold weight of the sword at his throat.
“Then you could crush them all before they had a chance to cause trouble,”

The words were spoken lightly, but Vortigern took them at face value. “Yes, that would be helpful, Merlin,” he said seriously.

“Of course, then you couldn’t cut my throat,” Merlin added.

“No.… You’re obviously an extraordinary man.” Vortigern lifted the sword away from Merlin’s neck. “But I can’t have extraordinary
men running around loose.”

Before Merlin could react, Vortigern leaped forward and struck Merlin a hammerblow to the side of the head with his mailed
fist. The young man dropped senseless to the ground.

“You’re just not quick enough,” Vortigern said smugly to the unconscious wizard. “It’s a mistake my enemies make, too. They
always think before they act. I act before I think, so I act first! That’s why I always have the advantage.…” He prodded
Merlin with the toe of his boot, and then, satisfied that the young prophet wasn’t shamming unconsciousness, motioned to his
guard to take him away.

“Mount up! We ride for Pendragon Castle—not you, you’re out of a job,” he added, pointing a minatory finger at Lailoken.

“But Sire…” the old soothsayer quavered. He wasn’t quite sure what Vortigern meant, but he knew that leaving the king’s service
was usually fatal.

Captain Rhys led Vortigern’s black stallion forward. Vortigern vaulted into the saddle. He shouted with laughter, looking
down at the expression on Lailoken’s face. “Why so surprised? You must have known this would happen. You’re an expert on the
future!”

Vortigern rode away, still laughing. Lailoken stared after him for a moment, then began to shuffle in the opposite direction
as fast as his old legs would
carry him, lest the king change his mind. A moment later, Paschent joined him.

Pendragon Castle stood as it always had, a brooding presence looking down upon the River Thames from the ancient Roman city
of Caer Londinium.

Once this city had been sacred to Lughd of the Long Hand and Bran of the Ravens, and ravens still flocked around the tallest
tower of Castle Pendragon. But Bran and Lughd had been supplanted by Mars and Apollo and the eagles of Rome, and Lughd’s Dene
had become the City of Legions. In the end, even Rome had left, and for a time the New Religion had reigned here, until Vortigern
had taken the throne by treachery and betrayal. Vortigern worshiped no power but his own dark ascending star, and in his name
crimes were done that shocked the ancient stones of Pendragon Castle.

Princess Nimue sat in her inner chamber, her back resolutely turned to the narrow window-slit. Her embroidery sat forgotten
on her lap. It was too dark to sew by now, and in any event she’d dismissed her waiting women—most of whom were Vortigern’s
spies—in order to savor a little precious solitude. Any time that she did not have to play-act for the king’s benefit was
priceless… the Princess Nimue had been given years in which to lose all taste for duplicity.