The Mammoth Book of Merlin

by Mike Ashley

  MORTE D’ESPIER

  MAXEY BROOKE

  Maxey Brooke (1913–1994) was a qualified research chemist but was perhaps best known for his books of puzzles and mathematical problems, such as 150 Puzzles in Crypt-Arithmetic (1963). He used this lateral thinking to write several stories featuring Merlin as a proto-detective, starting with “Morte d’Alain” (Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 1952), which I reprinted in The Pendragon Chronicles. Here’s the second of them.

  And now at long last war had come to the realm. The court was in a turmoil. Many a knight, having waxed fat from five years of good living, found himself scarce able to don his cuirass. All night the fires of the armourer and the smith burned. All day provender was brought to the castle and packed in the battle-wains. And amidst the hustle and bustle I stood by useless. Wouldst that my father had apprenticed me to a knight, or even to a craftsman, rather than a sorcerer, I thought bitterly.

  “Nay, my son,” quoth my master Merlin whom I had not heard approach. “Your time will come. And soon.”

  I looked at him, taken aback. “Then you can read thoughts as ’tis rumoured.”

  “Nay. I had but to look at your face. ’Twas written there as in great runes.”

  “Oh.” Sorcery always seems so simple after my master Merlin explains it. “And when will that be?”

  “Alas, I cannot read the future, although there are those who are convinced I can. I can only predict how future events are influenced by the past. Ere this conflicts ends, every man’s special talents will be used. Come, even now your skills are needed in the Council Chamber.”

  The Council Chamber! ’Twould be the first time I had accompanied my master to his closetings with our King. And there was no man prouder than I in the length and breadth of England. My skills indeed! I would show my master that he did not err in having me accompany him.

  We crossed the courtyard together, through the Great Hall of the Round Table and to a small chamber adjoining. Seated there was our King, his captains and chief stewards. King Arthur smiled when he saw us.

  “Ah, my good Merlin and his young pupil. We were about to begin. Enter and be seated. There and there.”

  We bowed gravely as befits magicians, and sat as ordered – my master at our King’s right hand and I behind him at a small table whereon were quills, paper, and ink – ink of my own making, from nut-galls and iron rust, though there are those who believe that I conjure it from a familiar.

  ’Twas then I learned I was not to be consulted on the conduct of the war but rather to keep an account of what transpired. For the knights, great men and brawny though they were, and full courageous and skilled in all arms, could scarce tell one letter from another. Even our good King could read and write but haltingly. As my master explained to me later, a king need not be scribe or magician when he can command the skills of those who are. Thus he can keep his mind free for the duties of state – even as I handled many of the details of his sorcery so that my master could concentrate on its use.

  And though my council was not required I learned much about the conduct of a war. Scarce had I realized how many details were needed.

  Nor was it the last council I attended and kept records thereof. But when the army marched off and quiet once again settled on the court, no longer were the captains and stewards present – but only our King, my master, and I who listened each day to the reports from runners and thus followed the battle from afar.

  Far to the north was the wall built across Britain by the Romans. Even though King Arthur’s domain extended beyond the wall, few sons of the nobles of that part of the realm were sent to the Court to become Knights of the Round Table. Clannish they were, and harsher of speech and darker of skin than was becoming an Englishman. And they were banded together under the leadership of one Sir Brian, who now called himself King Brian, and were challenging the authority of King Arthur, Ruler of Britain by the Grace of God.

  For some days the reports were neither good nor bad. Our army had established itself near the great wall. Sorties had been made to seek out the enemy and try his strength. But as the day passed, the reports became increasingly bad. Our sorties were ambushed. Outposts were ridden against in force. And always when our forces made contact, ’twas against superior numbers though ’twas known that they did not have as great an army as we. And at last our King could contain himself no longer. His great red beard bristled and his mighty fist crashed down on the table. He roared in a voice of thunder.

  “By the Almighty! Do we have an army or a rabble! Why do they not move on that infernal Brian and crush him once and for all? Why, I ask you? Why?”

  My master faced him calmly as I did try, though I confess I was quaking inside.

  “They have moved time and again, Sire, but always Brian eludes them.”

  “That I know. But how? Is he a greater warrior than my knights? Is he a greater warrior then I?”

  “Nay, Sire, nay. But long have I studied the reports and at last I think I see a pattern.”

  “Speak on, man. Speak!”

  “No matter where we move in strength, there he is not. But where we leave a weak garrison, there he attacks. He could do that only if he knew our plans.”

  “Mean you there is a traitor in our midst?” The King’s words were low and intense – more frightening even than his roar.

  “That I doubt. Your men are trusted. But a spy . . .”

  “A spy! How like that black-hearted scoundrel to use so un-British a device.” His anger quieted and he toyed with his beard. “But how, Merlin? How could a spy learn our secret plans?”

  “That too, I think I know. Were I but with the army I could seek him out.”

  “Then you shall be with the army. Come, Merlin. Come, Alaric. We ride at dawn.”

  And at dawn we rode. Our King, my master with full saddlebags, a dozen squires and men-at-arms. Hard we rode, and fast and long. At night I could scarce sit to eat my meal. And at last we reached the army unannounced as night was falling.

  Our King strode into the great tent where the captains were assembled. He pushed up his visor and glared at them.

  “What manner of knights are you? Unable to crush an army half your strength.”

  They leaped to their feet, looking for all the world like a group of stable-boys caught gaming at dice.

  Sir Launcelot spoke: “Your Majesty, if there be fault it is ours. The men are full brave and eager. But fighting this Brian is like fighting a flea. Where you strike, there he is not.”

  “So,” roared our King, “I must travel across half of Britain to teach you how to catch a flea.”

  “Nay, Sire, I did not mean . . .”

  “Enough! If we cannot win by force, then we must win by sorcery. Merlin, take charge.”

  Dark were the flushes on the cheeks of the fighting men. For in the past most of them had matched wits with my master, and had always been the loser. But ere long their resentment died, for Merlin spoke to them softly and reasonably. And they were men of great courage who could listen to reason.

  “In this tent you plan your campaigns?”

  “Aye.”

  “And ’tis well guarded that none may eavesdrop?”

  “Aye. ’Tis not well that our men know of the plans too early.”

  “Do these plannings last long?”

  “Surely, good Merlin. One does not map out a battle in a moment.”

  “Then during these plannings you must need refreshment?”

  “Aye. ’Tis a dry business.”

  “Who, then, furnishes the refreshment?”

  “Why, the serving-men, of course.”

  “Then others are present while the battles are being talked of?”

  The light of understanding came into their eyes. Our King spoke softly.

  “The serving-men. By the Saints, ’tis one of the serving-men who betrayed us.” Then in his great voice, “Ho! The guards! Fetch in the serving-men. And the chief steward!”

  And in a trice
they were brought. Six lads clad in leather jerkins, with the white napkin which was the symbol of their rank at their belts, and behind them a little fat man whose belly was enough to denote him chief steward.

  They lined up before our King with eyes downcast. He looked at them full long.

  “One of you has betrayed me. One of you has eaten my salt and betrayed me to my enemy. Speak! Which of you is the Judas?”

  There was a tremor in the line, but none spoke. King Arthur turned to the chief steward.

  “Bare their backs. A taste of my riding crop and we shall know the guilty one.”

  Merlin touched his elbow.

  “Sire, under pain they will all confess. And we will be none the wiser.”

  “Then hang them all! We will rid this camp of vermin.”

  “And you will carry to your grave the killing of five innocent men.”

  Our King sat down heavily. He put his hand to his eyes.

  “Then how? How will we know which to hang?”

  “Allow me, Sire. Alaric, my saddlebags.”

  I brought them to him with haste. He took therefrom a jar, in the likes of which good wives store treacle. He poured from it on the ground, forming a circle about the six serving-men.

  “And now, remove the torches.”

  When this was done, the tent became not dark as would be expected. But the circle about the serving-men glowed green, filling the tent with a fearsome light. I could see fear on the faces of all. But they could not know, as did I, that the magic circle was but foxfire mixed with honey.

  My master said slowly, in deep tones, “There you stand within a circle of fire. And the spirit of fire will seek out the guilty one . . . Hold out your right hands!”

  Six trembling hands were extended. Into each Merlin dropped a white stone the size of two thumbs.

  “Clasp the stone tightly. If you are innocent you have nothing to fear. But the spirit of fire will have no mercy on the guilty one. Tightly, I say, more tightly!”

  For full a hundred heartbeats they stood clasping the stones. Then great drops of sweat began to form on the forehead of one. He clenched his teeth as in pain. The fingers of his hand slowly opened, as though against his will. The stone fell to the ground and there in the palm of his hand was a great blister, as though he had been holding a red-hot coal.

  “Bring in the torches,” cried my master.

  This was done. The lad stood there staring at his hand in disbelief.

  “Who is this wretch?” asked our King of the chief steward.

  “He is one Richard Dale, Your Majesty.”

  “And where did he come from?”

  “He was assigned me by Sir Marvin.”

  “Then call Sir Marvin and let him explain.”

  “That he cannot do. Sir Marvin was killed in the first day of fighting.”

  “Then you know not that Sir Marvin truly assigned him?”

  “He came to me saying that. I was in sore need of serving-men and took him.”

  “You could not know,” said our King. Then wearily, “Take the lad to the hangsman.”

  Then for the first time the lad spoke. He squared his shoulders and looked our King full in the eyes.

  “Nay, Sire. Condemn not Robert dhu Brian to so base a death.”

  “Robert dhu Brian? Sir Brian’s nephew. Very well, then. Execute him with honor at dawn.”

  They took him away. Could I but say that after his death the war was quickly over! But ’twould not be so. True, Sir Brian’s army met with defeat, and soon, but many weary months were to pass ere all his followers were searched out and found.

  On the way home, naught was spoken of the events that had transpired. ’Tis not well for sorcerers to discuss their art before those not versed in magical lore. But at last we were alone in our chambers. Merlin was leaning back in his great chair, staring at the ceiling.

  “Master, you have not taught me to control the spirit of fire.”

  He looked at me.

  “There is no spirit of fire.” He thought a moment. “No, I am wrong. There is a spirit of fire, but not a supernatural one. You know the natural spirit full well.”

  “I do?”

  I tried to remember all he had taught me, but I remembered not that. He reached into a box beside him and tossed me a white stone.

  “Hold that in your hand. Tightly.”

  I grasped the stone. In a moment I felt it becoming warm. Then hot. In alarm, I dropped it. My palm was already red.

  “Examine it.”

  I picked up the stone carefully. It was now cool but my palm was still hot. ’Twas but a piece of sandstone. I smelled it and understanding came.

  “Mustard,” I exclaimed. “The spirit of fire is naught but the spirit of mustard which burns the skin even as fire.”

  “Aye. One stone was soaked in oil of mustard and I had but to drop it into the hand of the guilty one.”

  I smiled to myself at having been able to riddle the secret. And ’twas minutes before I realized that I had not riddled the full secret.

  “The guilty one, Master? How could you tell to which servingman to give the stone?”

  Merlin smiled.

  “As I gave the stones, I examined their hands. That of a serf or even a freedman is horny with toil. Only a noble could have had a hand as soft as that of Robert dhu Brian.”

  KING’S MAGE

  TANITH LEE

  Tanith Lee (b. 1947) is one of Britain’s most accomplished and most respected writers of fantastic fiction. Ever since her first adult novel, The Birthgrave (1975), Tanith has developed a formidable body of work. In some she creates her own world of legends, such as her Tales from the Flat Earth sequence, starting with Night’s Master (1978), drawn from the Arabian Nights, whilst in others, like Red as Blood (1983), she offers her own rewrite of folk and fairy tales. Surprisingly she has written few Arthurian stories, although many of her tales of doomed knights reflect the Arthurian paradox. You will find her “The Minstrel’s Tale” in Parke Godwin’s anthology Invitation to Camelot (1988), and the beautifully Arthurianesque “The Kingdoms of the Air” in the special Tanith Lee issue of Weird Tales (Summer 1988).

  He looked down from his dark tower, and saw the land as he had seen it, changing only with seasons and weather, times of day, for almost two decades. The familiarity of the view did not reassure. It bored him, oppressed him and, on bad days, made him fearful. But then, he had everything to fear. They thought, those golden young men and silvery girls, they thought his fears were of sombre terrors and Hellish acts they could never, even in their high and incredible and stupid, blind courage, dare to contemplate. Only he was brave enough to stare into the mirror and beyond the veil. But he knew such things were only shadows, or lies. What he truly feared was they themselves, the knights and ladies, the beautiful ones. And, obviously, himself.

  The view was, though, quite pleasing. The rolling plain with its fields now bronze and green, the soft hills rising away to bluer taller heights beyond. The river. The walled castle-city, with its stone towers and streaming pennants. And, westward, the forest, haunt of wolves and bears and lynxes. Useful, the forest. They went there, of course, the young men and girls, they went Maying and hunting and sometimes trysting, under the green summer boughs. But he knew the forest in winter, and moonlight glades and caves, the rare plants and herbal secrets. Here, at the tower top in the room to which, very seldom, any of them intruded, rested polished skulls he had found, collections of feathers, mossy stones. At these they looked askance and with reverence. They imbued his childish treasures with romantic power: they were his.

  He rubbed his shoulders. Today both were sore. There was a herb for that, or a bee-sting might be better, but he did not like to kill bees just to ease himself for a month or so. He must expect discomfort. He was very old, in his fifty-second year, an age few others would reach. Even the king, goldenmost of them all, even Artur would probably not live into his forties, let alone any longer. His pale beautiful queen would doubtle
ss die of childbearing, as half the women did. Then again, they had been married a while, and she showed no signs. She might be barren. Or Artur was impotent, another possibility. He was a man for men, liked his knights about him, fighting and jousting and gaming, even praying in the chapel. The company of women made Artur uneasy. He held them at a distance, wanting them to be icons. Gweneva was fitted for that, with her long flaxen hair, her pale skin and cool, moated eyes.

  The old man had never had much taste for women either. In his youth they had frightened him, one especially, whose image, like a bright hot yellow flame, had never left him. By thirty he had lost all inclination, and Artur’s laws finally, which put women upon pedestals and left them there, made casual lust difficult, and the old man was not displeased. The young managed as they could, but mostly they did everything but lie together – or they did so with a sword between them, trembling with need, until one or both was released by a spasm less pleasure than exasperation.

  Those who fell knew better than to come to the mage for assistance. There was a village witch who could do as much as he, in any case. Old Thistle it had been, once, though who had the function now he did not know. She too kept clear of him.

  Merlinus sighed. He must go on with the grinding of the pestle and mortar, hurtful to his joints though it was. He had been out before dawn, out in that forest. Foxes were still playing under the trees, slender amber creatures that fled without much fright, more from scorn, at his arrival. He had plucked the funguses, recognizing them by their Satanic shape. He knew well the places where they grew.

  Over the plain below the castle, rooks cawed, and Merlinus peered to see what disturbed them. His sight was not as sharp as it had been, but at a distance he could make out things quite well. He saw a mailed and armoured figure, fiery in the early sunlight, a plume of dull red floating from his helm. A knight, and on the track to the tower. Wanting something very much, or he would not have dared to trouble the king’s mage.