As the truth sank in, Merlin began to tremble.
Mórgana.
Holding forth the orb, Mórgana commanded it to show her the half-tongue. Purple fire flashed from her palm, and the image inside the orb dulled, brightened, and then clarified into an image of him lying in a pool of congealing blood.
“Is he dead?” Mórdred asked, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth.
“If so,” Mórganthu said, “then the fool’s plan has failed.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “but I need to make sure, and also give instructions to my servants. Wait, and watch.”
She commanded the orb to take her to the half-tongue, and it began to grow in her palm. Scales formed on its surface, and soon it was so heavy she had to set it down. Larger and larger it pulsed until its skin ripped open and blade-like teeth appeared. The mouth gaped and Mórgana threw herself inside. Down, down the slimy throat she swam until darkness overtook her soul and she appeared, ghost-like, within a rocky glade. The sky was full of haze, and the air dry as death. Nearby smoked the ruins of a campfire, and before her lay the body of the half-tongue.
Mórgana pushed him with her foot on his chest. His body rolled and fell back into place, his clothing making a crinkling sound.
“What is this?” She reached inside his tunic and pulled forth a rolled parchment, small, but of good quality. Upon it was written a message, which she read.
The fool thought to warn Arthur! Laughing, she tore the message into bits and threw them into the remains of the fire.
And although he was astute enough to guess some portion of her secrets, the traitor’s warning had failed. But even if he’d succeeded, it would’ve made no difference. That was the beauty of the Voice’s plans — no matter what happens, he always wins.
The half-tongued man let out a gurgling groan, and Mórgana stepped back.
“I must do something about that,” she said. Turning to the woods, she called to her servants, who were nearby waiting for her signal. “Approach me, my warriors!”
From the woods came three hulking shapes. Each wore the same kind of cloak as the half-tongue, and they threw their hoods back and howled, for though they possessed the bodies of men, their faces were like wolves with full snouts, fangs, and yellow eyes.
“Greetings, my warriors. You have done well hunting our stray wolf. Kill him now, and then continue following Arthur’s trail. You remember what I require?”
The lead wolf-head nodded, leapt forward, and soon the half-tongue was dead, in a way that only a wolf can kill.
Mórgana curled her lip in a wide sneer. “Good-bye, Dyslan. I swore I would kill you, and now I have. Life is that simple.”
It was early in the morning on their fifth day of traveling, and Merlin yawned as he goaded his horse down a rocky gulley overgrown with brown, dry scrub. The others rode in front of him, and that was fine as far as Merlin was concerned — he hadn’t slept well the night before, having heard the prowling of some animal outside their camp. He had asked Arthur if they could stay in the city of Mancunium, but Arthur wouldn’t have it, saying that they had fresh supplies and that he’d fallen in love with the open country and sleeping under the stars. Giving over leadership had its downsides.
Though as a leader, Arthur gained in confidence each day, taking hold of his role yet asking advice from Merlin and Peredur, even Culann and Dwin at times.
But they weren’t in a battle, only traveling. And they hadn’t encountered any serious challenge or delay . . . yet. One thing Merlin worried about was bands of thieves attacking them, for these unoccupied lands lay thick with danger.
And then there was the constant fear that gnawed at Merlin — fear that more of Mórgana’s wolf-headed warriors were loose in the land. And the creature prowling around their campsite last night put Merlin’s senses on a raw, ragged edge.
At the bottom of the hillside they joined an ancient road leading from Mancunium to Deva. This sped up their progress only marginally, for the drought had made most of the wetter lands passable, and the roads less necessary.
A short while later, the trees began to thicken, and Dwin, who had the best vision, noticed a man in the far distance wheeling his horse around as if undecided which way to ride. When the stranger spied them approaching, he took off down a deer track into the fastness of the trees.
Merlin put his mask back on. As much as he hated to wear it, he didn’t want word spreading of someone with a scarred face carrying a leather-wrapped harp through the land. Vortigern knew him well enough to go hunting if he heard such a tale.
Soon the forest began to encroach upon the path itself, and Merlin urged his horse closer to the others, eventually settling in beside Arthur. When he rode in the rear, as he had been, every rustle of a squirrel and every dart of a bird became in his mind a wolf head ready to leap out and pull him from his horse. Down into the bracken he’d go, where the creature would open its evil teeth, and . . . But he tried not to think about it.
His nervousness increased as the forest became ever darker and the trees more ancient. Everywhere the leaves were gasping for lack of rain, and many fell, spiraling in a last dance of death before their corpses collected on the forest floor.
Ahead they heard the jingle of tack, and Merlin exchanged a worried glance with Arthur. So far they had met no one on the road, and the deepness of the woods made Merlin worry about bandits. When they crested the next hill, he saw a man on a horse pulling a small wagon, with two other riders beyond. They traveled at a leisurely pace, and Merlin and the others soon overtook them.
The road was narrower here due to the strangling tendrils of the forest, and Arthur held a hand out to slow their approach.
Just ahead, the wooden cart was attached to the back of the horse by long boughs. It had only two wheels, and it was covered in a greased-leather tarp. Hanging from its sides were various pots, pans, and tools that made a soft clanking as the cart bumped down the road.
Peering past the rickety cart, Merlin was shocked to see the size of the horse pulling it. Such raw power was normally used for plowing, but this horse was clearly not meant for such work. The long, feathery hair above its huge hooves had been braided, with little bells attached to each tassel. Likewise, someone had groomed the sleek black mane and woven it through with beautifully colored ribbons.
And it wasn’t just the horse that was of unusual size, for the man upon him was massive, with a torso nearly as wide as the ancient tree trunks that lined the road, and with thick limbs and solid hands. Compared to his body and the horse under him, however, his legs appeared out of proportion: strong, yes, but slightly short for one so large.
The man turned in his saddle to look at them, his suspicious eyes blinking in the dappled light. Upon his boulder-sized head sat a pointed, blue-dyed woolen hat with swinging tassels tipped with decorative spikes made of shiny pewter. His hair topped his head like gray and brown thatch, and he had the thickest eyebrows Merlin had ever seen. His white beard hung down past the man’s waist despite the fact that it was finely braided into a rich tapestry of knotwork and threaded with pewter beads. His tunic was dark-gray under an old brown oil-cloth cloak strewn with patches that had been sewn on using thick sinew thread. His boots were leather, but the heels were made of pewter, and the pointy toes as well.
“Are ya thieves?” the man said, looking directly at Merlin and his mask. “If so, I hain’t seen ones like ya round-about.” His voice was deep, but had a melodious quality to it.
“We aren’t thieves,” Merlin answered, “and you have nothing to fear from us.”
After studying them for a few moments more, the giant of a man appeared satisfied and faced forward. His horse continued its slow gait.
Not seeing an easy way past the huge man and his cart, Merlin became impatient. “If you would be so kind to stand aside,” Merlin called, “we have urgent business to the south.”
The old man ignored him and began whistling.
Merlin cupped his hands, wonderin
g if the man were going deaf. “Kindly stand aside, I said.”
The giant directed his horse over to the side of the trail, turned in his saddle once more, and waved them on. “Pass, pass, ma young masters, even ya in the mask. The road, and all upon it, are free.”
Arthur compelled his mount forward, and Merlin kept pace, just behind. As he passed the giant, he was shocked to find the man’s belt was at eye level. Truly this man was even bigger than the Eirish giant he had fought in his father’s blacksmith shop so many years ago.
After passing, they encountered the two other men in front, blocking their way.
Merlin’s hand went nervously to his sword.
Merlin shared a worried glance with Arthur and began to slowly draw his blade, hoping the giant behind them didn’t notice.
Each of the two men in front, their backs turned, were dressed like the giant, but they were much smaller — in fact, probably about Merlin’s height if not slightly shorter. They wore the same pointed woolen hats with tassels and decorations.
The man on the left had a green hat, with pewter moons and stars on the tassels, and the one on the right had a red hat with . . . pewter hearts? He turned and pulled off his hat, revealing . . . long, blonde, magnificent hair.
A woman!
Then the one on the left took off the green hat, revealing long, reddish-blonde hair.
Both women smiled at Arthur, who let his reins slacken.
Merlin slid his blade back in and let out his breath.
Both women were young and pretty, and their faces enough alike that they could be twins. The one holding the green hat wore a light leaf-colored tunic with beautiful embroidered flowers down the front. The one with the red hat wore a white tunic with scarlet lacework.
“Hello,” they said, almost in unison. Green-hat giggled and said something to her sister.
“Why do you laugh at strangers?” Arthur asked.
“Because,” the red-hatted one said, “because we’re afraid of the woods. We met a man who told us about thieves, and we were just hoping someone would come to protect us.”
“You’re not thieves, are you?” the green hat said, a worried look on her face as she glanced at Merlin.
“Oh . . . ah . . . no,” Arthur said.
“I don’t trust the one with the mask.”
Arthur shook his head. “He’s my father, and he’s a bard. We all know a bard isn’t a thief.”
Red hat looked suspicious of this. “How do we know he didn’t steal the harp?”
“Tas, play it for them.”
This was preposterous. Merlin wasn’t going to risk the harp just because they didn’t like his mask. “Not now.”
Green hat grimaced at Merlin, but then smiled at Arthur. “I suppose since all of you aren’t wearing masks, we can probably trust you to protect us.”
Merlin looked back at the giant. “Surely he could protect you.”
“Oh no,” red hat said, a serious expression on her face. “Do you really think Father could do that? He’s quite old and slow, you see, and wouldn’t last a minute. Imagine . . . a whole band of thieves and only him as guard! Will you protect us?”
Merlin frowned. “What are your names, and where are you from?”
“Names?” spoke the giant behind them. “In yar tongue I’m named Gogirfan Gawr map Llŷr. Some call me Little Crow, but I prefer Gogi. Gogi the bogey, haha, but that is only a jest. And, since ya’re so nosey, we aren’t from anywhere ya know.”
“Somewhere else, then . . . down south?”
“Ya don’t understand. We’re from nowhere and everywhere all at once.” And then he began to sing in his low voice:
We live in our own tents — Don’t pay anyone rents.
We set our temples high — up in the blue-bright sky.
We find our soul’s blisses — Beneath starlight’s kisses.
And live in our own tents — Don’t want to pay house rents!
And when he concluded, he gave a friendly smile to Merlin. “We are Walkers, ya know, and that is what we are.”
By now Culann had ridden up. “So then why are you riding?”
The giant harrumphed as if this were a grave insult. “But my horse is walking, ya know. And the point isn’t that we walk, but that we are Walkers.”
Merlin pondered this. He had heard tales of folk who wandered the land — nomads without a home. Sometimes they had even come through Bosventor where he’d grown up, but he’d never met any himself.
“Oh, please, Papa, that is not the point,” green hat said, and then turning to Arthur, she took in a deep breath and blinked. “My name is Gwenivach, and we really are afraid.”
“Aye, aye,” the other said, looking to Culann. Her voice was just as sweet and musical as her sister’s. “And I am named Gwenivere. The tales about this forest are very frightful, and we need — ”
“An escort to make your journey safe?” Arthur asked.
Both girls nodded.
“Well, my name is Culann, and since we’re traveling the same road, I don’t see why we can’t slow our journey a little to assist you. What say you, Artorius?”
Arthur had a grin on his face, and Merlin thought this whole thing was silly. Any delay heading south would make it that much longer until he could be with his family again.
Gogi coughed. “And it would be much appreciated. I may look big way up here, but ma legs get stiff and I don’t come down very easy ’less I fall, and that, as ya know, would hurt. Very hard for ma to be a proper guard.”
So they rode through the woods at a slow pace, the path wide enough that only Arthur and Culann could ride near to the girls, leaving Dwin back with Merlin, Peredur, and Gogi.
Though Merlin considered the whole thing to be a waste of time, he thought that he should at least be civil, and so he introduced them all to the giant, and then asked some questions.
“So, if you’re always traveling, Gogi, how do you make a living?”
“I do not make a living,” he said. “The living makes ma. I’m a tinsmith by trade, ya know, and that is what I am. In fact, we are on a holy pilgrimage to visit the site of the founding of ma trade, the Island of Tinsmiths.”
“And where is that?”
“South and west. Always south and west.”
“And who is the founder of your trade?”
“Why Josephus, ah course. Nah doubt you ’ave heard of him?”
Merlin shook his head. “No . . . I haven’t.”
“A pity, ya know. Everyone should be tinsmiths. Or at least buy from us, ya know.”
“I’m from Kernow, and they mine tin all around. Have you been there?”
“We’ve been everywhere except upon the road to whar the sun sets, and I’m not ready to go yet, ya know. Kernow is a goodly land, that. Not so many of ya Britons about, with lots of open space, and the grass is soft for ma big head.”
Merlin was confused. “You’re not a Briton?”
“Briton? Nah, nah.” And then he began to sing again:
We travel and tarry — we go and make merry.
Not Picti, nor Britons — who share but a pittance;
Not woebegone talkers — for we are the Walkers
Who travel and tarry — to go and make merry!
“If you’re not a Briton or a Pict, where did you come from? You’re not Roman, so . . . are you Eirish?”
“Eirish? Haha. Nah, nah, once more yar wrong. Ya see, we owned all this land before the Romans or even ya Britons came, a very long time ago it was, aye. Ya Britons killed us, stole it from us, and now we are vera few. We’re the first people, and our bones have been here since the island made us.”
Gogi lifted his chin and called to his daughters. “Wengis! Gweya deena sa kalpe grof stradictin! Difin sgwher gweya nak sgreat.”
Merlin couldn’t remember ever hearing speech such as this, said without accent but entirely puzzling nonetheless.
Gwenivere was talking to Culann at the time, and didn’t respond to her father, but Gw
enivach answered without looking back. “Revy noosa, grapap. Seb shapent. Gweya veha sgooks grot stesa reeha.”
Gogi nodded and then turned to Merlin. “Ya see, we have a different language, aye . . . and ya thought we were Britons! Haha!” And he laughed so much that his horse shook under the tremors.
Merlin acted ambivalent, but he disliked the fact that they could talk without him knowing what they said. It reminded him of the feelings he’d had when the Picti had first made him a slave.
“And by the way, what would it cost ma to buy that un’s horse?” Gogi said, pointing at Arthur’s black stallion, Casva. “I’ve noticed how old he is compared to yar others. He won’t last much longer, ya know, and I’d take him off yar hands, so to speak.”
“Artorius’s horse is only nine — ”
“Ah, but he’s too broken-down for such a fine, hearty lad. When they get to being useless, I even make things from ’em: sinew, leather, horsehair for weavers, hooves for combs, bone for needles. Ya can always make something to sell.”
“I thought you were a tinsmith, not a . . . horse . . .” Merlin tried to bring the word to memory.
“Knacker?”
“But you don’t eat the horses, do ya?” Peredur asked, a sick look on his face.
“Nah, nah. We’re with ya Britons, on that one. Horseflesh should nah be eaten. Even if the Picti eat the eyeballs as a dainty, ya know, I’ll never do such. But I do make a meager bit buyin’ and sellin’ live ones too. A man’s got to get money to eat, ya know. In fact, I’ll trade for just about anything I might be able tah sell. For instance, would any of ya be interested in this?” He pulled from a sack what looked like two pewter cups, strangely shaped, and tied together with a long leather band.
“What is it?” Dwin asked.
“Why, ya don’t know, do ya? Well, that goes to show the ignorance in these parts. It’s tah catch the drops of tears from the eyes of yar horse. If ya gets any, ya drip ’em around yar campsite each night for good luck.”
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 10
