The veins in Merlin’s neck began to pulse and his breathing quickened. The thief was trying to steal another of their horses!
The man cinched his rope tight around the head of the horse stuck in the riverbed and then turned to look at Merlin.
His face went white.
With the fragility of the bridge, Merlin knew he couldn’t ride Peredur’s horse across with any speed. Therefore he leapt off, laid his harp on the brown grass, and ran up the bridge.
The man frantically tried to get the rope loose, but couldn’t. By the time Merlin closed the distance, the man had drawn his knife.
Merlin halted, rethinking his plan to grapple him, and drew his sword instead.
The man lunged at Merlin, his blade seeking Merlin’s sword hand, but a broken board made him lurch and miss.
“Get away!” Merlin yelled, swinging to force him backward.
The man held his ground but ducked, causing Merlin’s sword to cut a slice in the top of his hat.
Still holding the coil at the end of the rope in his left hand, the man threw it at Merlin.
The rope hit Merlin in the face, stinging his left eye and blinding him momentarily. He swiped to keep the man back, but the thief was already running down the opposite side of the bridge.
Merlin tripped on the rope and fell on his side to the boards. The one under his shoulder groaned, cracked, and snapped. Merlin fell, and he landed on his back in the mud. The putrid, stinking mud.
A dead frog popped out from the ooze and its toothless mouth gaped at him.
It was a long time before Merlin was able to extract himself from the muck and, with the help of the thief’s rope and Peredur’s horse, pull his horse free from the mess.
About that time Arthur, Culann, and Dwin came riding back to find out what had happened.
Merlin told them the story, and they cheered at the recovery of Merlin’s horse, even if it was covered in mud and had a torn saddle strap.
“Where are Gogi and his daughters?” Merlin asked.
“They went on ahead.”
“Good riddance,” Merlin said under his breath.
Arthur heard him and glared. “What’s wrong with Gogi?”
“He’s bad luck, with worse advice.”
“You should have ridden farther to the left.”
“I never heard him say that. He made that up!”
“No, he didn’t!”
Merlin cleaned off some of the mud coating his saddle. “Well, it’s not Gogi you like, anyway. It’s Gweni-what’s their names.”
“Don’t bring them into this.”
“Why not? You’ve been talking to them all day.”
“Well . . . they’re nice. At least they speak to me, unlike the girls back home.”
“Perhaps, but Gogi’s daughters don’t know when to keep their mouths shut, either.”
“What happened wasn’t their fault.”
The hurt in Arthur’s voice cut Merlin’s anger short. He clenched his teeth together and drew a deep breath through his nose — a mistake, considering the filth. He’d spoken too rashly. Whether or not the boy acted like a king, Merlin owed him the same respect he would have given to Uther.
Placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, he met the boy’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Let’s get moving.” Arthur said, shaking off Merlin’s hand and mounting Casva again.
Merlin was careful not to forget his bag with the scrap of Natalenya’s skirt. Slinging his harp behind him, he climbed onto his horse and rode it bareback. At least they could stink together.
By sundown, their party still hadn’t located Gogi, Gwenivere, and Gwenivach. It was as if the three had simply disappeared. Arthur, Culann, and Dwin searched all along the trail, and if so many other horses and wagons hadn’t come through, they would’ve been able to track them. As it was, they wasted too much time trying to interpret the muddled signs.
Although they passed through the promised village, they found no sign of the Walkers, and pressed on until the light began to fail. As much as Merlin didn’t like the giant and the girls, he began to worry that something bad had befallen them. Thieves did roam the forest — he knew that now — and visions of the giant slain and thrown in some ditch floated at the back of Merlin’s conscience. Three times that night he sat up with a start, thinking he had heard the distant scream of a girl. But the woods were always silent and dark, and he was forced to wonder if he had imagined it.
Merlin awoke to Arthur shaking his boot.
“Time to get up. I want to get on the trail early.”
Merlin sat up and rubbed his right shoulder, which still hurt from his tussle with the thief. “Do you forgive me for yesterday?”
“I do.”
“Maybe we’ll catch up to them farther on.”
“We should have found them yesterday. They can’t have just disappeared.”
Dwin, who was already up and packing his horse, called frantically from near the woods. “Arthur! Come look at this!”
Merlin and Arthur ran over, leaving Peredur and Culann to wake themselves.
“What is it?” Dwin asked.
Merlin looked, and there in the horse manure was the print of a wolf, though larger than any Merlin had ever seen. Looking more closely, Merlin saw something else — the print was more elongated than it should have been, almost as if the pads had been stretched.
“Is it one of the wolf-heads?” Arthur asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen a wolf this large.”
They broke camp quickly and in silence.
Not once that day did they see a sign of Gogi and his daughters. Arthur even asked a party of traveling merchants if they had encountered them farther down the road, but they had not.
After a brief stop on the outskirts of Deva to purchase a new horse for Dwin and to repair Merlin’s saddle, they continued on, and each day thereafter was the same. No word. No sign. And as they traveled south toward Glevum, it became hotter and drier. The trees were emaciated, the grass nearly dead, and it became almost too hot to breathe. Sweat soaked Merlin’s clothes, and though this helped to keep him cool, it was the most miserable traveling he’d done in many a year.
How long would the drought last?
Merlin had thought it bad up north, but this was like nothing he’d ever seen. And the suffering made it worse. The crops were already withered and the cattle had nothing but dry grass to eat. One village they passed had been completely abandoned, and Merlin found out why when they tried to draw water from the village well — it was completely dry. Dead sheep lay on the hills, infested with worms and devoured by flies.
And this made Merlin worry for their horses. As much as they let them drink, they seemed to need even more. Thankfully, only ten leagues south of Deva they found a path that led them along the western bank of the Habrenaven River. The water was low, stale, and brown. But at least it was water.
The journey took six more hot, arduous days before the land began to slowly drop and the river to swell from other tributaries. They were approaching Glevum. Merlin advised Arthur to cautiously approach from the forest rather than the open road along the river.
“What’s there to worry about?” Arthur asked. “He doesn’t know I’m even alive.”
“Many of his warriors knew your father, and they may see the resemblance.”
“Do I really look like him?”
“Bedwir says so. I never saw your father clearly myself.”
“You were still blind then?”
“Yes.”
“What about my mother? Tell me about her.”
“She was kind to me, and your sisters were sweet . . . tender, I’d say. They had an innocence about them that told me your mother had shielded them well from the wars your father had to fight. It must have been hard for her. All I ever did was share a meal with them.”
“I should have liked to have done even that.”
Merlin smiled. “You were there too.”
“Too yo
ung to remember. Except in my dreams.”
“One day you’ll meet them. One day.”
“I know, but it doesn’t seem real. You tell me I’m the High King, and I try to be . . . I try to lead, but I’m just me. Dwin treats me differently, sure, but I don’t think I like it. At least Culann hasn’t changed.”
“He will in time,” Merlin said, but his words fell on deaf ears. He could tell Arthur felt lost, here at the edge of the unknown. Vortigern. His father’s murderer. Saxenow invaders growing stronger each day. The fate of Britain. And only a part day’s ride until they would arrive at Glevum, the place where all of these fears twisted and coiled together.
“I had another dream,” Arthur said, interrupting Merlin’s thoughts. “The woman with the black hair appeared to me again and called my name — Arthur. She’s the only one beyond the valley of Dinas Crag who knows my name.”
“I told you what I thought before.”
“That she’s some phantom of your sister.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have any fear when I dream of her.”
“She’s — ”
“Yes, I know. Don’t accuse me. I’m not that shallow.”
“But are you looking deep enough? Anyone can talk smoothly.”
“All I sense is sadness. A longing to know me.”
“And to kill you.”
Arthur’s eyes hardened for a moment. “I don’t believe that.”
Merlin said no more.
That night they camped in the woods, as he’d advised. The moon was full, sending black shadows of trunk and bough across their sleeping forms. And the forest was strangely quiet. A gray hush, and then nothing. Like something waited, fretting quietly and plotting. Merlin could feel it. And when he finally fell asleep, men with the heads of wolves lurched through his dreams, each one dragging away the corpse of a man he had killed.
Merlin awoke with a start. It was still dark, but a slim line of red showed that dawn wasn’t far off, so he built the fire up a little and baked an early breakfast of oatcakes for the party. As the sun rose, the light was dark red like that of a raw wound, and Merlin knew something was wrong.
By the time the others awoke, it was obvious that Glevum, just over the horizon, was burning. They ate in haste, mounted, and rode toward the city, where the scent of smoke filled the air.
A man came running down the path toward them. He still held his sword, which had been shattered, and his bloody tunic had been ripped across the front.
Merlin pulled up his mask and jumped from his horse just in time to stop the man, who was shaking. His eyes darted left and right, up and down, yet he wouldn’t look at Merlin.
“Ru-run!” the man said. He wrenched his arm free and tried to get away.
Merlin wrestled him down. “What is it? What’s happened?”
The man punched Merlin in the jaw. “Attacked! I’m attacked!” he yelled. He flailed and thrashed as Arthur and Culann joined Merlin in restraining him.
“Who? Who attacked?” Arthur asked.
“You! Lemme go!”
“No! Who attacked Glevum?”
“Glevum . . . Glevum . . .”
Arthur changed his tone and made an effort to meet the man’s wild eyes. “Who are you? Just tell us who you are.”
The man hesitated, and his gaze seemed to focus on Arthur’s face. “Mabon . . . I’m Ma-mabon.”
“Mabon, then . . . Tell us where Vortigern is.”
“The High King’s . . . gone to Dinas Marl to f-fight the Saxenow . . . He’s not here!”
“Tell us what happened . . .”
The crazed look returned, and Mabon began to thrash again. “Wolves!”
At this, Arthur looked up at Merlin.
Merlin shrugged, but this word sent a chill across his back. Or could Mabon have meant something else? “Do you mean sea wolves — raiders? Did someone attack from the river?”
“No . . . no . . .”
“Saxenow?”
“Gorlas!”
Arthur looked confused. “Gorlas? That sounds like a British name.”
“He’s the king of Kernow,” Merlin said. But what did Gorlas have to do with this man’s fear?
“Lemme go! Gotta get away!”
Merlin released him, and the others did the same.
They watched Mabon run off toward the deeper parts of the forest.
“The last I knew, Gorlas was loyal to Vortigern. Why would he attack Glevum?”
They mounted and rode toward the city, keeping to the thicker parts of the forest as long as they could, but the woods suddenly ended and they were forced out onto open farmland. An old, rustic Roman villa lay before them in the final stages of burning to the ground. Behind it, barely visible through the smoke, lay a stone bridge that crossed the Habrenaven River with the walled city of Glevum beyond. It too was burning. The smoke filled the entire sky, reducing the sun to a sickly, red disk.
Arthur stopped short, surveyed the scene, and then rode hard for the villa. “Whoever’s done this . . .” he yelled.
“As if it wasn’t hot enough!” Dwin shouted.
They rode past a farm worker’s body lying facedown in the field. Blood had dried on his tunic, and Merlin didn’t see him breathing.
When they arrived at the villa, they found its interconnected houses were almost completely destroyed. A large stone archway still stood, though, allowing entrance to the center atrium, and Arthur took it at full speed with Merlin right behind. Surrounded by burning buildings, Merlin began to choke, and had to pull his cloak up and breathe through its thick fabric. A wide mosaic pavement lay in the center of an ornamental garden, and that was where they found the heaped bodies of the inhabitants. A large pool of blood surrounded the pile, and a lone red-legged crow defied the smoke to lap at the moisture.
When Merlin saw the bodies, he turned and kicked his horse until it fled back outside. This was his very worst fear, for each and every person had had their throats torn out, the way a wolf instinctively kills its prey.
Merlin felt faint, and he had to clutch the mane of his horse and close his eyes. Deadly lights spun in his head, and his horse felt like it was rearing up, though he knew this wasn’t true.
“Are ya all right?” Peredur called.
Merlin retched, vomiting out his breakfast over the the shoulder of his horse. Sweat began to drip from his forehead, and a chill took hold of his neck. His tongue thickened and felt like it was about to suffocate him, while his throat pulsed an evil beat.
It was too much. Too much.
Mórgana’s wolf-heads had come.
Still battling weakness, Merlin followed the others across the stone bridge over the Habrenaven and rode toward Glevum’s west gate. As they approached the thick stone entrance, Arthur read out the inscription carved there:
COLONIA NERVIA GLEVENSIUM LEG II AUGUSTA
“The Second Augustan Legion built this?” Peredur asked.
“Under the orders of Emperor Nerva, whom I’ve only heard a little of,” Merlin said. “Colvarth also told me the village of Gloui existed before the Romans came. This was the best crossing of the river for leagues and leagues, and so when the Romans saw its strategic advantages, they made it their staging area to invade Kembry.”
“Is that why Vortigern made it his home?”
“Yes and no . . . seventy-five years ago his grandfather, Vitalinus, was the legatus here, and when he assassinated Constans, the High Kingship came to him.”
“And so Vortigern rebuilt it, didn’t he?”
“The city? No. Nothing but his grandfather’s feasting hall.”
“Do you think it’s still standing?”
“We’ll see.”
They passed under the stone arch of the wall and came to the wooden gate, which was closed and barred. Arthur banged on it, but no one answered.
“I can climb over,” Dwin said, and Culann helped him up. With his great agility and toeholds on the wall, Dwin climbed easily, pulled himself over, and
dropped. When he unbarred the doors and they creaked open, he wore a solemn expression. A pile of thirty or more bodies lay near the gate — people who had apparently attempted to flee but had been prevented — though by whom?
Merlin tried not to look, but couldn’t pull his gaze away. They were killed just like the people in the villa. Women and children were among the corpses, and quite a few men, a few of whom were warriors. Gold and silver coins were scattered across the bloody, cobbled road, and the fingers of the dead clutched at their treasures and valued possessions. One woman, however, clung to nothing but a cross, which hung reverently between her hands even as she lay in death.
What has Mórgana become? Merlin wondered. Is she really capable of all this destruction? Is her soul so consumed by evil that all remorse and hesitation are gone? And if that were true, was Merlin somehow responsible? Doubts gnawed at him, and every corpse seemed to accuse him, saying, “You didn’t love her enough! You abandoned her! You were so fond of Arthur that you forgot your own sister!”
The smell of smoke assaulted them as they entered the burning city. Arthur led them along the wall facing the river where the smoke was lighter thanks to a slight wind pushing from the southwest.
Besides the hissing and popping of flames within the ruined buildings, the city was silent, unnerving Merlin. Were some of Mórgana’s wolf-heads spying on them even now?
“By the looks of it,” Arthur said, “it must have been attacked last night while we slept.”
Merlin silently thanked God for Gogi and his accursed slow horse. All of the buildings made entirely of wood had burned to piles of smoking ash. Those left standing were of stone, but even they had had their thatch roofs burned away, and their empty walls gaped upwards to the parched, smoke-filled sky.
The wall that they followed curved southward and led them to an unexpected overlook where they could see down into a lower plane of the city. A long quay ran along the river, and there, next to the quay, stood a walled fortress within the city. In the center of the fortress was a large central building of wood and stone, and its ruins were still in flames.
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 13
