Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral)

by Robert Treskillard

  A man yelled.

  He looked up and saw a Saxen duck past Culann’s thrust and dive at him with a short sword. It was aimed at his throat.

  He traced his hand back down his own blade, found the hilt, and gripped it. Barely in time, he brought his own blade up.

  The warrior impaled himself, dropped his sword, and fell across Arthur’s legs.

  Pushing him off, Arthur stood and identified a small hill only a few steps in front of him. Two Saxenow held this high ground, and he rushed them, swinging his blade wildly to get their attention, then changing tactics at the last moment and thrusting its dangerous tip into the closest one’s side. The other fled, allowing Arthur to step up and take stock of his situation.

  Casva had galloped away, and everywhere Arthur looked there was swinging and thrusting steel, and the ground was slick with gore as the dead watered their lifeblood upon the parched soil. The line of British warriors rippled, sagged, and cracked all around him. They would push forward only to be driven back, while the charioteers and their men found success and cut deeply into the Saxenow.

  And Arthur and his friends had fought themselves into the very heart of the battle, where they were surrounded on all sides by screaming, swinging warriors.

  A yell caught his attention, and he turned to see a gilded chariot, along with ten British foot soldiers, drive forward into the ranks of the Saxenow. The rider wore a flowing purple cloak — Vortipor!

  Arthur’s heart leapt, but he didn’t know why. Wasn’t this the son of the man who had killed his father? But Vortipor hadn’t done it, had he? Arthur had never heard about him. Either way, Vortipor represented all that Arthur aspired to . . . leading men in battle. Bravely fighting the Saxenow. Saving Britain.

  Vortipor was tall, yet didn’t impress Arthur as being especially strong, and his peg leg made him unsteady in the chariot. He had brown hair under a tarnished helmet, and upon his throat he wore a thick silver torc. His nose was flat, and his dark eyes darted here and there across the battlefield. He wore his beard long, though thin, and it hung down over a coat of orange-rusted chainmail. His driver was a small man who bent over to keep out of the way, directing the horses as Vortipor yelled instructions.

  Vortipor swung a long-poled axe and felled a man on his right, cutting him through the ribs. Another attacked on the left, and Vortipor hammered the man’s face, smashing teeth and sending him into the dust.

  Another chariot rushed from the mass of warriors. Its white steeds were slick with sweat and their black lips frothed at the sides where the bits were lodged. The charioteer felled two of Vortipor’s footmen and raced alongside. The Saxenow had gold armbands, the left nearly hidden behind a small, iron-bound shield, and the right flashing as he brandished a long spear. He also had a set of javelins readily available at the front of his chariot, and these rattled in their wicker quiver.

  “Horsa!” Vortipor bellowed as he swung his axe at the man. “Withdraw or I’ll cut you down.”

  But they were too far apart, and the swing pulled Vortipor off balance on his wooden leg.

  Horsa drove his horses closer and jabbed at Vortipor’s bicep, just behind his shield, but the shield turned and blocked the blow.

  Dwin and his horse rode forward a little, blocking Arthur’s vision of the combatants.

  Saxenow came screaming at Arthur. The first had a scimitar in one hand, and his other hand was wrapped in a bloody cloth. The second man held two weapons — a short sword and a bludgeon.

  Arthur feigned not noticing them, and at the last moment slashed his blade out and sliced them both across their chests.

  They fell, screaming and cursing in their throaty tongue.

  Leaping over them, he ran out after Vortipor, who had just wheeled his chariot away from the mass of the Saxenow to retreat, only half of his footmen still alive.

  But Horsa wasn’t far behind. He set his spear down and pulled out one of the javelins. Throwing his body forward in the chariot, he hurled the sharp, wooden lance at Vortipor.

  It struck into the back of Vortipor’s neck, penetrated, and hung out from his throat.

  Vortipor’s eyes fluttered and his face contorted. He dropped his axe and grabbed the javelin, slick with his own blood, and fell sideways onto the driver, who collapsed beneath the weight.

  The horses slowed to a stop, and a throng of Saxenow ran forward and slew the driver and horses.

  Anger welled up in Arthur. Without their champion, the British line would crack, and the Saxenow would have the field of victory.

  It must not be!

  With Casva gone, Arthur needed a horse, and quickly.

  Culann, Dwin, and Peredur fought on, oblivious to the tragedy that had just happened.

  Arthur sheathed his blade and ran from them, back to the British line, where he found a horseman riding back and forth with his nose in the air.

  “Give me your horse!” Arthur called.

  The warrior turned to Arthur and spat on his chest. “Get your own, boy.”

  “You don’t understand — ”

  “I am Cradelmass, king of Powys, and I will not abide this insubordination.”

  Black rage tinged Arthur’s vision. There was no time.

  He grabbed the man’s boot and pulled.

  “Stop that!” As Cradelmass leaned over to swing a fist, a look of surprise on his face, Arthur leapt up, grabbed his cloak, and jerked him from the horse.

  The man fell to the ground, cursing, and yanked Arthur’s sleeve.

  Arthur punched the man in the face until he let go.

  Grabbing the saddle, he pulled himself up.

  There was only one way to avoid a British loss, and that was by killing Horsa.

  He rode off into the thick of the Saxenow, blade swinging and yelling his own battle cry.

  Horsa was only twenty paces away, and Arthur kicked his mount faster. Slashing here, stabbing there, he fought his way through, and the enemy fled before him.

  Finally within hailing distance, he yelled “Horsa!” and raised his sword in challenge.

  The leader of the Saxenow saw him, smiled, and turned his chariot horses widely around until they ran directly toward Arthur.

  Arthur’s mount leapt forward, and then stiffened, thrashed, and neighed in a wild scream. A spear had been shoved into its belly, and it fell on its side, throwing Arthur. Earth and sky changed places as Arthur did his best to land on his feet.

  But where was his sword? He had lost it in the fall, and couldn’t see it.

  Twenty Saxen warriors approached, spears leveled, eleven from the right and nine from the left.

  Horsa was riding hard down on him in front.

  Far behind him, he heard Peredur’s voice. “Arthur! We’re coming!”

  But it was too late. And he would never find his blade in time.

  He looked at the Saxenow warriors.

  He looked at Horsa grinning beyond the deadly hooves of his horses, white like the faces of Arthur’s dead countrymen. Horsa dropped the tip of his spear, preparing to gut Arthur.

  The pounding feet of the Saxen warriors filled his ears. Red, glinting steel played at the edges of his vision as he focused on the white horses.

  Arthur dropped his shield, slipped off his boots, and felt the grit of the dry soil on the soles of his feet. His timing would have to be perfect, and he crouched and tensed his muscles.

  The white horses pummeled the ground, and unless he moved he would be crushed under their powerful hooves.

  One . . . two . . .

  Arthur stepped swiftly to the left, turned, and leapt.

  A white blur of flesh passed under his hands.

  He grabbed and caught hold of the tack, swollen with horse sweat.

  His arms were jerked, and the shock of sudden speed made him dizzy, but he held tightly and pulled himself up. His legs hung, floating in air. With his right arm bent and tight, he let the left hand go and reached farther. Finding a side strap, he pulled harder and swung his right leg over the
horse.

  He was up! Sitting backward to face Horsa in the chariot — but at least he was up.

  Horsa roared in anger and jabbed at Arthur with his spear.

  With little room to maneuver, and no defense, Arthur kicked his toes into the horse’s flank, and it jumped forward, faster than its companion, jolting and turning the chariot.

  Horsa tilted, and the spear missed.

  Arthur grabbed the haft with both hands and jerked it forward.

  Horsa, taken off guard, accidentally let it slip away.

  Holding the spear in the middle for balance, Arthur stood on the back of the white horse. His bare feet gripped the animal’s thick skin, and he tried to remember all that Peredur had taught him — how to relax and lean into the horse’s canter — only here he was backward, and the ground was rocky. Arthur’s right foot slid, and he barely regained his balance. He needed more stability, so he shifted his left foot to the center of the horse and dropped his right over to the other horse. The harness held them close together, and this gave him more balance. But their hides were slick, and he wouldn’t keep the position long.

  Horsa reached for one of his javelins and cocked it back. Sweat covered his bare chest and limbs, his blond hair flapped madly in the wind, and fury contorted his face.

  Arthur thrust the long spear, and in one swift instant he stabbed Horsa in the chest.

  At the same moment, Horsa tried to lunge forward to throw the javelin, plunging the biting tip of the spear even deeper. Dropping the javelin, he tried to recoil from the spear. But Arthur drove it forward, and at the same time the chariot wheel hit a dead warrior laying on the ground.

  The chariot bounced up into the air.

  Arthur fell toward Horsa, jabbing and twisting the spear until it shoved all the way through.

  Horsa screamed, clutched the wound, and collapsed.

  Arthur heaved a sigh of relief as he rode out of the battle behind Culann. He wouldn’t have survived ten heartbeats more if it hadn’t been for the help of his three companions.

  When the other leader of the Saxenow learned that Horsa was dead, he had called for a retreat and regrouping. This man’s name, Arthur learned, was Hengist, Horsa’s older brother.

  Word of Vortipor’s death had spread quickly among the British, and most of them had begun to run back to Dinas Marl in disarray. A select few, however, carried Vortipor back on a makeshift bier made from the spears of fallen warriors, and Arthur and the others joined these.

  Peredur had caught Casva, while Dwin had gathered Arthur’s boots and shield. Arthur’s sword, however, had been lost — a Saxen probably claiming it for his own.

  When they entered the fortress, Arthur was surprised to find that a flock of nine druidow awaited. Arthur had heard tales of the druidow, and so knew a bit about their appearance, but he’d never seen one himself. Ector had never allowed them in the valley.

  Well . . . at least Arthur thought they were druidow. The man in front had thin bluish scars covering his arms in the shape of deer, bear, and fish, along with antlered figures, twisted snakes, and the like. The man was thick-limbed, short, and had a brown, bristly beard tinged red. His cloak was the color of a roan horse, and he wore black-checked breeches. Upon his shoulder were two pins . . . one of the golden lion, and the other the heads of two dragons, one of reddish-gold and the other silvery-white. Dual loyalties? Arthur had never seen such a thing.

  The druidow marched around the men bearing Vortipor’s body.

  “Hmm. Looks horrid,” the leader said. “Which of you lug-ears is responsible?”

  “For his death?” Arthur asked. “None of us.”

  The druid shook his head and made a sad face. “So there’s no traitor to hang?”

  “It was Horsa, and he’s dead now.”

  “Hmmm . . . a pity. Taranlos likes a good hanging.”

  Arthur laughed. “I don’t think he would have cooperated.”

  The druid stared at him with bloodshot eyes. “Yer a fool, then, and must not know me. I am called Podrith, and I am appointed as chief druid to serve the High King’s household. If someone doesn’t cooperate, then I push them. That is the command of the arch druid, and I obey it.”

  “I see.”

  Podrith took out a short branch with sea shells attached to it by threads, and he shook this in circles over Vortipor’s body, chanting along with the other druidow. He had just finished when Vortigern arrived from the upper wall. His cloak was fringed with the fur of wolves, and under that he wore a fine, embroidered tunic that had been ripped. His white beard was strung out, his face red and his eyes puffed, with tears streaming down. He wore a thick golden torc, but it was unlike other British torcs Arthur had seen, being of a solid tube construction with Roman eagles fashioned on the ends.

  Behind him bustled a retinue of officials, scuffing their feet and biting their lips in dismay — followed by four servants carrying an ornate wooden throne. The chair was placed directly behind Vortigern, but the king ignored it and stared at his son, unmoving, with his dry lips parted and quivering.

  Podrith directed that they bring the broken body before Vortigern, who embraced his son, howling, heedless of the blood on his hands and tunic. Finally, he kissed Vortipor’s cheek, smearing the blood of his family line on his beard.

  Arthur watched in silence. Intellectually, he wanted to hate this man, but seeing him for the first time, thus in his grief, he could not. Wasn’t Vortigern his uncle, and Vortipor his cousin? These were kin.

  Vortigern took note of Arthur then, and stood, his lip trembling. “You!” he said, and pointed a blood-marked finger at Arthur. “Stand before me.” His voice was raw, and he gulped.

  Arthur stepped forward and knelt before the High King. “My lord.”

  “Are you . . . ? Are you not the . . . the one who has avenged my son’s death? I don’t know you.”

  “I’m named Artorius, my lord, and we arrived at Glevum for the muster — but did not find the city as we expected.”

  Vortigern wiped away some tears. “Was it not . . . more glorious? My feasting hall . . . my feasting hall, it is — ”

  “Destroyed, my lord.”

  Vortigern blinked, and the bristles of his beard twitched.

  “Burned, my lord. Gorlas has attacked you and either driven away or slain all the inhabitants of the city.”

  “My feasting hall?”

  Arthur nodded solemnly.

  “My . . . my grandchildren?”

  “I cannot say for certain, my lord.” Arthur hesitated. “There were many slain in your hall, including children.”

  Just then the envoy, Fodor, who had been standing in the shadow of the gate, stepped forward and bowed before the king. “I wish I could negate his words, O illustrious sovereign of the line of Vitalinus, but it is as Artorius the Great Hero has announced. When I heard the news, I rushed to Glevum and personally found all your family and descendants dead.”

  “My wife?”

  “Sevira has passed away, my lord. I have heard it said, however, that she preserved her purity and chose a dagger rather than be taken by that uncouth warlord, Gorlas. The warriors left behind to defend your house, they fought bravely to the end, each one killing three-score enemies before they died.”

  “Three-score?” Vortigern asked.

  “Yes, my lord, each one — ”

  “Be quiet.”

  “But, my lord, there is more — ”

  Covering his ears, Vortigern cried out, “Silence! I don’t want to hear another word from your flabby, flapping lips.”

  “But your sons . . .” Fodor shouted.

  Vortigern blinked and took his hands off of his ears. “My sons?”

  Arthur wanted to contradict these obvious fabrications, but was afraid to interfere. “As the Superb Hero of the Battle, Artorius, has postulated, your grandsons, Kedivor and Teyrnon, are no more, but they died bravely defending your hearth. In fact, your battle horn was only wrested from their faithful hands at the cost of ma
ny lives.”

  “My grandsons are dead?”

  “And not only that, my lord, but the Painted Ones — ”

  “Who?”

  “The Picti, my lord. Rheged has fallen to the northern barbarians, and King Urien, the brave soul that he was, has failed to protect your flank. Soon, they will march down from their frosty mountains and attack.” Vortigern staggered backward and collapsed upon his throne. There he beat the back of his head against the wood, his neck tense and pulsing.

  Arthur stepped forward, afraid to speak but compelled by the urgent need that pressed against his heart. “Mighty lord, God has permitted me to slay one of the Saxenow leaders . . . and if I may be so bold, the time to attack is now when they least expect it. If we could slay the other leader, then the invaders would be driven back and our victory would be complete.”

  Vortigern shut his eyes and shook his head, a snarl slowly creeping over his face.

  “Turn aside,” he shouted, “and leave me in my grief. A truce . . . we need a truce with the Saxenow, or all is lost!”

  Arthur opened his mouth to speak but shut it when the king began fumbling at his belt near the hilt of his blade.

  “My horn,” Vortigern said absently. “I can hear it blowing again. Who is the traitor? it always demands . . . always . . . Will you stop it, Artorius? Please stop it up . . .”

  Arthur cocked his head, but heard nothing.

  “Havoc . . . havoc . . .” the High King whispered, “. . . the battle is lost . . .” The king stood, approached again the corpse of his son, and then turned and walked away, his eyes like glass. Yet his hand trailed for a moment on his son’s boot, and then he pulled it away as if singed by an unseen flame.

  The shadows of crows swept across Merlin’s vision as Arthur and company rode toward the edge of the wood where Merlin had hidden himself. Earlier, Fodor had made his way down to Dinas Marl even as Merlin chose to stay and witness the battle, forcing himself to watch as Arthur and the others risked death countless times.

  Though gladness filled his heart that all four had survived, he could now see their wounds and bruises: Dwin had a slice across his forehead, Peredur had taken a blow to his leg, and the armor on Culann’s left shoulder had been slashed through. Arthur himself only had three scratches on his right arm yet was wearier than Merlin had seen him in many a year. The wounds would need careful tending, and thankfully Colvarth had taught Merlin well in that regard.