Purple flames burst forth from the orb, and she looked inside to see a small, upturned face. The girl was leaning against her mother and stroking her puppy’s ear. And there was the horrible boy, blade in hand, snuggling in on her other side. The mother leaned back against the tower’s wooden wall with her eyes closed, yet she was mouthing some words to the children. The boy soon joined her and they spoke in unison.
Mórgana fished the fang from its sheath and held it near the orb until its green flame united with the purple of the orb’s. Loth, Mórdred, and Mórganthu began to chant, and she joined in. A thrill of power trickled into her arm, strengthening her for the task, for she felt so tired and empty after inflicting disease upon so many.
Finally, when the potent power of the fang was at its height, she touched it to the orb, yelling, “A curse on the girl child — a disease of death, a plague upon her flesh!”
Arthur’s body clenched as Hengist brought the blade down, but the stroke never fell. The sharp edge of a sword slipped under Hengist’s chin, and the man faltered, his knife hand tense and the weapon quivering in the air just over Arthur’s chest.
Arthur squinted. A Saxen held the sword, and one of the man’s outlandish, muddy boots was planted right next to Arthur’s shoulder.
“Get off!” the Saxenow said.
Arthur jerked to see the man’s face, for he spoke like a Briton. What he saw took his breath away . . . Culann! Somehow he had come to be dressed as a Saxen, bare chest and all, and had slipped through the ranks of the enemy warriors to stand next to and watch Hengist’s fight with Arthur.
Another blade came to rest under Hengist’s nose, and Arthur saw someone from behind place one at the man’s back. It seemed Culann had not been the only Briton to survive the massacre of the archers.
“Drop it or you die,” Culann said.
Hengist looked out the corner of his eye at the edges of the swords, and then down at Arthur. Sweat had beaded on the man’s forehead, and his golden armbands reflected his panting mouth and teeth.
There was silence for the space of a few heartbeats before the enemy Saxenow stepped forward with their spears and swords pointed at Culann and his companions.
Culann tightened his sword against Hengist’s throat, eliciting a barked order from the Saxen king. His men backed off, muttering. Hengist dropped the knife to the dirt and slowly, ever so slowly, removed his fingers from Arthur’s throat, though the look of hatred remained on his face. Then he rose and backed away.
Arthur sucked in a few breaths. The smell of smoke was thicker now, but he barely registered it as he looked in wonder at Culann and then stood on shaking legs.
Shouts came from the back of the Saxenow horde, suddenly, and the ranks began to break, with men running everywhere and in complete confusion.
Finally Arthur saw it. From the distant hill, where he had attempted to burn the Saxenow supply wagons, came a roaring wall of flame and smoke.
Without moving, Hengist shouted orders to his men, some of whom ran madly for their horses.
Arthur shouted for Culann and the others to follow him.
But Culann shook his head and pointed his blade directly at Hengist’s chest. “I’m going to kill him.”
“He and I had an agreement, and you’ve already interfered enough. Look! We’ll all die if you break faith!” Arthur pointed through the chaos toward an elite guard of forty Saxenow warriors who stood nearby with their weapons ready, unaffected by the chaos around them. Beyond, the wave of flames roared closer.
Culann sneered. “Don’t have the guts, Arthur?”
“I don’t kill defenseless men.”
“You think I care?”
“Leave him. That’s an order.”
Suppressed rage swept over Culann’s face.
Arthur picked up his sword and locked eyes with his friend.
Culann growled and shoved Hengist away, withdrawing his blade.
Hengist jumped backward and commanded his men to attack.
Arthur performed the rear guard as he and his men bolted for the gate of Dinas Marl. Thankfully, the warriors on the walls shot arrows at the Saxenow, keeping them back.
Hengist yelled after them, “I’ll kill ye yet! Just wait, de time will come!”
Once safely inside, Arthur yelled for everyone to prepare to abandon the fortress, and in response the men immediately started packing supplies and weapons — anything useful that could be carried. Then he threw his arm over Culann’s shoulder, trying to patch things up. “Thanks for saving me . . . I don’t know how you did it. I thought . . .”
“Hengist was going to kill you?”
“Well, yes . . . that too. But I thought you’d been killed.”
“Most of the archers wanted to return right away, but I suggested we hide in a cave I’d found. Things had gone wrong for you, and I thought you might need our support. Anyway, I was out voted, and all but me and three others rode off toward Dinas Marl. They were caught, and, well . . .”
Arthur closed his eyes, and the air went out of him. He had led these men to their death, and that was hard to bear. Up until now it had been Arthur the champion who had slain Horsa, Arthur the hero who had saved a remnant of Vortigern’s men from the treachery of the Saxenow. But not anymore. Now it was Arthur the reckless, who, through his own foolishness, had caused these men’s deaths. Arthur didn’t mind risking his own life, even relished it. But to do that to another —
Arthur opened his eyes and found Culann staring at him, searching his face. For what? Remorse? Valor?
“Don’t let it bother you. They made their decision.”
“It was my decision to attack.”
“We all die. Live your life before you puke, that’s my motto.”
Arthur changed the subject. “How . . . how did you get these?” he said, pointing to Culann’s Saxenow clothes.
“We waited until they were gone and rode down to the valley, stripped the dead, and put on their clothes. With you fighting Hengist, no one was watching.”
“Thank you.”
“Just let me kill him next time.”
Merlin rode up, with Peredur and Dwin mounted next to him. They had brought two other horses.
“I suggest we leave. The fortress won’t last when it catches fire.”
Arthur noticed the courtyard had slowly filled with mounted men, though a few still scrambled to finish packing. But before he could give the order to open the gates, he had to be sure of the decision, so he climbed the ladder to the top of the wall.
“What are you doing?” Dwin called.
It only took one look. Hengist led the Saxenow eastward, avoiding the roaring line of flames. It was almost as if someone were pumping a giant bellows to fan a blacksmith’s forge. Had Britain become that dry? Soon the fire would reach the walls, and the fortress would burn. There was nothing here to save. Nothing here to defend anymore. All of southern Britain was either burning or taken over by the Saxenow, it seemed, and Arthur felt at a loss as to how to fix it. From the coast all the way across to the broken city of Glevum, destruction reigned.
But that word stuck in his head. Glevum . . . Glevum . . .
Sliding down the ladder, Arthur strode to the horse Merlin had ready for him and stopped.
“Casva! Where did you find him?”
Merlin smiled. “Among the picket lines. One of the warriors rode him from Hen Crogmen, and we didn’t know it.”
Arthur took the reins and patted the horse’s neck. He was dusty to the point that it almost changed his color. With joy he tightened the saddle, mounted, and borrowed a hunting horn from Peredur. He blew on it three times and led the men out the northern gate of the fortress and turned westward, away from the flames and away from the Saxenow.
After a few leagues of journeying, Merlin rode up to him.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Back to Glevum. Remember the muster?”
“Of course, but . . .”
“It takes place in two day
s. Maybe some men will show up. You never know.”
“And after that?” Merlin asked, but his voice seemed hollow. Distant.
“I don’t know. Keep fighting the Saxenow is all I can think of. Any ideas?”
Merlin didn’t answer, but just stared straight ahead toward the west, where the last light lingered in a faint gray glow. There was a strange look in his eyes, as if he sensed something dreadful just beyond the bend in the road.
Arthur rode quietly for a while, but then could stand it no longer. “I asked where we should go. Are you all right?”
But Merlin hung his head and slowly let his horse drop back without answering.
When they finally made camp, Arthur was exhausted and discouraged, and the unforgiving ground didn’t comfort him any as he wrapped himself in his cloak. But before he could slip into the oblivion of sleep, Peredur squatted beside him. “Arthur, there’s something you need to see.”
Suppressing a groan, Arthur rose and followed to the top of a nearby hill. There the night breeze ruffled Arthur’s cloak as Peredur pointed eastward, back the way they had come.
Arthur sucked in his breath and held it. There, far away, he could see that the fires still raged. The wind had whipped them across the dry, drought-stricken land, and now all the forests to the east were on fire.
“Why are you showing me this?”
Peredur stared out at the conflagration, the reddish light reflecting weirdly in his eyes. “Because everything we do, no matter how necessary we think it at the time, has a far-reaching consequence. Remember that.”
Arthur said nothing, only watched the east burn. What had he done?
That night, Merlin lay wrapped in his cloak, staring at the campfire as it slowly dimmed. Finally, when darkness and silence reigned in the camp, he prayed for wisdom — and when wisdom came, he stopped praying and shut his heart to it. He knew the truth — he had known the truth for a long time — but didn’t want to face it. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, yet when sleep claimed him, he wished it had not.
He found himself floating down into blackness. Wind whipped at his face and clawed at his clothing. Evil, mocking laughter swirled around him. Voices in the air. Screams and the flailing of chains. Faster and faster he plunged until green, sickly lights began to swirl around him, illuminating the stone walls of a shaft. Dark archways appeared in the walls and he flew past them, ever deeper. Then he began to see red, glowing eyes staring out from the doorways. White, leprous arms suddenly began to reach out from every hole, trying to grab him. The hands had sharp claws, and Merlin pulled in his limbs to avoid them.
But the arms grew longer, more muscular, and finally one snagged his tunic and he came to a complete, jarring stop. He hung there, twirling in the air, in shock and breathless. Then just as quickly, the arm dropped him. He fell to a flagstone floor a short distance below and collapsed, moaning.
A dank, burnt smell filled the air, and Merlin sneezed. When he opened his eyes he saw that he lay on a small outcrop that was wedged between a towering stone wall and the shore of a lake. Its black surface wet the stones within a pace of Merlin, and a gloomy, unbroken stillness lay over the water as if nothing had disturbed it for a thousand years.
He rolled over and studied the wall. On the left and right were twin iron sconces holding torches that cast a pale green glow — and between them, half hidden in shadow, was a recessed wooden door with horizontal iron bands shaped like skeletal necks ending in malformed, horned skulls. Behind the door, Merlin heard a sniffing sound, and whatever it was began to scratch at the wood.
The hinges . . . the door opened toward Merlin.
He stood and backed away from the door until his foot splashed in the oily water.
The creature behind the door roared and snorted.
Cold terror dug into Merlin’s heart, and it began to thump and throb in his chest. His feet went numb and his guts constricted into a knot.
It can’t be. It simply can’t be . . .
Behind him he heard a splash.
Whipping around, he saw the water swell and ripple. From the depths he caught a flash of movement. Something lurked there.
Merlin’s breath came in rasps now as he looked for a way of escape but saw none, for the curved rock ledge that he stood upon ended where the wall met the water. There was nowhere to run. Could he climb? He ran to the wall, five paces from the door, and found a film of green slime had coated the surface of the rocks. He tried to find toeholds and rocks to grab on to, but slipped and banged his knee badly.
Could he defend himself? He searched his belt but found his sword and dagger missing. Yet his right foot pressed upon a rock that shifted. He began to pull it up from the grit and shale just as the water exploded in a cascade of black, foul-smelling drops.
A dark form floated upward.
Merlin broke out in a cold sweat as he pulled the rock up and hefted it to his shoulder. He backed up against the wall, but felt it boom and shake as someone screamed from behind the door. The beast roared and scratched at the wood. Merlin wanted to yell, but his throat had nearly squeezed shut.
The creature from the water slid closer, now just entering the torchlight.
Merlin dropped the rock and it went rolling away.
The form was a woman . . . his mother! Long red hair lay wet upon a dress of the finest silver adorned by red metallic beads. She looked upon him with curiosity and sternness, and though her oval face was now older, it was still lovely beyond all that Merlin could remember. He rushed to her, splashing through the black water until he embraced her gently.
“Do not hold me, Merlin! But rather ya need ta admit the truth!” With a look of deep wisdom, she backed away, took hold of his shoulders, and, with a gentle pressing, turned him around to face the door. Roaring. Scratching. Screaming. The wall shook as the beast slammed into the wood, bulging it outward.
“Take me away from here,” Merlin pleaded. “I can swim, and we can — ”
From behind, she clamped a hand over his mouth.
“Shah, now. The power has been granted ta me ta take ya away from here. Ya need never face the door again, nor what is inside, if ya so desire. But ken this: There are thousands of innocent men, women, and bairns behind that door who will be slaughtered unless ya choose to challenge the beast.”
Merlin shuddered. “But I have no weapon,” he whispered.
His mother held up a sword with a twisted iron guard in the shape of ox horns. His sword. The sword that had been his father’s. She gave it to him, and he took it. The steel hilt was heavy, the blade sharp and deadly.
“If I try — will I succeed?” he asked, but regretted the question immediately.
“It does na matter whether ya succeed. This is your destiny an’ your calling — your doom, if ya will. Unlatch the door, Merlin, and face what is inside.”
Every part of Merlin yearned to run and hide. But what of those being slain beyond the door? Could he let them die? Who else would confront this evil?
“Mother,” he asked, “what kind of creature is the beast? Is it a . . . a . . . ?”
“Yes. It is a wolf, sent by Mórgana, an’ more deadly than any that has yet existed in the shroud o’ this world. The wolf an’ his army have just destroyed Aquae Sulis, Vortigern’s third-most important city, and they must be stopped.”
“How can I — ?”
“By overcomin’ yer fears, which are set far deeper than yer scars. Yet, ya can overcome them and face the wolf.”
So it was true. All his fears had united against him to become a nightmare, a walking death so terrifying that it strangled even the screams of his soul. Then a horrid remembrance of his childhood came back to haunt him:
He was shrieking, and the wolves were scratching his face, snapping at his limbs. Sharp teeth. Hot, putrid breath. And there was no one to help.
And when Merlin’s father finally came, it was too late and Merlin had been blinded.
Beyond the door a child began to sob now and c
all for help. Merlin realized that the tables had turned, and it was his time to help. Just as he had hoped for someone to save him, he needed to rescue others.
Merlin stepped forward, the tip of the blade shaking.
The beast’s claw rent against the door, and Merlin heard it crack.
“Pray for me, Mother.”
There were tears in her eyes. “Always, Merlin . . . I always love ya, an’ I’m always prayin’ for ya.”
Merlin walked forward.
The beast began to beat against the door, shaking it and causing dust and rocks to fall from the stonework.
Merlin readied his blade and then placed his hand upon the latch. The metal was cold and wet.
The beast roared.
Merlin jerked his hand away and looked back. His mother was still there.
“I ken ya can do it. Go.”
Merlin gulped as he shakily reached out again . . . grabbed the latch . . . and squeezed.
There was a clicking sound inside the iron handle, and the beast fell silent beyond the door. Merlin imagined it waiting, tensing . . . flexing its claws. Ready to slit Merlin’s skin until his lifeblood ran and his soul screamed for mercy.
He stepped back as he opened the door, the point of the blade ready.
But there was no beast. Beyond the door lay only the camp where he had fallen asleep. The moon was hidden behind clouds now and the crickets weaved their gentle, humming music. Arthur, Dwin, and Culann slept beyond the campfire.
Merlin turned once more to his mother, confused, and she urged him forward. “Go now, sweet son, and know that God is with ye. Confront yer fears, and know this: No matter what, God’s love is with ya, and I’ll always be prayin’ fer ya.”
As Merlin stepped through, the door, ledge, and lake vanished.
He took a long, slow breath, and looked up to the night sky where a star appeared, brighter than anything Merlin had ever seen — its light burrowed into his eyes like a flaming cinder. It swooped low over the camp and moved toward the southwest. Merlin squinted and saw that it was a shining drinking bowl made from the most beautiful golden glass that he had ever seen, as clear and bright as if it had been heated in the furnace of the sun itself.
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 24
