As they trudged back toward the outside, Merlin began to hear snatches of singing once again. He turned his head but couldn’t tell which side passage it came from.
Catching up to Rondroc, he asked “What happened to all the prisoners?”
“Well, the true jailor ran away when the attack started, and I doubt I’ll ever lay eyes on that coward again. So then I took charge of all the prisoners, and with everything destroyed and the citizens either dead or gone, I knew I’d have a hard time finding food to keep ’em alive. So . . . I let ’em all go. They were shocked at my kindness, I’ll tell you, and many made pledges to me in thanks.”
“But I’m still hearing someone singing,” Merlin said.
“Ah, him! He’s no Saxenow. That’s Mabon — a guard who went mad after the siege. He came back to the city. Roaming the streets at night crying and shouting, he was. Didn’t know what else to do with the fellow.”
“Mabon!” Dwin said.
“You know him?”
Arthur looked to Culann, who raised an eyebrow.
“Take me to him,” Arthur said. “We need every man we can get.”
Rondroc rolled his eyes. “But you don’t want him. Someone not right in the head, huh?”
“Let’s find out.”
Rondroc turned them around, led them down a side passage, through two locked doors and to a cell. Mabon came to the bars, and his tongue was bloody, as if he’d bitten it.
Arthur approached and leaned in. “Mabon, do you remember me?”
Mabon studied his face. “Yes . . . you . . . you’re not a wolf.”
“I’m Arthur, and I met you outside the city.”
“O-outside there are wolves.”
Arthur nodded. “But we can kill them, yes?”
“Have you killed any?”
Merlin raised a hand. “I’ve killed one. Remember me?”
“You can kill them?”
“Yes we can,” Merlin said. “Do you want to kill them?”
“Give me my sword back . . . th-they took my sword!”
“I’ll let you out and give you your sword,” Arthur said, “but you’ll have to promise to follow me and help fight.”
Mabon backed away from the bars. “I’m afraid. Who . . . who are you?”
“I’m Arthur, the lost son of Uther, and I’ve come back.”
“Uther? You’re Uther’s son?”
Arthur smiled. “Yes.”
“I swore allegiance to your father. A long t-time ago.”
“Will you swear it to me?”
“Y-yes.”
Arthur lifted the bar from the door and set it aside.
Mabon stood there, cracking his knuckles. His lips were moving as if he were speaking, but no sound came out.
Beckoning him to come, Arthur reached out and took his hand.
Mabon followed.
“We need your help, Mabon. We need to save Britain.”
“I’ll h-help.”
Rondroc gave back the man’s sword, which was hung from a peg in the passageway, and led them outside.
“The muster?” Arthur asked. “Has anyone come?”
“Adding mighty Mabon to your army isn’t enough, huh? Well . . . to my knowledge no one’s come. And with the city destroyed, it doesn’t surprise me.”
Culann muttered something and turned away to check on his horse.
Merlin closed his eyes. Without additional men, the chance Arthur would agree to go to Kernow was very unlikely.
After shaking Rondroc’s hands once more, Arthur remounted his horse, and Merlin was about to mount as well when he realized he had something to do first. He had made a decision, and regardless of what Arthur did, there was no turning back.
Taking his harp, he placed it in Rondroc’s hands.
“Can you keep this safe? And if I don’t return . . . see to it that it gets to my son, Taliesin.” Unable to speak his deepest fears, Merlin left no further instructions, and Rondroc accepted the harp with a gracious nod.
Merlin finally mounted, and soon they were all riding through the city, Mabon on Dwin’s extra horse. It didn’t take long to verify that Rondroc was right — either no one had come or no one had stayed for the muster. The destruction they had witnessed before seemed even worse this time, for the city lay in decrepit shadow, and the stench of the corpses covered it like a repulsive fog.
Along the way a warrior directed them to a bake house that supplied Vortigern’s campaigns, where they found a large cache of unspoiled dry bread. Out back were mud-daubed storehouses for grain, and they filled many bags with barleycorn, wheat, and rye. Two cisterns were also nearby, and though their level was low, there was enough for everyone to refresh himself and his horse, and to refill his waterskin.
Finally Arthur led them back out the east gate of the city where the wind brought fresh air and relief from the stench. The sun was now fully set and the men made a camp with a great bonfire in the center. After everyone had eaten, Arthur stood and addressed them.
“Men of brave deeds . . . heroes of Britain!” Arthur called, “You now know our plight fully, for none have come and stayed in answer to the muster. We simply need more men before we can ever hope to defeat the Saxenow and drive them from our shores.”
Many of the men nodded in assent. “And not only that,” Arthur said, “but now you have seen the destruction of Glevum and what Gorlas has wrought. Our countrymen have become our foes, and we are stabbed in the back even as we shed our blood for their freedom.”
Arthur began to walk amongst the men passing out the silver coins, one to each man. He made sure to look into their eyes, pat them on the back, or shake their hands.
“And so the question remains . . . where are we going next? We stand, my friends, at a juncture. To the southeast lie the Saxenow, a foe who is now too powerful for us. To the northwest lay Kembry and her clans, who live in peace and ignorance of the events happening here. To the southwest is Difnonia and Kernow, lands shrouded in darkness, mystery, and suffering.”
When each man had a coin, Arthur returned to the center. “And so I lay before you two choices — Kembry or Kernow? Do we take the easy path, rest, and gather more to our cause? Or do we, as men of deeds, go to meet a dangerous foe that grows stronger by the day? Either choice may result in death . . . death for us, death for the innocent . . . or both.”
Percos stood and Arthur nodded to him.
“To me and the rough-blade lads, our choice is obvious. How many o’ you were sickened by the murdered o’ Glevum? How many o’ you want to make sure that doesn’t happen to your own family? We’re all for Kernow!
“That’s ’cause you’re from there!” someone shouted from the crowd, and others jeered at him.
“And you’re all a bunch o’ lazy rats!” Percos said, slamming his fist into his palm. “Take your precious posy-time after we stop the killin’!”
Neb stood up on the opposite side of the circle, tucked his half-dyed beard back into his waistcoat, and spoke. “Percos, I can’t call you a coward, no, but I can call you a dupe. If an army of wolf-heads can destroy Glevum — by driving out or killing the guards and citizens — what do you think they’ll do to this little tinker of an army? It can’t be done, and that’s where I stand!”
“Well, you’re standin’ in muck then.” Percos said, stepping toward Neb and shaking his fists. “Do ya got the guts to join us, or are you Kembry lads too skeared o’ the little pups to save the kin o’ yer Kernow cousins? My wife an’ bairns are down there!”
“Ah, you’re nothing but a clam-head!”
“Rabbit-tailed coward!”
Neb beat his chest. “You take that back, Percos!”
“Never!”
The two men ran at each other with raised fists, and Arthur had to step away from the bonfire and get in between.
“We solve nothing by fighting!” Arthur said. “Each man back!”
Neb took a swing at Percos, but Arthur shoved him and the blow didn’t land.
Percos tried to get past Arthur, but Culann grabbed him from behind and jerked him backward.
“Hear me!” Arthur called. “We must not quarrel, but must speak in peace. And know this: every man will be bound to my decision. If it is to Kembry, then each man will go to raise warriors as quickly as possible. If it is to Kernow, then I will need each and every one of you in order to defeat this enemy.”
Here he paused, looking Percos and then Neb in the eyes.
“And there will be no fighting among ourselves. Understood?”
The two men nodded curtly and sat down.
“Does anyone else who has not already spoken have an opinion?” Arthur asked.
Merlin burned to speak, but felt he had already spoken his heart.
No one else stood to speak, and an awkward silence covered the camp, the men looking to each other, but no one responding.
“Well, then,” Arthur said. “If no more opinions are to be had, then my decision is made.” He turned to walk away, but called over his shoulder, “Be prepared to ride out in the morning at the first light of dawn.”
Arthur passed through the crowd, and was almost out of sight when Merlin realized that Arthur hadn’t said what the decision was. He rushed after and stopped him.
“But where are we going?” Merlin asked.
Arthur turned, and there was a light in his eyes that stunned Merlin — a reckless determination, a longing — something so inscrutable and strange that it sent a paralyzing sting down Merlin’s spine.
Arthur looked off to the night sky and stared at the moon, half shrouded by a black cloud that caressed and smothered its sallow light. “I’m going to meet the woman in the raven cloak.”
“In Kernow? You’re taking us to Kernow?”
“Yes.”
A nearby warrior heard this and spread the news.
Merlin took hold of Arthur by the shoulders. “Take care, Arthur. You’ve chosen the right path but for the wrong reason. I fear Mórgana’s bewitched you.”
Arthur squinted. “We’re going to fight Gorlas. Be content — it’s what you wanted. But I’m going to meet the woman from my dreams as well.” He emphasized the words as if to imply that she was not Mórgana. “She’s in Kernow too — I know it.”
Culann ran up, his cheek twitching and his teeth bared. “What’s this I hear? You’re taking us to Kernow?”
“Yes.”
“Are you mad? You and your father . . . you’re both so gizzard sure of yourselves that you’ll lead us all to our deaths. We need more men!”
Culann turned on his heel and stalked off, and Merlin watched him go. Before he knew it, the king had already walked off in the other direction.
Merlin would have to keep a close eye on Arthur and find some way to convince him that Mórgana had deceived him. But there was something even more pressing: the possibility of treachery against Arthur. So he called Peredur, Dwin, and Culann to talk privately. Culann agreed to come, but only grudgingly.
“In light of Rewan’s murder, I believe we need to set a guard over Arthur through the watches of the night.”
They agreed, and Dwin offered to take the first watch, followed by dour-mooded Culann. The following night it would be Merlin and Peredur to trade off.
But when Arthur got wind of their plan, he put a stop to it.
“I need each of you well rested. No special watch, hear me? I won’t allow it.”
And so that night Merlin tried to stay awake and keep watch, but failed. The white carcass of the moon had begun to sink when Merlin drifted off to sleep. He dreamt of wolves sniffing his clothing and dripping their saliva onto his throat. One time he startled awake to see a floating, ghostly claw scratching at his eyes, and he nearly yelled out as he frantically waved it into nothingness. Then he tucked the bag of gold coins more tightly inside his cloak and fell back asleep.
Sometime near morning, before the sun had risen, Merlin jerked awake to the sound of a horn blowing. He rubbed his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes, and began to gather his things. When he reached for Arthur’s bag of gold, he found the leather thongs cut where it had been tied to his belt. The bag had been stolen.
Merlin’s hands began to tremble.
He quickly found Arthur, who was engaged in tightening Casva’s saddle.
“The money’s gone.”
“What?”
“The gold . . . the bag was stolen while I slept.”
“That makes two missing at the same time.”
Merlin’s brow furrowed. “What else is — ?”
Arthur stared at the ground. The skin around his eyes was tight and he took a slow, taut breath. “Culann. He rode away in the middle of the night. He’s broken his oath, Merlin . . . He’s broken his oath.”
Mórgana, sitting on her throne, placed the orb back into her bag and snapped her fingers.
Loth entered, bringing a wooden trencher with a bowl of boiled-boar and cabbage soup, and next to it a dish of honeyed parsnips mixed with mint and chestnuts.
“The moment has come,” she said. “Prepare to leave Lyhonesse.”
“Is it sae, already? Arthur and Merlin are comin’ to Kernow?” he said, placing the trencher in front of her.
She twirled her finger in her hair and leaned back. “Yes, although I’m not sure why. Merlin did not influence them as much as I had expected. Arthur made the decision himself.”
“That is surprisin’.”
“Quite.”
“What will we do?”
“Exactly what we planned. We leave tonight.”
For Merlin, their journey southwest was fraught with a heavy heart and a sense of deep foreboding. He had gotten his wish, hadn’t he? And now he regretted each plodding, jolting, hateful step of his horse. For every league meant he was that much farther from Natalenya and his children. From saving them . . . But who was he kidding? He knew the truth, and it bled his heart till it could bleed no more. Until all feeling left and the long road stretched out before him like a noose of his own making.
He was dead, wasn’t he? The nightmare would consume him. Rend him of limb, lungs, and laughter. Yet the laughter remained even when he could hardly breathe, for he was Merlin the laughing-stock. Merlin the lost. Merlin the lonely.
And in that kind of death an anger arose. A righteous anger. A seething, teeth-cracking, gut-aching anger at Mórgana — at the Druid Stone and the power behind it.
All of Britain would bow, the Voice had said — and that monster had meant it, for the backbone of the island was nearly broken. Arthur had led Vortigern’s tattered little army away from the heartland, leaving it no defenders. Even great Lundnisow had fallen. Hengist and his dirty, treacherous brood could sack and raid to their spleen’s content, and no one would stop them. It made Merlin sick.
Yet the Voice was behind Hengist’s invasion. Merlin knew this. He had ignored it year after year after comfort-filled, peace-loving year. But he’d finally stepped out — and for that he had Arthur and Peredur to thank. He patted the hilt of his blade and squinted at the hills on the horizon.
The time is now, Mórgana. I’m coming. With my sword sharpened and with steel in my soul. Beware, Mórgana! You who have slain all that I hold dear . . . you have not yet slain me!
And if God wills it, I will prevail. And you — Mórgana, the Voice’s servant — will die.
But could he kill his own sister? She who had shared his porridge bowl? His childhood home? The very blood in his veins? Or was there a way to rescue her, to pull her away from the Voice’s talons? He didn’t know. And this uncertainty rusted through the armor of his bravado, letting the black cockroaches of fear crawl in so that he fairly shook and scratched to get rid of them.
As the journey wore on he stopped eating his share of the rations. He stopped shaving. He stopped washing his face and hands. And mostly, he just stopped talking. At night he would rub ashes on his skin to kill the fear. To confess his sins and lack of faith.
Believe the gospel, he kept telling hims
elf. Just believe the good news that has already been given, and trust in God’s power . . . Please, Father, don’t let go of me!
And he would pray. Hours and hours he spent praying.
Peredur looked on him with pity mixed with sadness.
“Eat, Merlin,” he would say. “You have to eat. Look how thin you’re getting!”
But Merlin needed a different kind of strength, so he only shrugged and tightened his belt.
Peredur did win out on one thing, however: he found some extra scale-and-leather armor and finally pestered Merlin until he took it. But the thing stank of sweat and sour mead, and one buckle had been ripped off. Merlin wore it only under protest.
While fasting, Merlin found his strength from drinking water . . . that was life to him. Life to his bones and burning soul. And whenever his waterskin ran dry between the few acidic springs that still gurgled out their dark liquid and the shrunken ponds and marshes, Merlin would begin to slowly die inside. For the once green land of Difnonia and Kernow had become a wasteland due to the drought.
No rain had fallen, and all the trees were dead and the grass but a lie.
The villages they passed were empty, their crennigs like skulls and their windows empty eye sockets. Mocking him. Laughing out their noses as the dust-filled wind blew through the doors and swirled their death sentence upon the streets. Animal carcasses lay where they had fallen, nothing more than feeding grounds for clouds of massive horseflies. Once, the evil creatures attacked the traveling party and jabbed their blade-like teeth into their flesh until the men were all bleeding and yelling.
Some of the men begged that they turn back then, but Arthur refused to let them go. Who could blame him?
“Every man must stay,” Arthur told them, and this was true, for none knew what lay ahead, or how many men would be needed.
It took the better part of a week to travel the fifty or more leagues between Glevum and Kernow. Merlin had wanted them to take the coastal road, which led directly to Dintaga, but Percos had advised the interior route that led them through the moors.
“Less likely to be noticed, that-ways,” the man had said.
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 28
