Arthur jumped to the side and saw that he’d jabbed it in the upper arm.
The beast jerked away, screaming, and then it dove forward so fast that Arthur didn’t have time to react. It grabbed him by the shoulder flap of his armor and spun, lifting Arthur off the ground and throwing him through the air.
Arthur hit the ground hard and skidded onto the granite slab, his back smashing into the Druid Stone. He shook his head to focus, but it only made him dizzy.
The werewolf limped toward him.
And even as his vision blurred, he felt heat at his back. The Stone was burning him!
Before Arthur could rise, the werewolf grabbed him and lifted him into the air. Arthur tried to hold on to his spear, but it rolled off of his fingers and fell to the grass. He struggled to get away as hot, breathless panic set in, and he kicked at the creature to no avail.
The werewolf opened his jaws and Arthur saw the massive lines of sharp teeth, doused in blood and thrusting at his neck.
Arthur’s whole body surged with power as he fought uselessly against the beast, and the awful, stinking maw drew closer. Arthur found himself helpless, his heart throbbing and pulsing with terror. Dear God!
A frantic cawing filled the air as a raven dove down and scratched at the beast’s eyes.
Arthur fell to the earth with a painful thud as the werewolf sought to catch and kill the raven. The bird nipped at the beast’s snout and poked him in one eye before flying to safety.
Arthur pulled himself up to his knees, found his spear, and stabbed out with it.
But the beast was enraged, and a claw grabbed the tip and shattered it off, flinging the metal into the darkness.
Standing, Arthur backed up until his heel hit the granite slab.
The werewolf pounced at him, roaring and snapping.
Arthur threw the useless spear shaft at its face, jumped onto the granite slab, and backed himself to the other side of the Stone. Now the embedded blade was between himself and the beast. It glinted in the darkness. The blade!
Arthur grabbed the handle and tried to pull it from the Stone — but it didn’t budge.
The werewolf stepped closer, nostrils flared, lips curled in a snarl of hatred.
Arthur pulled harder, but the blade held fast.
Then everything around him blurred and changed.
Whirling, Arthur beheld an open glade edged with standing stones, and all around him stood ghostly people. The Stone was before him, yet upon it lay the semitransparent form of a bound man, with another on the ground to his left. The man upon the Stone cried out as flames burst from the sides and flicked up at his flesh.
The apparition of a warrior approached, and he was holding the blade that Arthur had just seen — the blade from the Stone. Except now it was free, and the warrior raised it up to plunge into the man whose chest lay on the Stone.
“No-o!” Arthur yelled, for the warrior with the sword was a younger, ghostly Vortigern. He jumped to push the man back, desperate to save the man on the Stone — his father.
But he fell right through the warrior and landed on the ground.
Vortigern plunged the blade in — and Uther cried out in pain.
Arthur had to look away, for it was too horrible to behold — yet in his father’s last breath, he called on Christ for mercy.
Arthur pulled himself up on his knees as grief overtook him. There lay his father, dead upon the Stone, his blood leaking down and his eyes vacant and staring. The man Arthur had never known. The man who should have raised him. The man who . . .
The world shifted, spun, and swirled away all the ghostly people except for Vortigern and the Stone — and now the blade appeared, embedded in the Stone.
Vortigern leaned forward and gazed into Arthur’s eyes, a mocking sneer on his bearded face. “Eeh . . . didn’t like the look of him dead?”
Arthur wiped away his tears. He wanted to wrench Vortigern’s head off and throw it to the dogs. “Leave me alone, butcher!”
“Get up and fight me!” Vortigern yelled. “And stop yer eye-dribbling.”
Fury rose in Arthur — but before he could act Vortigern disappeared and an ethereal woman took his place. She wore a cloak as black as death, and her eyes were filled with ice and bile.
“You are weak, Arthur, so pitifully weak. You couldn’t save your friend. You couldn’t kill my werewolf. And now you can’t even kill me, a servant of the one who commanded your parents’ death!”
Arthur clenched his fists, and though he tried to mask his anger, they began to shake against his will.
She laughed at him, as if his pain was the most humorous thing she’d ever encountered. This had to be Mórgana, the one whom Merlin had warned him about. Similar to his sister Myrgwen in appearance, yet an evil lurked in the depths of this woman’s heart beyond what he could fathom.
His head throbbed and his throat went dry. He grabbed the handle of the blade and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge.
Mórgana kept laughing until the apparition of another woman stepped from the fog, this one wearing a cloak of alabaster linen. She approached Arthur, placed her hands upon his shoulders, and offered up a simple prayer. It was Myrgwen!
By God’s bright and righteous name,
I bind protection unto Arthur today:
Against all spells and wiles,
Against all hurts and guiles,
Against wizard’s evil snares,
Against wounds and harmful prayers.
Protect him, O Christ of the Three!
Mórgana screeched and pulled out a long, curved fang. She held it aloft until green flame began to course up and down its length, then she jabbed it at Myrgwen.
But the instant the fang touched Myrgwen, there was a burst of light and Mórgana was thrown backward.
The vision of both women faded, replaced by Gorlas in his armor. The man’s swarthy face glared at him, his bald pate and unkempt beard only added to the scorn emanating from the man.
“High King? Hah!” Gorlas yelled. “You’re just the wart of a pig, and your mother will be mine, do you hear?”
Arthur pulled harder on the blade.
Gorlas leaned over, his lips quivering and his teeth strangely lengthening. Fur grew on his face, and he loomed taller, growing stronger until the werewolf stood before Arthur once more.
Arthur heard shouts in the distance.
The werewolf howled and lunged.
Arthur pulled on the blade with all his might. And it budged.
The beast’s claw swiped at him, and Arthur spun to the side, keeping one hand on the hilt. When the werewolf reared back for another strike, he pulled harder, straining with his back, arms, and legs. Every muscle that he had been gifted with strove together to free the blade.
Aaghh!
And with a great sucking and cracking noise, the blade came loose.
Blue fire instantly erupted from the Stone.
The werewolf reached through the flames with a great, bloody claw.
Arthur, unused to the weight of this blade, swung and missed.
While he was off-balance, the werewolf grabbed him and pulled him upward, one claw clutching Arthur’s torso, and the other clamped around his sword arm, immobilizing it.
Arthur yelled helplessly as he struggled to free himself.
The beast pulled Arthur toward its open jaws and jagged teeth.
Arthur froze, knowing this was the end. All he had tried to accomplish had failed, and there was nothing he could do. The beast was too terrifyingly strong, and Arthur’s struggle was over. Like Dwin, he would die.
Death . . . His family had died here.
Now he would join them, and Myrgwen would make a cairn for him too, and all the long years she would weep over it and his useless death.
At least —
But instead of ripping Arthur to pieces, the beast screamed and roared, pivoting to reveal Merlin, Caygek, and Bedwir with spears jammed into its back.
The werewolf loosed Arthur’s sword arm and re
ached back at the three men.
“Now!” shouted Merlin.
Arthur swung — cutting off the hand that held him captive in the air.
Arthur fell to his feet on the other side of the Stone and crouched, preparing to strike again.
The creature looked at the bleeding stump of his hairy arm in mute shock.
Arthur lifted the sword, brought it back as far as he could, and swung again. This time the great arc of the gleaming blade sliced through the werewolf’s neck.
The creature’s head fell down upon the flaming surface of the Stone, bumped off, and rolled to the ground. The smell of burnt fur, flesh, and blood filled the air.
And still the creature’s body was alive! It leaned over on its stump, lurching, and its remaining claw attacked, swiping blindly toward Arthur’s throat.
Arthur stepped to the side and shoved the blade into the beast’s belly, ripping it open.
“Die!” Arthur yelled. “Die, you spawn of hell!”
The body fell to the side, twitching.
“Ard Righ! Ard Righ!” Arthur heard all around him. “High King! High King!”
Arthur glanced upward, and through his haze of weariness and desperate relief at the werewolf’s death, he saw that nearly a hundred armed villagers had gathered to watch, their torches lighting up the pasture.
And they were all cheering.
“Why are they calling me the High King?” Arthur asked. “How do they know?”
“You’ve pulled your father’s sword from the Stone,” Merlin said, looking at the blade with a strange delight in his eyes. “In their eyes that means you’re the High King.”
“But I’m already — ”
“Your warriors know, yes, everyone needs to embrace your kingship and swear fealty to you. That time has truly come.”
Merlin put an arm around Arthur and pulled him toward the crowd, raising a hand to get their attention. “You have declared this man to be High King because he has pulled the sword from the Stone, but what you don’t know is that Vortigern and Vortipor are dead, and this is Arthur, the son of High King Uther, and rightful heir of not only the sword, but of the High Kingship itself.”
“Arthur! Arthur! High King!” they shouted, and hope made their voices all the stronger.
Then a great gust of wind suddenly swept the field, and Arthur and Merlin held on to each other lest they topple over. The trees all bent, and their dry leaves were shorn loose and filled the air with dust and debris.
And just as the wind eased, someone at the back of the crowd began to scream.
The people panicked and scattered. A small contingent of wolf-heads had attacked the rear of the gathering, leaving at least one man bloody and broken.
There were six of them in all, and they ran at Arthur with astonishing speed.
Caygek and Bedwir ran in front, their spears ready. Merlin backed away, assessing the situation, yet had his own spear poised to attack.
Four of the wolf-heads ran at top speed toward Arthur, but then jumped over him at the last moment and landed behind.
Arthur spun and flashed his new blade out, but the wolf-heads were out of reach.
Instead of attacking, the creatures brought out a great leather sling with four straps, rolled the Stone inside it, and ran off with it at top speed.
Arthur, Caygek, and Bedwir chased them, but were too slow. Soon they had to give up. Arthur heard a man yell from behind and turned in time to glimpse the remaining two wolf-heads running off into the darkness with an unconscious figure between them.
Fear stabbed Arthur’s heart. His father’s spear lay shattered on the ground.
Arthur collapsed to his knees, turned his head upward, and yelled with what little breath he had until his voice was nearly gone.
“Merlin-n-n — !”
The long walk back to the site of the original battle on the shore of the marsh was the most painful journey Arthur had ever made. Dwin was dead, and Merlin, the only father he’d ever known, was taken captive.
And now he had to tell Natalenya, Taliesin, and Tinga of his failure to protect Merlin. He had saved Arthur’s life, and Arthur had failed him. Why had Arthur been so intent on stopping the four wolf-heads when he knew that there were two more behind him? Merlin had been left to fight them alone.
And though he had pulled the blade from the Stone, it was no consolation for the great loss he felt in his heart. He’d throw the exquisite blade away in an instant if he could trade it for Merlin’s freedom. He’d give up the High Kingship. Anything. He didn’t even care what the villagers said about him, and their cheers thrashed his heart like a mourner pounding on a tombstone.
And so now when he, Caygek, and Bedwir approached the wagon where Natalenya and the others hid, he had no words. What he saw when he came in view of the wagon made it even worse, for Gogi lay near, bleeding and groaning, with Natalenya, Taliesin, and Tinga caring for him.
A prone wolf-head, its neck twisted sideways, lay next to Gogi.
“He saved us!” Natalenya said through her tears. “It jumped on him from behind, and they fought, and . . .”
“Gogi!” Arthur called, kneeling down and surveying the man’s injuries. His beard was covered in blood, and Arthur moved aside the thick, white braids. It was bad, with his neck critically mangled. It appeared the wolf-head had tried to shred his throat, and only Gogi’s beard had saved him. But there was so much blood, and the wound raw and open . . . How could — ?
“Where’s . . . wem Wengis?” Gogi asked, gasping. “Gweni . . . Melwas — !”
Only then did Arthur look to the water and see Gogi’s son and two daughters rowing toward them in an abandoned boat. Myrgwen was with them, and she looked on forlornly from the back bench.
“Father!” Gwenivach called, a hidden scream strangling her words.
Gwenivere’s face was ashen.
When the boat was close enough, the girls jumped into the water, slogged to shore, and ran up the bank to fall to their knees next to their father’s torn body.
Gogi tried to sit up, but could not.
The mounted warriors returned, then, their horses clopping out of the darkness and halting on the edge of the battlefield.
“You’ve killed him!” Melwas yelled, shaking a finger at Arthur.
“He wasn’t supposed to fight, he — ”
Melwas slammed a fist into Arthur’s face.
He fell back, staggering as a blinding pain shot through his skull. Tripping, he fell onto Gogi’s legs, the sword from the Stone trapped under his hip.
Hands gripped Arthur’s throat and began to choke him.
“You Brythons! You’re always killing us!”
Arthur grabbed the man’s wrists and pushed unsuccessfully.
Melwas’s thumbs pressed into Arthur’s windpipe.
Arthur kicked and lashed out, but the attack was so sudden, he wasn’t —
The stars faded and Arthur began to black out.
Melwas released his grip, screaming. A flurry of motion passed in front of Arthur’s blurred vision as Caygek and Bedwir’s voices filled the air.
Arthur coughed and tried to catch his breath.
“Let me go! Midga tiwagged stoulyer!”
Arthur sat up with Myrgwen’s help, and he held on to her arm while she looked sorrowfully on.
Melwas struggled between Caygek and Bedwir, and he was so violent that he slipped from Caygek’s grip and smashed Bedwir in the gut, then turned and ran.
“I’ll get you, Arthur!” he yelled. “I’ll stick your head on a pike, I will!”
Gogi groaned between them and tried to sit up again.
Caygek came and, with Arthur’s help, rolled Gogi to his side. The big man spit out gobs of thick blood. “Arthur,” he said, choking, “Take care . . . o’ my daughters. Melwas . . . is too hateful . . . ya know . . . he . . .”
“Father,” Gwenivere said, her voice thick with greif, “You’re going to get better. We won’t leave you!”
“I’m so s
orry,” Arthur said. “I shouldn’t have . . .”
“Quiet!” Gwenivere yelled, her chin quivering and her teeth bared.
Gogirfan sneezed. With a great strangling, sucking noise, the giant died, his body falling limp and his eyes losing the light of life.
Gwenivere wailed and held on to her father’s belt, shaking him as if to wake him.
“Do you forgive me?” Arthur asked.
“I’ll never forget this. Never forgive you.”
“Do you hate me?”
She spit at him. “Yes. Ever and always.”
“Only me?”
“Yes and yes and yes!”
Arthur swore that until the day of his death he would never forgot the cruelty of her words.
Gwenivach lifted up her father’s head and kissed his cheek.
Culann arrived then, his boots crunching tentatively on the gravel. With wide eyes, he placed a hand on Gwenivere’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked up and blinked at him through her tears.
“It’s my fault,” Arthur said. “I never should have gotten him involved.”
But no one responded, and Arthur was left alone to his thoughts, a black leech of guilt sucking at his soul.
“Arthur . . .” Natalenya said, breaking the silence. “Where’s your father?”
Arthur wanted to hide. What could he say?
Natalenya stood and took hold of his shoulders. “Where’s Merlin?”
He hugged her while his own tears began to flow.
“Is he . . . is he . . . ?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“No. He’s not dead. But he was taken captive by wolf-heads. I . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Dear and Holy God . . . have mercy,” she prayed, her words trailing off as sobs overtook her and made her whole body shake.
Arthur locked gazes with Taliesin, and saw fear mixed with exhaustion there. Tinga had fallen asleep in the boy’s arms, and he haltingly stroked her hair.
“You mean Tas isn’t coming back?”
“We will pray,” Arthur said, making every word a vow, “and though I don’t know when or how, I promise you I’ll find him. I’ll bring him back.”
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 35
