Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral)

by Robert Treskillard

  Merlin moaned. The world hurt, that was all he knew. Every blasted, wretched part of it ached. What he wanted was to go back to sleep where the clouds spun in ethereal colors while glowing angels held his hands, guiding him along paths of serene beauty and flowing waters. Fruit grew there in abundance and he longed to eat of it, but their luscious, shiny ovals were always just out of reach.

  And now with the vision completely faded, his back hurt, and something painful was pressing at his head. He tried to shift his legs, but they felt twisted and numb.

  “Struggle, Merlin . . . yes, struggle,” said a woman’s voice. “But it is quite useless, and there is no escape.”

  Merlin turned toward the voice and opened his eyes. He lay in a dank-smelling cave lit by a smoking torch. Before him stood Mórgana, his half sister, her eyes aflame with an unholy delight. He fought to sit up but his legs — tightly bound — thumped into a tripod supporting a large cast-iron pot that hung amidst a pile of ashes and half-burnt logs. Merlin’s wrists were also tied.

  “It is time for you to weep, my bardic brother, for all the plans of your enemy have come to complete fruition.”

  Merlin spit out a few small pebbles that had found their way into his mouth. “It’s over,” he said. “You lost the battle and now your werewolf is dead.”

  Mórgana laughed, and the voices of three men joined in from behind her. Merlin blinked and saw Mórganthu — his old nemesis — now old and wrinkled. Another was Loth, whose presence here in Bosventor shocked Merlin. The two had fought atop King Atle’s mountain temple in the northern lands of darkness, and Merlin truly thought him dead. How could he be here?

  The third man’s hooded face could not be seen from where he stood in shadow. Shorter than Loth, he was nonetheless strong and had a dangerous-looking sword strapped to his hip.

  The mocking laughter continued, louder and louder, as if Merlin had spoken some astounding joke.

  Finally, Mórgana kicked him in the chin, knocking his head back. His whole skull rang, making a tender spot on the right side hurt. That’s where one of the two wolf-heads had cracked him with a club.

  “Did you think, my dear Merlin,” Mórgana said, sneering, “that you and Arthur came to Bosventor of your own will? No, you were driven here like goats to the slaughter. Oh . . . and I really care nothing about the outcome of the battle, or the ultimate fate of my puny werewolf. He deserves his death for impiously flouting my commands. You see, the entire goal was for either you or Arthur to survive . . . and to force you by my careful plotting to pull the sword from the Druid Stone. Nothing else mattered.”

  The Stone! Merlin had forgotten all about it since the wolf-heads had attacked him. He had been proud when Arthur pulled the sword out. It was by right the lad’s blade, and it was of such fine workmanship that Merlin had always wanted to retrieve it. His father had made it, after all, and given it to Uther.

  But now a new thought struck him. Had Arthur, by removing the blade, somehow revived the Stone? His stomach twisted.

  “I see the confusion on your face, dear brother, so let me clear things up a bit.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” came a voice from behind Merlin. “She’s been telling me lies ever since — ”

  “Quiet!” Mórgana shouted. “I will not have such insolence from a monk.”

  Merlin rolled onto his back and turned his head to see who had spoken, and the sight filled him with both joy and sorrow.

  “Dybris?” Merlin exclaimed as a familiar, grim face peered at him from a dark corner of the cave. Dybris was the monk who had brought Garth to the moor sixteen years ago and had helped fight Mórganthu and destroy the Stone. But Dybris was in poor shape, now, with his right eye was badly swollen, and an infected gash marred the skin on his neck.

  If Merlin were free, he could have hugged the man. “What are you — ?”

  “This part of the cave is my home, and I was taken prisoner yesterday.”

  And it was true. This must be the storage cave behind the old, burned-down abbey. Garth had once bragged to Merlin about sneaking in here and pilfering a few snacks from the barrels. Merlin had admonished him, sure, but the boy had been proud of it. How he ever got past the locked door, Merlin never knew.

  Dybris struggled, but his feet were tightly bound with rope, and his arms were tied behind his back.

  “And so, my lucky prisoners, behold the Druid Stone in its last, final glory!”

  Mórganthu struck his staff at a dark spot of the cave. A blue flame exploded from the Stone, which had lain hidden there. But there was something different about the Stone now, for it was larger than Merlin remembered it and its surface was no longer a weird mixture of black and silver. No, it was a translucent blend of weird, swirled colors: the black of coal, the green of algae, and the white of grub worms.

  And something moved inside of it. Squirming. Writhing. Twisting. Humming.

  It was alive!

  “Ah, what joy to see the horror on your face, dear brother! For what has long been concealed inside the Stone is now hatching. Your error, and everyone else’s, was thinking it a Stone, for it was never such. It is an egg. And from its glorious crust shall be born twins that shall terrorize the earth and bring ultimate power to the Druids.”

  At these words the humming increased until Merlin felt the stone floor beneath him vibrate and shake.

  Mórgana knelt, placed her hands lovingly upon its pulsing surface, and began to sing.

  O hatch thou, my master’s drakes; Now break forth, ye flaming snakes.

  Hewn of rock — the Voice’s bud, cleft from stone — with thirst for blood!

  Speed thy birth, my awful drakes; Split thy shell, ye ghastly snakes.

  Break the bones — as dreadful beast; Crack and kill — for frightful feast!

  O come thou, my fearsome drakes; Take and rule, ye blazing snakes.

  Brood of wind — with brutal sting; Spawn of night — to slay the king!

  But as her voice rose in ecstatic singing, the Stone calmed and ceased to vibrate. The itching hum fell away, as if whatever lay hidden in the Stone were listening intently. “Your sword, dear brother, prevented these two from hatching — but now that the blade has been removed by a hand that was able to claim it properly, they will come forth. Watch and tremble!”

  Merlin couldn’t take his eyes off of the egg, for she spoke the truth. Under her hands the shell began to crack, quiver, and convulse. Then with a jerk that surprised even Mórgana, a small section broke away and slipped to the floor. The scaly nose of a creature pushed through the hole, bubbles forming in the green, gelatinous slime that spewed forth as the creature breathed in and exhaled for the first time.

  Merlin watched in horror, his heart beating so hard that it would surely burst.

  The creature fought against the shell and finally broke through, its entire head slipping out into the cold air of the cave.

  It was a lizard . . . a dragon!

  The skin was white, it had curved horns like a goat, and the tips of its teeth were sharper than needles. But there was something odd . . . the dragon was missing one of its four longest fangs, and where the tooth had been there was only an uneven scar. The blade that Merlin had thrust into the Stone must have cut it off.

  Soon, the rest of its snakelike body slipped from the egg.

  A sulfurous cloud belched outward, and Merlin almost choked on the stench.

  For the dragon’s size, the creature had small arms and legs, each ending in a claw-like hand. The dragon was six feet long from the tip of its tail to the curve of its wickedly sharp fangs. On its back lay a set of scaled wings, folded now and sodden with slime.

  Mórgana began petting it.

  “Poor dragon . . . you’ve been through a lot, haven’t you? Now to birth your brother.”

  She reached into the egg and searched amongst the slime.

  “Where has your brother gone?” she shrieked. “There were two here . . . a white dragon and a red one. But — but — ”


  Loth bent down and turned the egg on its side, emptying it. “He’s nay here. Are ya sure you weren’t imagining it? Could you have misunderstood the Voice?”

  “NO!” she screamed, and struck him in the face.

  Loth fell backward with the smoking outline of Mórgana’s handprint on his cheek. “Th-then . . . perhaps the blade slew ’im, and his body dissolved.”

  “That must be it,” Mórgana said, scowling. “But ultimately it is no matter. This was the larger, and shall soon be strong enough for all of our purposes.”

  Mórganthu stepped near, smiling as he stood over the dragon while shaking his druid stick with all its tinkling strings of little seashells. “But now — but now the dragon needs its first meal, does it not?”

  “Yes it does. I had almost . . . forgotten, shall we say.”

  Mórgana stood and glared at Merlin and Dybris.

  “You, dear brother — along with the foolish monk — shall be the dragon’s very first meal. This doom of yours was requested by the Voice and I have endeavored to deliver you both. Yes, a tasty snack!”

  The man in shadow handed a wooden bucket to Loth, who poured its contents on Merlin’s legs, torso, and head. “A wee bit o’ sheep’s blood to whet the appetite.” The liquid was sticky and rancid, making Merlin gag and struggle against his ropes.

  Next he coated Dybris with the blood and then laughed at them. “We must encourage proper feedin’ for the little one, now mustn’t we?”

  “We’ll retire now and leave you to your meal,” Mórgana said. “I don’t expect to find you here in the morning.” And with that, she, Loth, the hooded man, and Mórganthu climbed up a stone ledge and out of the cave. Behind them they closed a stout door and slid a bar in place, locking Merlin and Dybris in. The footsteps of the four echoed as they strode down the far passage.

  The dragon lifted its head, opened its silver eyes, and stared at them. From its nostrils flashed a small green flame. The dragon opened its razored jaws in salivating anticipation and gave out a purring hum.

  Merlin froze as the creature began crawling closer.

  Merlin struggled as the dragon slid closer — nose sniffing and tongue licking at the trail of foul-smelling blood Loth had left behind. All the time, a humming pulsed from its white throat, and its strange, silver-flecked eyes focused on Merlin’s face.

  “Dybris!” Merlin yelled, “Help!”

  “Sing,” Dybris said, twisting and rolling toward Merlin.

  “What?”

  “Sing!”

  Merlin sang, quavery at first, but then stronger as he saw the dragon lift its head and pause its forward motion. The song was an old lay, taught to him by Colvarth, about a young king from the fens of Ekenia whose bride had vanished on a cold, blustery night. The man searched for her for a year and a day, but never found her. It was a sad song, and though Merlin didn’t know why he chose it, he was glad to have something to sing, for the dragon completely stopped in order to appraise him.

  Stretching its neck out, the creature twitched its nose as if it were sniffing the tune floating through the air. “THOU SINGEST . . . WELL,” the dragon said, its deep voice vibrating like a drum.

  Merlin kept singing as Dybris slid closer, feetfirst.

  The dragon’s pupils narrowed as it studied them.

  “BUT WE MUST EAT . . .”

  Merlin’s heart convulsed in his chest and would barely let the words be sung.

  The dragon opened its jaws, a humming hiss escaping from deep within its throat, and the long teeth shone in the torchlight.

  “It’s not working!” Merlin yelled, rolling backward until a sharp rock on the floor of the cave jabbed painfully into his spine, halting him.

  “I’m sorry!” Dybris said, scooting closer.

  The dragon lunged forward — toward Merlin’s defenseless middle.

  Merlin flinched just as Dybris lashed out with his feet, kicking the dragon in the head and knocking it to the side.

  The dragon rolled, screaming and hissing in frustration.

  Merlin swiveled his feet toward the beast and bent his knees, prepared to strike.

  “Keep him busy!” Dybris said. “I’ve almost got a hand loose . . .”

  The dragon spun, jerked its head in rage, and then lunged at the monk.

  Merlin kicked, missing the creature’s head but knocking its front legs out from under it.

  The dragon fell, clunking its chin on the ground. It turned on Merlin, snarling.

  “I’ve got a hand loose!” Dybris yelled.

  “Stop talking!” Merlin said, “I can see!”

  “You can?”

  “Long story.” Sweat began to pour down Merlin’s face as he kicked again, this time slamming the creature in the snout and knocking it back against the cave wall.

  “Jesu help us!”

  The dragon shook its head and reared up, balancing on its hind legs and tail, with its still-damp and weak wings spread out as well.

  Merlin tensed, ready to strike back with his feet.

  But the dragon took in a great breath, swelling its snake-like chest to twice the size, and let forth a powerful stream of green fire.

  The flames engulfed his legs, and Merlin started to scream — until he lifted his knee-high boots to block the torrent, dispersing the flames and decreasing the pain. The thick leather soles blocked most of the heat, protecting him. Still, he could feel the flames flicking at the sides of his boots, the ropes, and his breeches, causing acrid steam from the sheep’s blood to singe his nose.

  Merlin gritted his teeth as the heat leaked through the leather and the pain approched excruciating. Then with a whoosh, the fire went out and the dragon fell back, out of breath. If the creature had been larger and able to produce more flame, Merlin would have been roasted alive.

  Dybris now had his other hand free and, reaching past Merlin, he grabbed one of the tripod’s wooden poles that held up the castiron pot. Pulling it loose, the pot crashed to the ashes below.

  With one hand Dybris swung the narrow end toward the dragon to keep it back.

  The creature hissed, its forked tongue flicking up and down angrily.

  Merlin rolled and held his bound hands up to Dybris, who began picking blindliy at the knot with his free hand while keeping the dragon at bay with the makeshift staff in the other.

  The dragon began swinging its head back and forth, looking for a path to strike, but Dybris countered every move.

  “LET US . . . EAT!” the dragon roared, and then it bit onto the end of the staff and jerked backward, trying to wrest it from Dybris.

  The monk grabbed on with both hands and threw his weight sideways, pulling the dragon off its hind feet. Swinging with all his strength, he threw the dragon and staff against the far wall of the cave.

  The dragon slammed to the ground, stunned.

  Rolling closer, Merlin held up his hands. “Dybris!”

  The monk knelt down and worked desperately at the knots.

  Merlin tried to calm his heart, but it banged until his throat felt like it would explode. The rope loosened much too slowly, and there were still three knots to go when the dragon leapt upon Dybris, knocking him to the ground. The beast’s claws cut through the monk’s robe, and his jaw snapped open, plunging toward Dybris’s head.

  The monk twisted his face away and reached up, blindly grabbing the monster’s throat just below its spiraled horns.

  “Help!”

  Swinging his body over, Merlin kicked at the dragon, but was only able to hit the tail. In response the beast writhed against the monk’s grip, and its snapping jaws drew closer.

  Merlin yelled as he used every ounce of strength to pull his hands free from the rope.

  The dragon gained leverage by wrapping its tail around Dybris’s legs, then used its claws to cut into his arms.

  Dybris screamed.

  Merlin kicked again at the monster, this time ramming its curved horns.

  The beast was knocked to the side, but quickly sucked i
n a deep breath, turned its head toward Merlin, and let out a stream of green, burning flames.

  Merlin’s leather boots began to smoke, and the rope caught on fire.

  Spinning to the side and away from the dragon’s fire, he rolled to put out the flames — but then changed his mind. Lifting his legs against the cave wall, he let the rope burn while straining against it.

  “Merlin!” Dybris shouted.

  His legs aflame, Merlin gritted his teeth as the pain jabbed into his calves and shins like white-hot pokers.

  The dragon had drawn bleeding gashes down Dybris’s forearms now, and the monk’s hands began to shake as he squeezed at the creature’s throat.

  The dragon’s neck bent forward, closer and closer until white saliva dripped off of its snapping teeth and onto Dybris’s forehead.

  “HELP!”

  Merlin yelled as the scorching pain bit into his flesh, all the while straining against the rope around his legs until they broke away and fell smoking to the floor.

  Pulling at his right hand, he yanked it out of its rope.

  He was free!

  Standing, Merlin grabbed the handle of the large, cast-iron pot and swung it at the monster’s body.

  Thud!

  The dragon screamed and its tail went slack, releasing Dybris’s legs.

  Anger surged through Merlin as he swung the pot back and slammed it into the dragon a second time. “Get off!” he yelled. With a loud crack, the pot broke, and its iron shards scattered across the floor.

  The beast went limp as Dybris threw it against the far wall.

  Merlin ran to the door and slammed his shoulder into it. But it was solidly barred from the outside, and the stout oak wouldn’t budge.

  “Untie my legs . . .” Dybris called. His voice was weak, his arms bleeding, and his hands shaking.

  Merlin ran back and undid the knots, keeping one eye on the dragon, which was beginning to coil up and twitch. “We have to escape! Is there a way out farther back in the cave?”