Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  The ho­oting of the first owl wo­ke Mer­lin at dusk. He ca­me to him­self in­s­tantly, and pic­ked up his staff. The owl cal­led aga­in, a low, war­ning so­und. He qu­en­c­hed his fi­re and fa­ced the do­or­way. The wind had pic­ked up out­si­de, rat­tling the thorns in front of him and sen­ding a new draft to wrap aro­und his thro­at and an­k­les. The owl cal­led on­ce mo­re, se­ar­c­hing, hun­ting.

  Behind him, the de­ad rus­t­led be­ne­ath the­ir shro­uds. Bo­ne clic­ked aga­inst bo­ne, skulls in the­ir nic­hes gro­und the­ir jaws. The wind pic­ked up the­ir fe­ar as if it we­re smo­ke and brus­hed it aga­inst Mer­lin’s skin. It was old fe­ar with ro­ots that pus­hed the­ir way be­ne­ath his skin.

  “Rest, my fri­ends,” sa­id Mer­lin kindly. “Rest, all of you. It is not ti­me to ri­se yet.”

  It calls us, sa­id the de­ad in the­ir si­lent way. The ro­ot of the­ir fe­ar grew thic­ker, fe­ar of be­ing cal­led away, of be­ing lost, fo­re­ver lost, they who truly knew what eter­nity me­ant.

  “That call is not for you,” Mer­lin told them, ta­king firm hold of his staff. “Sle­ep now. You ha­ve ear­ned that sle­ep.”

  Slowly the clat­ter fa­ded and the rus­t­ling tur­ned aga­in to si­len­ce. A wolf how­led in the dis­tan­ce and Mer­lin lif­ted his he­ad to the so­und. “Not he­re. Not to­night,” he sa­id to the dar­k­ness. “Find so­me ot­her to ste­al. To­night, all sle­ep he­re un­der my pro­tec­ti­on.”

  And ne­it­her be­ast nor bird spo­ke aga­in in his he­aring. The wind was only cold, and the de­ad set­tled back to the­ir de­ep and dre­am­less sle­ep.

  Merlin kept watch over the do­or­way, hel­ping the thorns stand gu­ard for that long night. He was still we­ak from his fast and his long tra­vels, but he kept hold of his staff and did not let sle­ep cla­im him. Gra­du­al­ly, he be­ca­me awa­re that the world be­yond the thorn tre­es had lig­h­te­ned. He sto­od, stret­c­hing him­self and he bo­wed in gre­eting to the co­ming dawn. As if in an­s­wer, the sun let lo­ose a sin­g­le shaft that pi­er­ced the tomb. Mer­lin jum­ped back from it that he wo­uld not di­vert its co­ur­se. On the cur­ving wes­tern wall, he saw a sto­ne do­or glo­wing gol­den in that sin­g­le shaft of dawn. With a glad cry, Mer­lin ran to it at on­ce and pres­sed his hands to it. He had just ti­me to ma­ke out the por­tal’s fa­int li­nes, but co­uld see ne­it­her latch nor han­d­le.

  Then the sun was go­ne, and his eyes co­uld see not­hing but the car­ved sto­ne wall be­fo­re him. Be­ne­ath his palm, tho­ugh, he felt the ha­ir fi­ne crack whe­re the do­or fit­ted to wall.

  Then, he spo­ke the words he had car­ri­ed all the way from the West Lands. “In the na­me of Oisin mac Fi­onn, son of Fi­on­nn mac Cum­ha­il and Sab­ha of the le­aha­un sid­he, son of Cum­hal mac Tren­mor and Mu­ir­ne of the whi­te neck, I beg you, open this do­or and per­mit me entry.”

  He to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, and lo­we­red his hand. He wa­ited one he­ar­t­be­at, two, three. He wa­ited long eno­ugh for fe­ar that he had be­en ho­pe­les­sly wrong to se­ize tight hold.

  Then, so­un­d­les­sly, smo­othly, the bar­ri­er be­fo­re him drew back, le­aving in its wa­ke a patch of blac­k­ness de­eper than the night. Mer­lin swal­lo­wed, his kne­es sud­denly we­ak with re­li­ef. Hur­ri­edly, he drew the dag­ger he had be­en gi­ven from his belt and thrust it de­ep in­to the ear­t­hen flo­or be­ne­ath the thres­hold. The dag­ger was ste­el, the clo­se kin of cold iron, which was the me­tal pro­of aga­inst en­c­han­t­ment. Its pre­sen­ce wo­uld ke­ep him from the path ahe­ad if he tri­ed to carry it, but left he­re, it wo­uld hold this way open un­til he re­tur­ned.

  Holding tightly to his staff, Mer­lin mar­c­hed for­ward, and did not lo­ok back.

  He had no sen­se of des­cen­ding. The flo­or be­ne­ath his bo­ots was ut­terly smo­oth, as was the cur­ving wall be­ne­ath his fin­ger­tips when he stret­c­hed out his hand. But with each step, he felt the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en him and all that he had known grow gre­ater be­yond all re­ason. His eyes stra­ined un­til they ac­hed, and at last he per­ce­ived a tiny speck of whi­te li­ke a star in the dis­tan­ce. He wal­ked on. Each step was a le­ague, each bre­ath a day. All his we­ak­ness ca­me down upon his sho­ul­ders. All be­hind was dar­k­ness, the only light was up ahe­ad.

  A new draft of air waf­ted past him. This too ca­me from the way ahe­ad, but whe­re he ex­pec­ted the odor of earth and mo­uld, he in­s­te­ad fo­und the wel­co­me scents of gre­en and gro­wing things and the warmth that only co­mes from sun­light. Ama­zed, Mer­lin ur­ged his steps for­ward.

  He emer­ged from the tun­nel in­to a mighty fo­rest at the he­ight of sum­mer. Tre­es to­we­red on all si­des of him. Light fell in long shafts of gre­enish gold lig­h­ting up the ferns and bril­li­ant whi­te and blue blos­soms. If this was a ca­vern, the walls and ro­of so­ared so far away they we­re lost in the sun­less light. The air was warm and cle­ar and rich with the scents of the blos­soms and the who­le li­ving world, but no bird sang, nor was the­re any ot­her so­und of ani­mal li­fe he­re. The qu­i­et un­set­tled Mer­lin, and he la­id his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Then, the brac­ken be­fo­re him crac­ked and rus­t­led, and a tiny man pus­hed thro­ugh the dro­oping le­aves. He was only as tall as Mer­lin’s knee and as brown and twis­ted as tree ro­ots clot­hed in moss. Mer­lin sta­red, amu­sed, but wary, and his hand did not mo­ve from his sword’s hilt.

  The cre­atu­re clim­bed nimbly up on­to a rot­ting stump and squ­at­ted the­re, ga­zing up at the sor­ce­rer with bright black eyes.

  “You can­not pass,” he pi­ped shrilly. “Go back the way you ca­me.”

  Merlin strug­gled to ma­in­ta­in his co­un­te­nan­ce, and bo­wed co­ur­te­o­usly to the lit­tle man. “I beg yo­ur par­don and I me­an no of­fen­ce, but I must pass. The­re is a do­or be­yond he­re which I must open.”

  “You can­not pass,” the brown man sa­id aga­in. “Go back or I’ll set my cat on you!”

  “You will do as you must,” he an­s­we­red gra­vely. “And I will do the sa­me.”

  Setting his eyes on the way ahe­ad, Mer­lin wal­ked thro­ugh the ple­asant wo­od. He felt the ga­ze of the lit­tle man at his back, and he felt the tre­es le­an in clo­se, wa­iting, it se­emed glo­ating, re­ady for the en­ter­ta­in­ment that was to co­me as he wal­ked mo­re de­eply in­to the­ir pre­sen­ce. The who­le wo­od held its bre­ath aro­und him, si­lent, ex­pec­tant.

  He had not go­ne mo­re than ten pa­ces when he he­ard the lit­tle man sho­ut, “Cat! Cat! He­re is a mo­use for you!”

  Overhead, the le­aves rus­t­led. Mer­lin threw him­self si­de­ways. His staff spun from his hand, but he let it lie. A black blur drop­ped in­to the pla­ce whe­re had sto­od. He rig­h­ted him­self, dra­wing his sword, the bright bron­ze bla­de that had on­ce be­lon­ged to a Ro­man sol­di­er. With only this as a bar­ri­er, he fo­und him­self fa­ce-to-fa­ce with a gre­at cat, the si­ze of the li­on of Af­ri­ca, but co­al black in co­lor. Its eyes bla­zed bright gre­en as it snar­led at him, sho­wing all its ivory whi­te fangs.

  Merlin did not wa­it for the cat to lun­ge, in­s­te­ad, he le­apt for­ward, aiming his stro­ke at the cre­atu­re’s thro­at. It dod­ged his blow, agi­le and qu­ick, scre­aming at his te­me­rity. Mer­lin tur­ned and the cat stal­ked aro­und him, trac­king his mo­ve­ment, its hac­k­les ra­ised, wat­c­hing the stran­ge and dan­ge­ro­us mo­use. Mer­lin lun­ged aga­in, and this ti­me the cat le­apt to me­et him, sin­king its fangs de­ep in­to his sho­ul­der. The sor­ce­rer cri­ed alo­ud with pa­in as the cat bo­re him to the gro­und, its claws dig­ging de­ep in­to his chest and thighs. Blo­od and pa­in se­ared li­ke fi­re and Mer­lin scre­amed to sha­ke the world. But even as he fell he thrust up­ward with his sword
, and that bron­ze bla­de fo­und the cat’s flesh. Now the be­ast scre­amed in agony and out­ra­ge. It scrab­bled bac­k­ward, sco­ring him over and aga­in with its gre­at claws. Mer­lin las­hed out blindly, and the cat scre­amed on­ce mo­re, and the stran­ge clank of me­tal aga­inst me­tal rang thro­ugh the fo­rest.

  Breathing hard with the pa­in and awash in his own blo­od, Mer­lin pus­hed him­self to his fe­et. He sta­red, his wo­un­ded left arm han­ging lo­ose at his si­de. The cat was lim­ping bac­k­ward. He had wo­un­ded it, in the leg and in the si­de, but in­s­te­ad of blo­od fat co­ins of shi­ning gold drop­ped from tho­se wo­unds.

  Merlin rec­la­imed his sword. Grit­ting his te­eth hard aga­inst the pa­in, he ran for­ward three steps and stab­bed his bla­de in­to the flank of the ret­re­ating cat. He slas­hed si­de­ways, ope­ning a gre­at gash in the black hi­de. Mo­re gol­den co­ins po­ured out, clin­king and clan­king and shi­ning, ra­ising a scent of hot me­tal in the for­ge. Mo­re than in the tre­asury of all the kings of the bles­sed is­le po­ured out in that gro­tes­que gol­den fo­un­ta­in. The cre­atu­re scre­amed out on­ce mo­re, stag­ge­red, and fell de­ad. Un­der Mer­lin’s as­to­nis­hed ga­ze, the black skin be­gan to shri­vel and fall back, as if the work of a hun­d­red ye­ars be­ne­ath the so­il was ac­com­p­lis­hed in a do­zen bre­aths. The two eyes fell from the mon­s­ter's skull. Each was an eme­rald the si­ze of a baby’s fist. One wo­uld ha­ve bo­ught the eme­rald he’d bro­ught to King Be­rach a tho­usand ti­mes over. Two wo­uld buy the who­le of the bles­sed is­le. Both now lay among whi­te bo­nes and gol­den co­ins.

  “Well, it is yo­urs now.”

  Painfully Mer­lin tur­ned his he­ad to see the lit­tle brown per­son sit­ting hun­c­hed be­si­de the clo­sed do­or.

  “You’ve kil­led my pet, my ra­re one,” the lit­tle man sa­id sadly. “I did not think it co­uld be do­ne. Ta­ke the gold and le­ave me to bury her.”

  “It is not gold I want.” Trem­b­ling, and grit­ting his te­eth aga­inst the pa­in, Mer­lin lim­ped back to his staff and rec­la­imed it. His hands sho­ok, and his legs thre­ate­ned to gi­ve way. He no­ted, dis­tantly, that the fo­rest flo­or drank his blo­od and the cat’s just as thir­s­tily.

  “Ha! All men want gold.”

  “No.” Mer­lin sho­ok his he­ad he­avily. Pa­in ma­de his re­ason swo­op and spin wit­hin him. The ble­eding was bad and he co­uld not fe­el the staff he held. He ne­eded to rest, to he­al him­self, But not he­re. Not yet. “No thing I ha­ve ever do­ne has be­en for gold. Nor will it.”

  The lit­tle man re­gar­ded him ke­enly, and then nod­ded. “So it is. Go on then, man. See what you ha­ve to say to the next you me­et.” He nod­ded to­ward the tre­es. Now, Mer­lin co­uld see that the ca­vern wall was qu­ite clo­se. The ve­il of hazy gol­den light had lif­ted from it, and in the li­ving sto­ne of the wall wa­ited a por­tal of wo­od ban­ded with bron­ze. Even as his blur­red eyes ma­de it out, the do­or fell open to re­ve­al mo­re dar­k­ness.

  Merlin shuf­fled for­ward. His wo­un­ded legs did not want to mo­ve. His left arm co­uld not hold his staff and he crad­led it clo­se to his chest. The blo­od ran down in scar­let stre­ams and his sight swam be­fo­re him. It se­emed an age be­fo­re he re­ac­hed the bles­sed blin­ding dar­k­ness. The­re he le­aned aga­inst the co­ol wall and did not­hing for a mo­ment but bre­at­he and we­ep from the pa­in. Then, he ma­de his left hand wrap aro­und his staff with his right. In a harsh, ho­ar­se vo­ice, he spo­ke cer­ta­in words known to him.

  Fresh pa­in blas­ted thro­ugh him li­ke a lig­h­t­ning stro­ke. It se­ized flesh, blo­od and bo­ne, twis­ting and com­p­res­sing them tightly. His he­art ham­me­red, and he co­uld ne­it­her bre­at­he nor see for a long mo­ment.

  Then, it was over. Mer­lin pus­hed him­self away from the wall. Blo­od still co­ated his skin and clot­hing, but it no lon­ger flo­wed fresh. Any who had se­en him then wo­uld ha­ve tho­ught him un­s­cat­hed. But Mer­lin knew his wo­unds wa­ited clo­se be­ne­ath the sur­fa­ce of his skin. This was no true he­aling such as only God and ti­me co­uld ma­ke, but it wo­uld ser­ve for the mo­ment, and enab­le him to walk aga­in thro­ugh the dar­k­ness, al­t­ho­ugh the pa­in pul­led at him with each step.

  After a ti­me that was both far too long and far too bri­ef, light ope­ned aga­in aro­und him. Mer­lin blin­ked to be­hold the new world he en­te­red. Whe­re the cham­ber be­fo­re had be­en a wil­der­ness, this pla­ce was a gar­den. Its tall tre­es and bro­ad lawn all se­emed lo­vingly ten­ded. A pro­fu­si­on of flo­wers per­fu­med the air with a tho­usands scents. As he sto­od and bre­at­hed them in, Mer­lin felt his he­art lift. The strength of his limbs in­c­re­ased and the pa­in eb­bed away. Ap­ple, plum and cherry tre­es, all in the­ir ful­lest blos­som grew be­si­de a flo­wing stre­am. Wit­hin the bo­wer of this de­li­ca­te gro­ve sto­od a pa­vi­li­on ma­de of many co­lo­red li­nens, all pat­ter­ned with the fi­gu­re of the whi­te ma­re. The do­or of the pa­vi­li­on had be­en drawn back to re­ve­al the de­li­ca­tely car­ved fur­nis­hings and ra­re car­pets. On one of the­se costly co­uc­hes lay a wo­man.

  “Be wel­co­me, Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us,” she cal­led to him, and her vo­ice was as pu­re and wel­co­me as wa­ter to a man dying of thirst. She was clot­hed in so­me fi­ne whi­te cloth that clung to the cur­ves of her body as she ro­se to stand be­fo­re him.

  “Thank you, my lady.” Mer­lin bo­wed, fe­eling stran­gely clumsy. For a mo­ment, he cur­sed his wo­unds that ma­de his mo­ve­ments so stiff and slow. His hand tig­h­te­ned on his staff as he strug­gled to re­mem­ber him­self.

  The lady only smi­led and wal­ked for­ward, hol­ding out both her long, whi­te hands. “Sit and rest,” she sa­id, ta­king his hand in both of hers and dra­wing him to the co­uch. “You ha­ve co­me a long way.”

  “It is a long ro­ad yet,” he an­s­we­red. But she only smi­led as she tur­ned to the tab­le whe­re a gra­ce­ful gil­ded pit­c­her wa­ited. From it, she po­ured a wi­ne the co­lor of sun­light in­to two cups.

  “You sho­uld drink and ref­resh yo­ur­self.” She held out one of the cups.

  The scent from the gob­let was co­ol, fresh and swe­et. Mer­lin’s mo­uth wa­te­red. He ac­hed, and he knew strength and he­alth lay in that cup. But he only sho­ok his he­ad. “My lady, you know that I can­not.”

  She ra­ised her dark brows. “You will not,” she cor­rec­ted him reg­ret­ful­ly. But she set the cups asi­de, and in­s­te­ad mo­ved a lit­tle clo­ser to him on the co­uch, clo­se eno­ugh that he co­uld tell she was scen­ted li­ke the flo­wers aro­und them, and that her body was warm as it was fa­ir. “Why not ta­ke what is fre­ely of­fe­red?”

  Merlin fo­und his mo­uth was dry, and that his pul­se be­at hard and in­sis­tent at the ba­se of his thro­at. “It is not free, my lady,” he ma­de him­self say.

  She smi­led and he co­uld think of not­hing el­se. “Per­haps not. Des­pi­te that, I am glad that you ha­ve co­me.”

  Her eyes we­re black and de­ep. Myste­ri­es he wo­uld ne­ver find an­y­w­he­re el­se wa­ited in them. He wan­ted to to­uch her hand, and for that mo­ment co­uld not re­mem­ber why he sho­uld not. She wo­uld wel­co­me his to­uch, he was su­re of it.

  “Why is that?” he he­ard him­self ask.

  The lady re­ac­hed out and to­uc­hed her che­ek. Her hand was warm and soft, and whe­re it mo­ved, his ac­he eased and her warmth se­eped in­to him. “You are bra­ve, and cun­ning, true and fa­ir. It has be­en a long ti­me sin­ce such as you ha­ve wal­ked the ro­ad to me. The­se days I must ro­am far and wi­de to find even a sha­dow of what you bring.”

  “You flat­ter me, my lady.”

  She la­ug­hed a lit­tle. “Per­haps.” She to­ok her hand from his fa­ce,
to­uc­hed her fin­ger­tips to his. “Do­es it dis­p­le­ase you to he­ar yo­ur­self spo­ken well of?”

  “It dis­p­le­ases no man.” He an­s­we­red her smi­le. He co­uld do not­hing el­se. He wan­ted to pro­long the gen­t­le mer­ri­ment in her black eyes, to he­ar her mu­si­cal vo­ice, to ha­ve her draw clo­ser.

  She did draw clo­ser. The scent of her­self was mo­re stren­g­t­he­ning than any wi­ne co­uld ever be. “And as I ha­ve ple­ased you, Mer­lin. Will you ple­ase me?” she as­ked softly. Her eyes we­re bold. Her warmth ran in­to his ve­ins, stren­g­t­he­ning his blo­od but tur­ning all his flesh we­ak as wa­ter. “Will you ac­cept what I of­fer? It wo­uld ple­ase me gre­atly we­re you to do so. The­re is much I co­uld gi­ve to you, not only in this pla­ce, but when you re­turn to the li­ving world.” She to­ok up his hand bet­we­en her own. Mer­lin clo­sed his eyes. The­re was too much, too much in her fa­ce so fil­led with pro­mi­se, too much in the warmth of her to­uch. Too much pro­mi­se in that and in the words that flo­wed over him. He was drow­ning and he had no wish to ri­se abo­ve it.

  “My gra­ce wo­uld be upon you the­re, we­re you to ac­cept my gifts now.” She kis­sed him, and the he­at of it rus­hed thro­ugh him, bur­ning sen­se and mind away and le­aving only ba­re ne­ed, the ne­ed to to­uch, to know, to ta­ke and ta­ke aga­in, to re­vel in the to­uch and scent and vo­ice of her. It had be­en so long sin­ce a wo­man had co­me to him, and he ac­hed with such ne­ed now that his arms trem­b­led as he pul­led her in­to his em­b­ra­ce, let­ting his staff fall to the gro­und. He an­s­we­red her kiss hun­g­rily, ro­ughly, de­lig­h­ting in the way she yi­el­ded her­self so eagerly. The­re was no pa­in he­re, only joy, only he­art’s wish ful­fil­led mo­re com­p­le­tely than even dre­ams co­uld ma­ke it.