by Daniel Diehl
REVELATIONS
Book One of the Merlin Chronicles
Also by Daniel Diehl
(Non-fiction co-authored with Mark Donnelly)
Pirates of Maryland
Medieval and Renaissance Furniture
Pirates of Virginia
Medieval Celebrations
Death & Taxes
Pirates of New Jersey
Haunted Houses of America: A Travelers Guide
Inventors & Impostors: How History Forgot the True Heroes of Invention and Discovery
The Big Book of Pain: Torture & Punishment Through History
Management Secrets from History
Eat Thy Neighbor: A History of Cannibalism
Tales from the Tower of London
Elbert Hubbard: The Common Sense Revolutionary
How Did They Manage
Medieval Furniture, Plans and Instructions
Siege: Castles at War
Constructing Medieval Furniture
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Introduction
This story is a work of fiction based primarily on characters from the Arthurian legends, Biblical prophecy and a diverse range of historical sources. Our Merlin - particularly in the case of his ancestry and personal history- is based primarily on the writings of Geoffrey of Monmouth, a twelfth century English cleric who had based his Merlin on ancient Welsh sagas.
It is my feeling that if a work of fiction is given a solid framework based in fact it will, for all its flights of fancy, be far more believable and entertaining. Lord Byron once wrote "I hate things all fiction...there should always be some foundation of fact". Needless to say, I agree with him. To that end, every effort has been made to maintain the authenticity of historical facts, Arthurian legends and other hard information that serve to give a realistic setting in which our characters live out their lives of make-believe. Additionally, most of the cities and physical sites referred to in the book are real. The buildings and places within the city of York actually exist and appear much as they are described in the story. The physical sciences building on the main campus of the University of York, the Buddhist monastery and the Mongolian fortress are, however, creations of fiction.
If you, the reader, enjoy this book, the thanks must go to the dozens of my predecessors who have kept the character of Merlin, and his story, alive for more than fifteen hundred years; if not, the fault is entirely mine.
I would like to express my gratitude to my publisher, Kitty Bullard, and my proof readers Barbara Rudish and Patricia Diluzio; without these nice ladies this book would not exist.
Prologue
Greasy smoke billowed and churned across the landscape like some living thing trying to devour the countryside. It seared the old man’s throat and lungs and stung his eyes, making them water fiercely, nearly blinding him. Stumbling through the matted grass, he hunched forward into the smoke while briars tugged at his gown, causing him to trip and lose precious seconds. It seemed like the very plants were in league with the soldiers who were attacking the tiny village.
The soldiers were now gleefully slaughtering men, women, children and livestock in their mindless quest to kill one old man they did not even know. They did not know him and did not ask why he was their target. They were simply carrying out an assignment and doing their best to enjoy their work. They had been doing this month after month and never seemed to tire of the game. Brutality comes naturally to some people.
The old man tried to gauge his progress by the decreasing level of screaming, shouting and drumming of horses’ hooves. If he could make it beyond the curtain of smoke without the soldiers cutting him down, he still had a chance. How many times over the past four years had this happened? Five? Six? Eight? He had lost count.
He had lost a lot of other things, too. Those few friends who had not deserted him out of fear for their lives were now dead. Even the king was dead; buried in some secret place so that evil woman could not desecrate his grave. Once her soldiers had killed the old man there would be nothing to stop her from wreaking vengeance on the entire kingdom. But he knew she would never stop there. Her greed could not be bounded by the shores of one small island. Nothing stood between the realization of whatever unspeakable goal she and her monstrous allies had in mind except one old man and the bag of scrolls and books he had pilfered from her library four years earlier.
When he finally broke through the smoke into the pale, salmon-colored dawn, Merlin slumped forward onto his knees and rolled to one side in the soft grass, careful not to damage the small object clutched tight to his breast. The wails of the dying and the shouts of their tormentors had faded into the distance, but the fear still clung to him like a leech. He could breathe again, but the tears would not stop coming. Rolling onto his back, he stared at the brightening sky and silently asked the single question. Why?
If he had been one-tenth the all-powerful magician the balladeers at Arthur’s court had made him out to be, none of this would have happened. Now, his only chance was to escape the carnage and find a way to stop that damned woman once and for all. He had to make it across the last few miles to the coast. If he could make it that far, and if Vivian was there as she promised she would be, he would have all the time he needed.
Hoisting himself off of his knees, Merlin moved as quickly as he could. Once the mounted bullies had trod over the last charred body in the village they would know he was not among the dead and start scouring the countryside. He kept as low to the ground as his seventy-three year old body could manage, but the sparse undergrowth of Cornwall offered little in the way of cover. If he were not in such a panic, he could have cast the spell to render himself invisible. But as it was, God, and the off chance that the butchers were not bright enough to figure out which way he was headed, were his only allies.
Just after dawn the next day he crested a small rise. There, a few miles distant, lay the cliffs of the Cornish coast. Beyond was the endless, heaving gray of the sea merging with an equally gray sky. Merlin turned and looked back over his shoulder. Still no sign of his pursuers. He leaned forward and pressed his ear to a bare spot on the earth. No drumming of distant hoof beats.
Four hours later, as he neared the edge of the world, he spied a tiny, wavering shape walking toward him along the cliff edge. Exhausted as he was, he pulled himself erect and walked toward the figure, which quickened its pace to meet him.
“Merlin?”
Even at this distance, and in spite of the sea wind, the woman’s voice was as clear and musical as a tiny glass bell. She rushed forward and embraced him, laying her delicate bl
ond head against his chest.
“Thank you for coming to meet me, pretty lady. How on earth did you know where I would be?”
“I can find you because I love you.”
Merlin smiled and gently kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled as fresh as the salt spray from the ocean.
“I didn’t think I was going to make it.”
“You know you could have come to me at any time. She would never have found you.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you insist on staying here?” Her watery blue eyes stared uncomprehendingly at him from a childlike face.
He wondered how old she might really be. She looked no more than sixteen or seventeen; but she had looked that way for as long as he could remember, more than half a century, at the very least. He was too tired to think about it.
“I don’t dare leave until I can find a way to defeat her. As long as I remain here, I can keep her and those monstrous creatures in check. Eventually, I will find a way to stop them permanently but I need you to help keep me safe till then.”
She sighed and nodded. “You mortals are all the same. So involved in doing things. Plotting and scraping. You will never change and I will never understand you.”
“You never change either, my love.”
“That’s different and you know it.” She slapped his chest playfully with one tiny hand. Then, after a pause “But you know I will do anything I can to help you.”
“Thank you, Vivian.” He looked around at the landscape as though expecting it to reveal some bit of information. “Where is the place?”
“Just up here. Less than a Roman mile.” She tugged at his sleeve. “Walk with me.”
He fell in step beside the tiny, sylph-like figure as she trod barefoot along the edge of the cliff, her translucent gown floating before her in the gentle breeze. “Are you certain she won’t be able to find me?”
“The lines of earth-energy are very strong here. They will protect you from her scrying. You brought it with you?”
With one hand, he reached out and took her gently by the arm, turning her to face him. With the other hand, he held out the bundle he had kept clutched to his chest for months and pulled back the folds of tattered cloth that kept it hidden.
For a moment she simply stared at it. “Oh.”
“You were expecting something else?” A gentle, humorous, mocking tone had crept into his voice.
“I was not expecting anything. You humans have your own queer magic, we have ours.”
Half an hour later they drew to a halt.
“This is the place. You may put it down now, if you like.”
Merlin leaned forward, placing the object on the soft ground like some precious, votive offering. As he straightened up, the girl laid her hands on his chest. “It’s still not too late. If you were with me you would be safe forever. You know that.”
Merlin nodded. “I know.” He pulled his eyes away from her, scanning the watery horizon, afraid that if he looked at her face, his resolve might crack; just a little.
“Very well.” She rubbed a hand idly across his thin stomach. “Are you ready?”
Now he looked her squarely in the eye. “Yes.”
“Do what you must do and then I will seal it in the ground here...” she pointed to a spot a few feet to the left…“where the energy is strongest.”
They stared at each other for what seemed like a moment removed from time, filled with longing and impending loss. Then Vivian spoke again. “When you have done whatever you think is necessary to stop her, call me again. I will hear you and come for you.”
“I don’t know how long this may take. A year, ten years, I just don’t know.”
She laughed and hugged him. “You know such things mean nothing to me. And so long as you are here they will mean nothing to you either. A day, a century, they will all be the same to you as they are for me.” Merlin nodded silently as she spoke. “And when you have done this foolish thing you feel you must do, and I have come for you, then you will be free to be my love forever.”
Wordlessly, suddenly, the old man grabbed the delicate girl-thing whispering “Yes. I promise” and crushed his lips to hers.
“Good. Then it’s settled.” Her eyes sparkled like a happy child. “Do you have your precious scrolls?”
Merlin smiled thinly and patted the cloth bag slung over his shoulder. “If I didn’t, it would be a little late to go back for them now.”
“Then do what you must do.”
Merlin turned toward the sky, raised his hands and began invoking the power of God. “In nominos Patri... Wait.” He broke off, turning back to her. “I’ve been so confused and so tired, I almost forgot. The sword...”
“Do not worry. The women of your Christian Church delivered it back to me after they buried poor Arthur. I returned it to my lake where it was forged in the time of his father. That woman will never have it. At least that is one power she can never wield against you and the world of men.”
Merlin stroked her cheek with the back of one long, slender hand and returned to his work.
Chapter One
It was already well past ten p.m. but mid-summer evenings at the northerly latitudes of the British Isles seem to last almost forever. There was just enough soft, silvery light creeping across the rugged earth that, although objects were still distinguishable, everything looked like it was made from yellow-gray putty. Everything, that is, except the castle. The waning western light had reduced its mass to a craggy black thing lording its bulk over its surroundings be they on the land, in the sky or out at sea just to the west of the ancient fortress’ perimeter. This surreal trick of the light was enhanced by the dying rays of the sun, glinting off of the flint and granite blocks in the castle walls, washing them in an incandescent orange glow that made the ancient battlements look as though they dripped fresh blood.
Five hundred yards to the east, the young man stretched his long legs toward the fire, painfully working a kink out of his back while pushing his feet, squishy inside their damp boots, a few inches closer to the fire. He was too tired, and too distracted, just now to bother taking them off. Later, when he went to bed, he would do something to make sure they weren’t soaked in the morning, but not now. Highlighted by the flickering light of the fire, his thin face appeared more pretty than handsome as he stared across the windswept plain. In the near distance he could hear the others laughing and talking outside their own tents, huddled near their fires to ward-off the chill sea air; but his mind was too far away to care. He was totally engrossed in studying the formless outline of the castle. Tintagel. The name alone, even without its massive bulk looming up directly in front of him, was enough to send tiny shivers across his back. People thousands of miles away; people who couldn’t care less about castles and had no idea what Tintagel really looked like, had formed their own mental picture of this ancient, haunted place. There were few people anywhere, he imagined as he pulled his long, dirty-blond ponytail free from behind his back, who had not heard the stories: Arthur, Guinevere, Lancelot, Merlin, the Holy Grail and the evil Morgana le Fay and her psychotic son Mordred.
And here he was, only a few hundred yards away from it. With a deep sigh he snuggled deeper into his folding chair, luxuriating at the simple fact that he, Jason Carpenter, was actually here. Ok, so the stories were all crap; legends invented by French bards centuries after the fact and elaborated on later by Thomas Mallory in his Morte de Arthur. The castle itself was now no more than a shattered pile of flint and granite, blasted nearly out of existence by eight hundred years of abuse and neglect, but it was still Tintagel, and it seemed to be everything it should be; especially in the ghostly half-light of late evening. Jason knew that as an archaeologist - ok, a grad-student in archaeology - that he should be more concerned with his work than with silly romantic stories. That was the realm of literature students. But what difference did it make? It was still Tintagel and irrevocably tied to the impossibly idealized Arthurian tales he h
ad read in junior high school that had first gotten him interested in the past. And now, here he was. Tintagel. It was a long way from the archaeology department at Ohio State University and even further from his home in Canal Fulton, Ohio; but he was here, now, and that was all that mattered to him.
“Mr. Carpenter? Hello, Mr. Carpenter?” The voice shattered his cozy reverie and made Jason jump so hard he nearly tipped his canvass director’s chair into the fire. The fingertips of his large, sinewy right hand pushed hard against the grass and his left leg made frantic little circles in the air as Dr Carver Daniels stepped around the corner of the tent. The old man put one hand over his mouth to cover his amusement at his student’s awkward position, but in a few seconds they both recovered their dignity with a shared look that said neither of them would mention the near disaster.
“Yes, Sir, Dr Daniels?” Jason said as he stood up, brushing dirt from his jeans.
“Doctor” is quite sufficient, Mr. Carpenter. In England we tend to reserve the title ‘Sir’ for those who have earned it or were born with it.”
“Sorry, Sir. I mean, Dr Daniels. What can I do for you? You want to sit down?” he said, waving vaguely in the direction of a vacant chair near the fire.
“Oh, thank you. I believe I will, if you don’t mind.” Carver Daniels looked exactly the way a professor of archaeology should look. Not the Indiana Jones type archaeologist of the movies, but the type that appears in - and writes - books. His age was indefinite - somewhere between sixty and seventy, but it was impossible to tell because his round pink face bore too few lines to give any real indication of the passage of time. The top of his head was so bald it looked polished, but a massive halo of frizzy white hair around the edges floated wildly in the slightest breeze, making him look as though his head was perpetually engulfed in its own small cloud. At the moment, a pair of half-glasses - one of many he constantly fumbled to find in the innumerable pockets of his safari vest - was perched half way down his nose. As he stepped toward the fire his eyes peered across the top of the lenses so he could see where he was going. “Ahh, that’s better. So, young Master Carpenter, how are you finding this summer’s dig? This is your second year and, what, third dig?”
