Pendragon and the Sorcerer's Despair (Pendragon Legend Book 5)

by C J Brown

  Ascending to the stars, they seemed to sound in every corner of the world, till Merlin opened his eyes and saw Arthur’s skin glowing blue. His spirit would be contained. Merlin would be able to reach his soul him to revive him.

  “Stay together!” Megolin shouted as the Highlander horses carried the civilians and the wounded away.

  A Hun arrow found the side of one of the Demetian cavalry and the man fell over.

  His horse thundered away, leaving him behind.

  Spears and arrows and stones crisscrossed the air. Fire crashed down around them as twenty thousand Huns with their banners caught high by the wind chased them.

  As the sun rose higher, Demetia burned. Huns looted the sacred temple and the great hall, where Arthur had first met King Megolin. The palace was looted, and the streets littered with the fallen and the ruins of the buildings. The oak structures were burning uncontrollably, collapsing from the fire, and could be heard from a mile away.

  Merlin turned back and witnessed the carnage that the Huns dealt.

  Ten thousand had been running from Demetia, and two thousand of them had fallen defending the retreat.

  At once, the wind began to swirl. The fires were pushed back, and the great currents sent dust and dirt flying up.

  Cloaks snapped in the whirlwind as Merlin focused it around the barbarians attacking them. The fury of the winds mustered as much sand and dirt from the plains of Demetia as a minor sandstorm of Arabia. Hurting the eyes of the barbarians and setting them to coughing, the wind broke their attack, leaving the rest of the column to charge away from the battle.

  The storm began to dissipate, and Merlin turned back, staring west.

  An hour later, they were two leagues from the city, and had lost the Huns.

  The hooves of Merlin’s horse struck the muddy ground of the rutted road as it strode west. Megolin sat silently beside him, and Igraine to his right. From the rest of the column, they could hear the rattle of wagons and the groaning of the wounded.

  Arthur’s body still glowed blue, and Merlin could sense his presence.

  He closed his eye and tried to reach him.

  A gust of wind sent the golden leaves that were piled across the road whirling around them. The thistles and hedges that lined it bristled, and the sky began to darken.

  Megolin looked up and saw the clouds gathering. A bolt of lightning lit up the world, and the thunder roared.

  Megolin looked at Merlin.

  His eyes were glowing white.

  Merlin found himself standing amidst a dark world, lit by a thousand and more stars.

  When he looked down, there was no ground, only more of those shining lights.

  The realm of the elders was a solemn place, and yet Merlin felt peaceful here. He did not feel the fatigue of war, or the fear that battle caused. He felt strong.

  “Arthur!” he said.

  Arthur appeared before him, but without his wounds. His form, Roman armor, and cloak, glowed white. He did not seem to have any of the wounds he’d been dealt. The arrows that had killed him were gone, and he was smiling.

  “Arthur. I’m here to bring you back,” Merlin said.

  Arthur seemed not to notice.

  “Have you seen this place before?” Arthur asked.

  “No.”

  “It is peaceful. There is no war, no corrupt souls fighting for power. Just peace, and truth, and those we thought we lost forever. I have spoken with my father, you know, and Olivie.”

  Merlin looked at him sadly. Arthur’s look appeared to be one of peace, but for a man who had endured so much pain, Merlin knew it was a look of hopelessness.

  “Arthur,” Merlin told him. “The world is growing dark.”

  Arthur looked at him, and his smile faded.

  “Demetia has fallen. The Huns are overrunning everything. Mehmet attacks from the north. Thousands have died, and the future of the Isle, of all peoples, is at stake.”

  “I am done with that world,” Arthur said, venomously, scowling. “That world has offered me nothing but grief and pain, nothing but war and suffering. I am done with it.”

  Merlin stepped back.

  “But Arthur, you were the one the warlocks predicted would unite the Isle. You are the one who would wield Excalibur. You are the one would bring peace. If you do not return, all is lost.”

  Arthur looked at him angrily. “All is lost,” he said. “My death proves it. Perhaps you’ll be here as well soon. You will be peaceful here, I promise you.”

  Arthur began to disappear.

  “Arthur!” Merlin shouted, but Arthur was gone. But Arthur had never been there, Merlin realized. It was a broken man Merlin had spoken to, not the general he had met a lifetime ago.

  Still, Merlin could not leave Arthur there. He needed to return.

  He must, or all would fall to darkness, and his soul with it.

  He began to draw Arthur’s spirit back to his body.

  The wind howled around them, and the horses neighed and whickered, afraid.

  The Demetian soldiers were accustomed to the magic of their lords, but the Highlanders were less certain, and looked about with doubt and fear, scanning the trees.

  Megolin noticed that the blue containment that anchored Arthur’s spirit was glowing brighter.

  But Merlin’s face was of anguish.

  Then a wave of energy raced from him, snapping branches and sending the leaves rustling back. Megolin nearly fell off his horse as the rest around them reared and neighed.

  Igraine managed to keep from falling, and Arthur’s body almost hadn’t moved.

  The clouds began to clear, and light returned to the road.

  Merlin fell off his horse and landed beside Megolin’s destrier, his cloak splattered with mud.

  “Son,” Megolin said, swinging down from his saddle.

  “I failed,” Merlin said. “I failed. Arthur is broken. He does not want to return, and I didn’t have the power to revive him.”

  Igraine looked at him. His yellow eyes were dim.

  “Arthur is still there, Merlin. You must not despair,” she said, hiding the pain she felt. Her husband was gone, lost forever, when he had just returned to her, and now she was at the doorstep of losing her son as well.

  Megolin helped Merlin back up.

  They strode on, and the column resumed its march.

  “You two,” Merlin heard Clyde order his soldiers, “double-back and scout the way we marched. Make sure no one is following us. And do not attack if you see the Huns.”

  “Aye, my lord,” one of them said, and the two soldiers wheeled their horses around and galloped off beside the column.

  As the sound of their hooves striking the dirt road faded away, Merlin searched his soul for answers.

  His friend was broken. He knew that, and yet he could not understand it. He had never endured such peril nor such pain. All his family had, and he had been spared.

  How do I heal him when I do not know his pain?

  “We’ll stop here,” Megolin announced at mid-day, after the scouts returned to report that no one was following. “Water your horses, and rest. We’ll be moving again soon.”

  Merlin reined his horse as the column halted.

  General Clyde posted soldiers around them a quarter of a league away, each with a horn to warn if the enemy was seen.

  Merlin turned to Verovingian.

  “Find an empty wagon,” he told him, his voice tired. “Arthur and his father must rest as well.”

  Verovingian nodded sadly and turned to find an empty wagon.

  He wouldn’t, he supposed, but he would just move the stuff a full one carried.

  Merlin swung down from his horse along with Megolin and Igraine. The soldiers were walking off the road to sit by the trees and drink and wash their faces of dirt and blood and
grief. There were no streams nearby, and Megolin was not going to let any of his people wander far. As it was, eight thousand souls, soldiers, children, women, the old, and the sick, marching as one, was dangerous. With an army of almost a hundred thousand just a few leagues back, they were an obvious target. It was not safe for any of them to break from the column.

  Merlin turned at the sound of a cart rattling and Verovingian’s horse plodding towards him.

  Merlin heaved Arthur’s armored body, bristling with arrows, off his horse and walked to the cart.

  Megolin followed with Uther, and they placed them on the wood.

  Uther’s eyes were closed, and the arrow that hit him was still there.

  “I will remove them,” Igraine said. “As my husband’s wife and my son’s mother.”

  Merlin nodded and walked away with Megolin.

  Igraine turned to her family.

  She felt tears welling and almost felt like she might faint, but she remained still as stone. She could not weep. She could not be weak.

  She reached and removed the arrow from her husband’s bronze armor.

  The arrow scratched the breach it had made as it withdrew from Uther.

  She cast the arrow down and held her husband’s hand.

  She did not notice it, but the entire column was watching her. Some of them cried. Others finally turned away, and the rest watched, silent, paying their respects. Her people were foreigners, but Igraine was one of them. Regardless, a fallen soul was a fallen soul, wherever it was from. And Gaea recognized all, whether they believed it was real or not.

  “Rest, my love,” she told her husband. “I’m glad we found our peace before the end.”

  She removed the arrows from her son.

  “Arthur,” she told him, “if you can hear me, you are not broken. You are a Pendragon, and to be a Pendragon is to rise above our demons. Your grandfather was a flawed man, and your father better. You shall rise as well. Do not let despair and pain steal the future that is your destiny and the destiny of all those living and not yet living of this land.”

  She covered them with the woolen cloth at the side of the wagon.

  Merlin turned away and walked off to one of the oak trees.

  He sat beside it and leaned on the gnarled bark.

  The green smell of fields and forests were far more refreshing than the fumes of fire and battle.

  Merlin retrieved his waterskin and drank from the leather pouch. But the water was not cool, or comforting. It was scalding, and the taste was rancid.

  It tastes of war, he thought.

  But how could the water from his skin be so toxic? The streams that ran near Demetia were clear and clean and fresh, not sickening.

  “The water is bad,” he heard his father say.

  He looked up from the waterskin to look at Megolin.

  “I do not know why.”

  Megolin sat beside him.

  “Your grandfather used to say the water was rank whenever he failed at something. It always tasted as clean to me. Perhaps not being a warlock has spared me from such things. It also has limited me as well. But you are not limited, my son. You are powerful, but you lack confidence. I may be no warlock, but I understand that the universe and time itself always tends to good. Trust that, and you will not be disappointed.”

  Merlin considered what his father said, and nodded, setting the skin aside.

  Merlin was about to say something when a low rumble roared through the trees. Birds rushed up, startled, and the horses neighed.

  Megolin bolted up, and Merlin stood as well.

  All eyes were looking north, where one of the sentries had been posted. Then the horn sounded again.

  “Get moving!” Megolin bellowed, running to his horse as soldiers and civilians reformed the column.

  He vaulted up, then Merlin did the same. Igraine was there, and General Clyde.

  “Charge!” Megolin yelled. “Now!”

  They spurred their horses forward and galloped off, followed by eight thousand souls ahorse and afoot.

  The Megolin banner flew above them as the horses thundered away and the rest ran as speedily as they could.

  Shouts of panic could be heard from the column, and babies were crying from the horn.

  The four scouts emerged from the trees ten minutes later and charged beside them.

  Megolin gave no mind to them and turned to see his people.

  They were bristling, pushing past each other, running as fast as they could go. A wagon carrying a dozen people rattled at the side of the road, lurching as it rolled over stones and hedges.

  Soldiers were trying to calm the people with shouts, but their words were drowned by fear.

  Merlin turned to see the wagon bearing Arthur and Uther rattling away, its wheels spinning and kicking up dirt as the draft horse galloped.

  An hour later, Megolin sent one of the scouts to check if they were still being followed.

  The man appeared beside Megolin and shook his head.

  Merlin’s father reared his horse.

  Merlin, Igraine, and Clyde did the same, and the people almost tripped as they stopped.

  “They’ll find us again,” Megolin said. “We should get off the road. And light no fires.”

  “You heard His Grace!” General Clyde yelled when no one moved. “Clear the road!”

  At once, horses and people began melting away behind the trees at the right of the road. Drivers led their wagons and carts off the road, making sure their wheels didn’t snap upon a rock, or get trapped by mud.

  Merlin stayed beside his father, Clyde, Igraine, and the wagon carrying Arthur and Uther as they watched their people disappear amidst the pines.

  Megolin turned his horse toward the trees and strode towards them, followed by his clan.

  The ground amidst the thinning trees was a dense layer of autumn leaves.

  The air smelled of bark and green. A few green things still grew here and there, but as the world grew colder, growing things seemed to slink away, to leave the world gray and brown.

  But at least the trees would hide their numbers. And if Megolin placed his soldiers correctly, any casual eye might mistake them all for warriors. That was unlikely, though it would be better than advertising that they were a miserable band of refugees, most of whom couldn’t lift a sword.

  “We keep moving,” Megolin told his people amidst the gloom of the trees. Shadows cast by the branches lined the fallen leaves. “Get some distance between us and the Huns. We camp at nightfall. But no fires. And I’ll want guards watching all directions.”

  “It will be done, Your Grace,” General Clyde said.

  Megolin nodded and spurred his horse forward.

  Merlin, Igraine, and the driver pulling their kin lurched ahead.

  Merlin’s hooves jabbed at the carpet of leaves. He could hear them crunching at every step, and the footfalls of the eight thousand were almost too loud for him to bear.

  He raised his hood and sat silently.

  That night, the rains poured, and the winds shrieked, their gales threatening to tear the pines out, root and all.

  Merlin’s tent snapped and threatened to fly away.

  Merlin was lying on the pile of leaves, his hood up and cloak wrapped around him.

  He found himself shivering, his cloak damp from the drops that made it through the tent flaps.

  His breath misted before him, and he was trying to sleep.

  The rest of the camp was too. Their tents did little to keep the wind and rain out, and Merlin’s head rang with the clapping of thunder and the rain falling on the tent like arrows pelting a warrior’s helm.

  Merlin had already dozed off a few times, but each time he jumped up, panicking. Each time he told himself it was just a dream, yet when he fell asleep again, the nightmare would r
eturn.

  He saw Arthur, with his Roman cape flowing from his shoulders, his sword resting at his side, bloody.

  The point of the blade was resting on a piece of slate, and he almost wasn’t holding the hilt.

  That was when Merlin would notice the bodies at his feet, and the fires that burned around him, and the arrow that had found his shoulder when he was escaping from Pittentrail with Olivie.

  Merlin jumped out of sleep again, his brow dotted with sweat. He turned and craned his neck to look outside the tent. Even hidden beneath the tarp, Merlin could see the glow of Arthur’s spirit.

  2

  Darkness Closing In

  Morning arrived with a lead sky that blocked out most of the sun, leaving the woods damp and flooded from the heavy rains. The ground was a mushy plain of wet leaves and soggy mud that made men have to pull their legs up as they walked.

  The downpour had also left many of their people and soldiers blue and sick with cold. And despite their best efforts, all the wagons carrying their limited provisions had been flooded. But it was still edible, so Merlin forced himself to down soggy bread.

  But at this point, it didn’t matter if it was roast capon. Merlin wouldn’t have been able to eat that either. Silence and solemnity hung over the royal table as Megolin, Merlin, and Igraine broke their fast.

  As Merlin chewed another chunk of water-soaked bread he could hear the sound of water dripping right outside the tent. With no sun, and with a thicket of trees to shield them from most of the light, nothing had dried. Pools of water had even collected atop some of the larger pavilions and drained with steady drips.

  Merlin pitied the two guards who stood outside in the damp and cold. At least here there was a fire crackling, and candles burning all around, emitting a kind of ruddy warmth.

  The little fires and the great hearth reflected off the metalwork of their garb and shed light on their forms.

  Merlin’s purple cloak was glowing red, and his long black hair hung damp and heavy. Dark bags hung beneath his eyes, and his face seemed pale and cold.

  Not very different was his father. King Megolin’s regal purple cloak was splattered with mud, and his skin looked clammy.