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

by C J Brown

  Merlin smiled a solemn, lop-sided smile as baggage master Royce appeared, as well as the Commander of the Royal Guard.

  Royce’s forehead looked like wax with all the sweat he was producing, and his face was pale and pasty.

  They all seated themselves around the table, but Igraine remained by the fire.

  “How many men did we lose?” Megolin asked Clyde.

  “We don’t know yet, Your Grace. My men are still counting.”

  “Were any of the people hurt?” Merlin said, anxiously.

  “I hope not,” Clyde answered. “But some definitely were. We also don’t know how many or if their wounds were fatal.”

  Megolin turned to Royce.

  “Do we still have our supplies?”

  The baggage master licked his lips.

  “Y-yes, Your Grace. It was good fortune that the Huns did not attempt to raid our stores.”

  “They would have,” Clyde said.

  “Commander Raymon, how many Royal Guards did we lose?”

  “Eighteen, Your Grace,” the old man said.

  A line of blood had dried, trailing from his brow to his cheek and reflected the orange flames as if it were a fire spear launched from a Roman scorpion.

  “They all died with honor, Your Grace.”

  “I am sure,” Megolin responded. “We will bury them at sunset, after another day’s march. It’s not like that the Huns will attack us again after we defeated their force. Still, we cannot take any chances. How many were there?”

  “We couldn’t see for sure,” Clyde answered, frowning, “but our best guess is there were at least two hundred of them. Based on how many we saw run off, I’d say we killed the lot of ‘em.”

  Megolin nodded.

  “We can’t afford another attack,” he said. “Clyde, I want you to reform the defense. Split your men up. I want the civilians surrounded. And search among them for young and able lads who can fight. We need all the arms we can get.”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Clyde said.

  Megolin turned to Igraine.

  “Do you have anything to add?” He asked.

  They all looked at her, and she kept gazing at the fire.

  Then she turned to Megolin.

  “Your plan is sound,” she said. “But I suggest me might double our speed. Place the wounded on the horses, and the cavalry can march on foot. Like that, I should think we’ll arrive at Gilidor sometime tonight.”

  Clyde turned back to Megolin.

  “I agree,” he said. “It can be done.”

  Megolin nodded.

  And then he rose.

  Merlin stood up with the rest.

  “See these things done. We march at once.”

  The three men bowed and turned to leave the tent.

  Once they had left, Megolin sat again and turned to his son.

  “Word is you were healing the wounded folk yesterday…and that you freed the man who shouted at you and threatened desertion.”

  Merlin nodded.

  Megolin looked at him for a moment.

  “That was a good thing,” he finally remarked. “Mercy and fairness are the traits of a wise king.”

  “I don’t want to be king,” Merlin said.

  “No, you don’t. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have the traits of a wise one. And along with doing the right thing, you have gained the support of the people. They are grateful to you and will stand by you as true friends for all of time.”

  Merlin nodded.

  “I want you to continue doing that. Heal the wounded, all of them.”

  Merlin felt doubt throw its ugly shadow upon his heart, but he pushed it aside.

  “I will, Father.”

  He stood and turned to Igraine.

  “And I will bring my cousin back as well.”

  Then he turned and walked out of the tent.

  Outside, the fallen were already being cleared.

  The Huns were being placed side by side, and soldiers were piling soil onto them. They may have been barbaric savages who had taken everything from them, but Demetians were not vengeful or spiteful creatures. No matter how vile they were, they were still living beings, and Gaea did not differentiate between nationalities and creeds. And, sadly, until such time as other peoples didn’t differentiate among each other, Demetia would have to keep fighting.

  As the Huns disappeared from sight, the Demetian soldiers built pyres for their own fallen.

  Merlin searched everywhere for someone wounded.

  He found one soldier, leaning beside a wagon. His cloak was dark and soaked with blood, and his right arm ended at the stump where his elbow once was.

  He was unconscious, with mud and blood smeared across his face, but he was breathing.

  Merlin knelt beside him and held his arm.

  The wind rose and the leaves fluttered, and the man jolted awake, panicking, but Merlin calmed him, and he watched as flesh and bone and skin began to regrow from his elbow.

  But then Merlin felt himself weakening and he let go.

  The man eyed his arm. The stump was healed, and rather than being at his elbow, it was halfway to his wrist.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I will get back to you and you will have the rest of your arm.”

  But the man didn’t seem to worry that he hadn’t regained his hand.

  “Thank you, my prince. Thank you,” he said.

  Merlin helped him to his feet and then left to heal another.

  Most of the wounded were soldiers. A few were Royal Guards, and Merlin was relieved to find that he had not encountered any civilians yet. But he dared not hope for too much.

  As Merlin moved through the column, amidst shouting and neighing, groups of soldiers ran along the side every now and then, headed to their new posts.

  By the time Merlin got halfway through the column, they were marching again. Merlin found a few wounded civilians, all of them old men and young lads who’d tried to fight. He healed all of them and kept on moving.

  He had been healing them so quickly that by the time he had reached the point where he had stopped yesterday, the sun was only just passing its zenith.

  Merlin tried to find the old man whose son had died from the battle with the Huns at Demetia.

  He found him sitting on a horse, a bloody bandage wrapped around his side.

  He reined up when he spotted Merlin.

  “Was near done for,” he said. “Would have been if I wasn’t patched up when I was.”

  “Thank you,” Merlin said, “for fighting.”

  The man looked at him. “My son did the same.”

  A moment of silence went by, and then Merlin reached up and placed a hand on his arm and closed his eyes.

  When the wind calmed a few moments later, and the leaves settled once more, Merlin opened his eyes to see the old man looking at his bloody bandage.

  He started unwrapping it.

  He threw the cloth down and lifted his tunic to see skin where his wound had been, unscarred.

  He looked back at Merlin.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “It is Gaea you should thank,” Merlin responded, “for it is Gaea’s powers that flow through me, as they flow through any warlock.”

  The old man bowed his head.

  “I will see you again, my prince,” he said.

  He looked behind and saw a wounded young lad with a bloody bandage around his head.

  Merlin started walking towards him.

  “No,” the old man said.

  Merlin turned to look at him.

  “Forgive me, my prince, but I want to help him. His wounds are not fatal. And they’re not like to get corrupted. The soldiers said give the horses to the wounded. That lad there is wounded. Please, I want to
do this.”

  Merlin eyed him.

  Then he smiled and nodded.

  The old man nodded back, then snapped the reins and trotted off toward the boy.

  He swung down from his saddle, said a few words to him, and then the old man and woman standing beside him began to weep as he helped their son up.

  Merlin smiled and went to find another wounded fellow.

  That night, Merlin did not stay with the people. Instead, he walked through the camp, back to the front, where Arthur was.

  The little tents that the people had set up for themselves were placed between the trees and beside old trunks that held back the worst of the winds. Megolin had meant to keep marching, but they would not be able to with droves of rain lashing them and howling winds that threatened to freeze them. Because of the cover of the storm, Megolin had also permitted small fires in every tent. He was hoping the Huns were far behind and would be held back by the rain. And if they were somehow to get near, the deluge would be too heavy for them to see much.

  As he walked, his yellow eyes looking ahead, he looked up at the sound of thunder and the sudden flash of lightning.

  The wind began to howl, pulling at the balding branches and snapping the smaller twigs.

  The leaves across the ground began to swirl and flutter, and the air turned cold.

  As Merlin walked, the wind set his cloak to billowing, and Merlin felt a pang of relief. Whenever a warlock healed a wound, the winds would pick up. The accounts also said that when the warlocks of old revived someone, a great storm would always gather as the person’s soul returned to his person. Merlin chose to see this as an omen, an omen that Arthur was about to return.

  He got to the front of the column an hour later, by which point the rains were falling heavily and the woods resounded with the sound of a million drops battering the leaves on the ground. The gales howled between the barks like the wailing of a great beast, mournful and terrible.

  The wind was sending the rain into Merlin’s eyes, but he shielded them as best he could, and kept his sights on Arthur’s glowing form.

  The blue light shined through even the little canopy that had been built over the wagon to keep most of the water out.

  With confidence, Merlin walked up to the wagon and removed the tarp.

  The purple cloth covering him turned a dark maroon at once as the rains drenched it.

  When Merlin uncovered his cousin’s face, his hair was already soaked.

  Merlin froze at the sight of Arthur.

  His eyes had sunken. His skin was pale, paler than ice, and his lips had formed straight, mean line.

  Merlin shook the sudden shock away and placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Merlin opened his eyes to find himself standing amidst Starhearth once more. The souls of millions shone from afar as he looked around.

  “Arthur!” Merlin yelled.

  His voice echoed through the endless, groundless world.

  “Arthur…Arthur…Arthur!…Arthur!”

  But for a long while, Arthur did not appear.

  Dread began to creep into his heart, heavy and suffocating.

  He found himself fighting to breathe.

  “Calm down,” he told himself. “I need to focus. Arthur is depending on me. My father is depending on me. My aunt is depending upon me. Everyone is. I need to bring Arthur back.”

  “Arthur!” He yelled again, and the echoes carried his words to the farthest corners of the afterworld. “I need you to listen to me! You have to return! Britannia is falling apart! The North marches on the rest of the isle. The Huns have burned Demetia. They’ve burned the land. Land’s End is the only place that hasn’t been affected by the fighting. We’re heading there. But Land’s End will not stay safe forever. Some of the other lords have been defeated and imprisoned by the Huns. The rest are preparing to flee. Everything is breaking apart, Arthur. Your mother misses you. She mourns your father. And you are the only one who can make things right. You are the only one who can make sure that we survive. You are the only one who can make sure your father didn’t die for nothing.”

  Arthur appeared at once, glaring at Merlin. “What do you think I could possibly do?” he snapped. “I failed. I lost. I tried talking to the other lords, and they all wanted to run. It was foolish of me to think we could fight. We should all have run. If you mean to not die, I suggest you get ships, and leave this wretched island behind.”

  Merlin could not believe what he was hearing. “Arthur,” he pleaded, “you cannot do this. You cannot abandon your people!”

  “They are not my people,” he said, shaking his head. “I have no people. I am an exile of Rome, and a stranger in Britannia. And even if they were my people, there is nothing I can do to help them. I died once. I lost. If you bring me back, nothing will change.”

  Merlin looked at him. “Arthur,” he said, quietly, “I know you’re in pain. I do not know myself what kind of pain you are suffering through, but I can tell you that we will be there for each other. We will all be there to help you. But you must allow me to bring you back. You are supposed to…you are…you are meant to bring back the old kingdom. You are meant to right the wrongs that the last king committed. You are meant to bring peace and unity back to the Isle, to end our wars and turmoil. You must do this.”

  Arthur shook his head. “There is no pain here,” he said. “Here, I can speak with my father. I can speak with Olivie. But, you go on and live. Sail for the uncharted lands, like I said. It should be peaceful there. I am done with fighting, Merlin. Goodbye.”

  And then he disappeared.

  Merlin’s eyes flicked open.

  The rains were still pouring, and the thunder and lightning continued to roar and light up the sky.

  Merlin looked at Arthur.

  He still glowed blue, and though there was light before him, the world had never been darker for Merlin.

  5

  Spells

  Morning found the warlock prince huddled by the charred embers of his fire, as the storm finally abated outside.

  He had not slept, nor rested. All he could think about was the doom that had befallen the world. The sunlight that pierced the lightening clouds and drifted through the tent felt overwhelming and only reminded Merlin that the end was near.

  The tent flaps behind him flew open, but Merlin did not hear anything till the man said, “His Grace requests your presence.”

  Merlin did not respond. He did not even look at the speaker.

  The lad walked up to him. “My prince?”

  Still, he did not respond.

  “Merlin?” he asked. Everyone knew that the prince of Demetia did not like being called that, but calling the prince anything but the prince was difficult for most. Sometimes even Megolin forgot that Merlin preferred to separate himself from the worldly realm of kingdoms and thrones.

  Merlin blinked, and thought he heard something. He turned to find his father’s page standing beside him.

  “Merlin,” he said, “the king is requesting your presence.”

  Merlin nodded, almost not hearing him. He rose. “Thank you,” he said, then turned and walked out of the tent, followed by the page.

  Two guards were standing outside.

  “Have this tent packed away,” Merlin told them. “We’ll be marching soon.”

  “At once, my prince,” one of them muttered.

  Merlin and Henry left them and went over to the tent beside his.

  Megolin was seated at the trestle table with Igraine.

  “Your Grace,” the page said when they appeared at the flaps.

  Megolin rose. He noticed his son’s look. “Are you alright?” he asked him.

  Merlin looked at him for a moment. “It’s Arthur.”

  Megolin looked at the page. “Leave us,” he said.

  “Your Grace.” He bowed his head, then t
urned and left.

  “He’s what we’re talking about,” Megolin said to Merlin. “When can he return?”

  Merlin looked at him regretfully. “I—I…”

  “What’s wrong?” Igraine asked.

  “I don’t know,” Merlin muttered.

  “What do you mean?” Megolin asked him.

  “He is changed, Father. He is suffering. He doesn’t want to return. He’s found his father and Olivie there.”

  He paused.

  “He says there is no fight to be fought, and that we should depart for the West. He says we’ll be able to find some uncharted land and escape there from the horrors of this world. I have tried telling him everything that’s going on. I have tried communicating to him the danger that has befallen the Isle and that he needs to return if the light is to continue shining.”

  Igraine looked at Merlin. “Healing a broken man is like reforging a broken sword. You don’t fuse the two pieces back together. That would leave the point where they had broken weak. You’d have to melt down the entire thing and forge it anew. Arthur is the broken blade. You cannot pressure him to return. He must let go of the old world, the old things. The destiny he was chosen for was never certain until we sailed from Paris. But now that destiny will happen, sure as the sun will rise. You must not lose faith, Merlin. Good always outweighs the bad, and it will not fail us now.”

  Merlin looked at her. “I will try, but…”

  “I don’t think there’s room for that,” Megolin said. “I don’t want to pressure you, son, but time is a highly precious commodity that we have dangerously little of now. You must hurry.”

  Merlin looked at his father for a moment, thinking. “I will not fail you. Arthur will return, and by his own will.” He turned and left the tent.

  The people were already packing away their tents. The fog bank was clearing, and the ground was a puddled, mushy landscape.

  Merlin’s shoes caked with mud, and his cloak picked up dirt as he walked across to where the wagon was.

  Just then, Verovingian appeared beside the cart with his horse.

  “No, thank you, friend,” Merlin told him. “I’m going to be here. Reviving Arthur is going to take a great deal more than asking him to return. Lend my horse to someone who needs it.”