“Yes.”
Gorlas wagged his wild beard, and a silver torc shone from under its disheveled black fronds. “If not, I’ll have your spleen sliced out — ”
“Tell me again why you want her back.”
“I’ve told you.”
“Tell me again . . . while you dig,” she crooned.
“Igerna ran away.”
“Two months past, it was, remember?” She took a step forward, stooped, and stroked his cheek with one finger.
His eyes lost focus. “That’s right,” he said, digging the shovel in and throwing dirt from the hole. “When the moon was full.”
“Yes, the moon. Go on.”
“And yet you claim she died sixteen years ago.” He dug into the soil again. “But it makes no sense. She’s buried here, you say?”
“Yes,” Mórgana said, looking up at the stars winking down through the trees. “Her body is here. Keep digging.” It didn’t surprise her that he was confused. He’d always been confused. For it wasn’t Igerna who had left him . . . but rather Ewenna, his consort, whom the man fanatically claimed was Igerna. Mórgana grimaced. It had taken many gold coins to convince the woman to leave Gorlas.
“And you’ll bring Igerna back to life?”
“Yes.”
“Not for that tormenting pig, but for me?”
“Uther is dead, and you have nothing to fear from him. Tell me,” she said, making her voice as smooth as honeyed mead, “what is your promise to me?”
He stood up at this question and looked at her with his left hand covering his right eye. “My soul. My very soul. But what is that? What is a soul?”
“A trifle. A little glob. Nothing you will miss. Promise me, and Igerna will rise before you, ever yours, young and in love with you, for ever and ever.”
“And clever. She’s clever, isn’t she? Pretending to love Uther, but really loving me. She didn’t marry that swine, did she?”
“Never.”
“And their brats, they’re dead now, aren’t they?”
“Every one of them. Vortigern saw to that. Eilyne drowned, and Myrgwen is dust. And Arthur — I saw him die with my own eyes, the little wretch.” The whole truth pressed against her lips like bitter vomit, but she squeezed them closed and kept it in. She had seen Merlin heal the child, yet she dared not tell Gorlas such news. The very purpose of this ruse was to bring about Arthur’s destruction. And this bearded fool would be the instrument.
Gorlas clapped at the news. “Yes, yes!” he said, but his head shook left and right, as if in disagreement with himself. He began digging again.
“Promise me!”
“I promise.”
“What do you promise?”
“To give you my very soul.”
“And the service of your warriors?”
“Yes, for a year and a day, as we agreed. Now let me dig!”
He was close, so close now. Mórgana cast a glance at his two guards pacing nearby. It was unfortunate that Loth was gone to Lyhonesse building a new fortress from which to rule their future realm — his presence here could have made this task safer. But Gorlas had agreed to this pact more quickly than Mórgana had anticipated, and she had not had time to call her husband and his warriors back to Bosvenna Moor.
The guards could not be allowed to interfere. Certainly the one on the left, old and snoozing as he leaned upon his spear, was of no concern. But the other, he could be a challenge. Dyslan, the king had named him — the son of Tregeagle. No matter what, his sword was sharp, and his hand strayed to the hilt too often for Mórgana’s neck to feel comfortable. He didn’t trust her either — she could see it in his twitching cheeks whenever he turned his gaze her direction. Ah, but he would pay dearly if he intervened. And if the worst happened, she could always call upon the ranks of the druidow, hidden with her grandfather, Mórganthu, in the woods to their left.
As well, her thirteen-year-old son, Mórdred, was hiding on the right, though she didn’t want to chance his precious life so soon. There were plans for him, and his life must be preserved for the day of victory.
“Dig, Gorlas,” she said, and he did, furiously. Heaps of dirt soon bulged at the edge of his pit, each one threatening to collapse back into the hole.
Then he stopped.
“What’s this?” He picked up something long and gray. “It’s a bone . . . I . . . I . . .”
“Keep digging. You must find them all.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Dig a little farther . . . trust me.” It will be released once he finds the skull . . . The Voice has promised.
“I won’t. Not till you explain. My love . . . my love isn’t dead . . . I see my love . . . she stands before me!”
Mórgana glanced up but saw nothing. The fool was delirious.
“She’s warning me.” Gorlas stared at nothing, one hand raised as if to touch someone’s face. All at once he turned a fiery gaze on Mórgana. “Telling me not to trust you. Why should I trust you?”
Mórgana smiled.
He yelped while his eyes wildly searched the air. “She’s gone. She’s g-gone! I can’t see her . . . I must have her. I must find her!” He thrust the shovel back into the earth and began digging deeper and deeper.
Mórgana pushed a wisp of black hair away from her eyes, pouted at his irritating manner, and slipped her hand down to her belt. There she found her special fang hidden in a thin leather sheath. Plucking it out, she wrapped her fingers around its length. Years had passed since she’d found it beneath the Druid Stone, and now it ached to be used for this very special purpose. Her plans were finally coming to fruition, and she almost laughed to think of it. She had waited so long. The Voice, who had given her this fang, had waited also, and he had taught her patience, yes. Patience for such a vast revenge that all the world would be stunned into silence.
And it begins . . . now.
A thrill of power wiggled up the inside of her arm like a worm, ate its way into her chest, and spun there: increasing, pulsing . . . power!
Gorlas dug deeper until his knees could no longer be seen. At the sound of crunching bones, he closed his eyes, snapped his head back and forth, and looked back down. Myriad gray bones lay at his feet. And a skull. But not a human skull.
Gorlas growled; the sound rattled deep from within his throat as he stared at the skull of the creature — her friend — she had buried here all those years ago.
Morgana worked to hold back a laugh at the confusion on the man’s face. But it would not last long. Lifting forth the fang, she felt its green fire curling around her hand. She jabbed its curved spike into the nape of his neck.
He screamed, arched his back, and swore at her. He lifted the shovel, off-balance, and threatened to cleave her head in two.
Behind her, she heard Dyslan draw his sword, but she refused to take her eyes from the delicious scene before her.
Smoke began to pour from the hole in Gorlas’s neck, and blood dribbled onto his finely woven plaid of indigo, white, and teal. His arms began to shake, and his face contorted.
The shovel fell, clanking upon a rock.
Gorlas tipped sideways and dropped into the hole, dead.
Dyslan yelled and ran at her.
She jumped over the hole, leaving Gorlas’s body between her and the guard. Landing in a crouch, she spun to face Dyslan as the ground began to tremble. A muffled roaring sounded from the open grave, and dirt and rocks shot upward in stinging plumes.
Dyslan staggered, his sword limp. The other guard awoke and fell to his knees in terror.
With her free hand, Mórgana reached into her bag once more and pulled forth the orb, another gift from the Voice. Like the fang, she had found it beneath the Druid Stone. It had many powers, but tonight she would use it differently.
Out from the trembling, roaring hole appeared a translucent image of Gorlas that only Mórgana could see — his soul emerging from his body. Quickly, she held the orb out, and Gorlas’s soul glittered, faded, and then b
egan to sink once more into the pit. The apparition’s face twisted in agony. Oh, but she would save him from this pain. She began to chant:
Soul of earth, soul in dearth, come now to me.
Skin of dust, skin in rust, come and serve me!
Merlin’s end, Merlin’s rend; yes, you shall be.
Arthur’s bane, Arthur’s chain; yes, you must be!
Power of night, Power of fright, come now, my prize.
Flesh astrewn, Flesh of moon; yes, you shall rise!
From the hole came the sound of tearing and ripping. The guard with the spear turned white and collapsed, his eyes rolling upward into his head.
Dyslan took three steps closer and warily leaned toward the pit. His stomach convulsed, and he retched. Clutching his sword to his chest, he turned and fled.
No matter. He wouldn’t get far, and she would deal with him later.
Gorlas’s soul shimmered its last, and then the orb sucked it in like a black liquid swirling down through a funnel. A scream whistled upon the air, and then all was still.
It was done! For inside the orb, surrounded by purple flame, glared the weeping visage of Gorlas.
And in the grave, a hulking shadow rose.
She laughed, weary beyond weary due to her exertions, but she laughed.
Now to set everything in motion.
“Druidow . . . Mórdred . . .” she yelled into the woods. “Attend me now and meet the new king of Kernow!”
EN ROUTE TO THE VILLAGE OF DINAS CRAG RHEGED, IN NORTHERN BRITAIN SPRING, IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 493
The wind whipped past Merlin’s ears as his horse galloped down the barely lit forest path. Too late, he realized he should have heeded the wild cawing of the crows around him: his horse reared up before a dozen wolves, who looked up from their fallen prey. A massive buck, slain and gutted, lay in their midst, and all around the greedy, black-feathered sentinels looked on in anticipation.
His mission had gone from urgent to life or death.
Merlin wheeled his horse to the left and kicked her onward, off the path and between two trees. The mask that Merlin wore to cover his scars shifted upward on his face momentarily, obscuring his vision. He righted it just before a branch lashed him across the face, nearly cutting his lip through the black cloth.
The wolves howled behind him, but Merlin didn’t look back — couldn’t look back. Terror sought to master him, but he pushed it down. He had to direct his horse farther before he could cut back to the path. But the woods were too thick to ride fast, and he’d be caught. Fear, like a cloak of thistles, clung to his legs and back. A wolf could rip his flesh away at any moment.
The beasts snarled from behind as a massive branch loomed toward him from the front. Merlin hung low to the right, but it still banged him hard in the shoulder. The saddle began to slip. He grabbed the horse’s sweat-dampened mane and pulled himself back up. The horse snorted as it jumped through the brush — and then screamed.
Merlin whipped his gaze around.
A wolf had torn into her left hindquarter. Blood poured from the wound, slick and red in the morning light.
The wolf lunged again, and Merlin kicked its black snout, yelling while he pulled the horse to the right. She quickened her pace, jumped a bush, and Merlin found himself on the path again.
Three wolves leapt just behind.
Faster now, Merlin kicked the horse’s side. Having hardly seen a wolf in the sixteen years since leaving Bosventor, he’d become careless, and now he’d interrupted an entire pack at their meal. Panic sank into his stomach like rotten meat, churning his innards. He had to get away; he had to!
But the wolves were faster, and his horse began to wheeze from the effort. Merlin had been anxious to get back to Dinas Crag with the news he carried and had ridden the horse hard for hours. Its strength was almost gone.
Another wolf snapped at the horse’s right side, ripping her leg open. The horse kicked, screaming in terror, and then staggered forward again.
Merlin panicked. He wouldn’t get away. His horse was going to die. He was going to die. He could kill one wolf, maybe two, but never a whole pack. An image of his body, mangled and gutted like the buck, flashed before his eyes.
A wolf latched onto his boot, its teeth slicing into his foot like small daggers. He tried to draw his sword, but the horse reared up, forcing the wolf to drop off. The hackles of the wolf’s neck twitched, and its yellow eyes lusted for Merlin’s blood as it prepared to leap.
A wolf on his left gashed the horse’s belly.
Merlin turned to face the beast, but a large branch blocked his view. He reached, clamped his hands onto the smooth bark, pulled free from his horse, and wrapped his legs around the branch. He didn’t want to abandon his horse, whom he’d raised from a filly, but he also knew the only chance she had of getting away was without his weight.
The horse shot forward into the brush, with all three wolves slashing it with their bloody jaws. Unfortunately, the end came quickly, with the wolves pulling it down about fifty paces away.
Merlin climbed up and listened painfully to her last screams.
When the poor creature’s silence came, and only the wolves’ gory feast could be heard, he took in some deep breaths and tried to discern his position on the path. He’d been traveling south from Luguvalium, the capital of Rheged, and was on his way back home to Dinas Crag. There awaited his wife, Natalenya, and their two children: Tingada, their little daughter, and Taliesin, their growing boy. And their adopted Arthur, now eighteen winters old.
Surely Merlin had passed the long lake already . . . or had he?
Ahead of him he could hear a stream burbling in the dark, so the path must have swung closer to it again. But was this the stream — the Derwent — as he had thought? If so, then he was close to home with the crossroad just beyond.
A faint splash. Maybe a fish. Then another. Full splashing, now. Then clopping. A rider, coming his way, heading toward the wolves.
Merlin had to warn him. “Who’s there?” he called. “Take care! Wolves just killed my horse, and more are just beyond.”
The rider cantered forward, slowing just below Merlin. A man with a broad face and a gray beard looked up at him.
“And what am I to do about such a dilemma? I must get through.”
“They’ll scatter if you give them enough time — ”
“No. I’ve an urgent and vital message that must get through.”
Howling sounded far down the path, and soon the three who had just killed the horse answered. “Maybe it would be best to turn back for now. Is there a village nearby?”
“Dinas Crag. I’ll take you there.”
“Not on my horse. You’ll walk, you will.”
A wolf howled. The man wheeled his horse around.
Merlin swung down and dropped onto its back, just behind the man.
“Get off!”
“Go!” Merlin drove his heels into the horse’s flanks, sending it flying down the path and splashing through the stream thinned by the long spring drought.
When they were a good distance away and no pursuit could be heard, the man pulled his horse to a stop. He turned and growled. “Get off.”
“I saved your life.”
The man shoved Merlin off the back of the horse.
But Merlin landed on his feet, dashed to the left, lifted the man’s boot, and threw him from the horse.
The man scrambled to his feet, spitting dry grass, and glared at Merlin from the other side of the saddle. His face was red. “Take off your mask!”
“No.”
“Who are you?”
“Ambrosius.”
The man stared at Merlin, as if expecting more. “What is your parentage, dishonorable knucklebone, and your purpose in these woods?”
Merlin grabbed the reins of the horse, lest the man get away. “What’s your name, your parentage, and your mission?”
The man wrinkled up his nose and scowled back.
A distant howl split the
air, and Merlin jerked.
Both men leapt onto the horse, and Merlin clutched the back of the ornate saddle as they raced away.
“Which way?” the man asked.
There was only one place that promised safety, though it was clear this stranger would not consent to being blindfolded to reach it. “Can I trust you?”
“On my honor.”
“Before who?”
“Before God, you fool. What, do I look like a druid?”
The wolves howled once more, cementing the decision. Merlin pointed. “Go straight when you come to the crossroads and follow the path along the stream.”
“Hardly wide enough for a one-legged deer.”
“Trust me.”
They raced along the path until they encountered the northern shore of a large lake, from which the overflow of the stream ran. The path curved to follow its western shore for half a league, where the lake ended and the stream, which now fed the lake, began again.
Mountains rose on each side, and their tops could be seen through the trees. The sky brightened with the rising sun, and the thick woods changed from oak to pine as the path climbed slowly. The mountains squeezed closer and closer, their sides ever steeper.
When the valley finally tightened to the jaws of a narrow gorge, the stream drew closer to the path, which strangely ended before a twelve-foot-tall, vertical pile of rocks, with dry grasses covering the center of the pile. The stream itself poured from a spring on the left side.
The man pulled his horse to a stop. “What’s this? If you intend to rob — ”
Merlin cupped his hands. “Porter! Open the door, Ambrosius has come.”
Nothing stirred except a rustle of brush behind them. The horse trembled.
Merlin called again. “Porter! Open — ”
A jaw clamped on his arm. The front gate spun away and something hard hit his shoulder. Merlin’s legs slammed downward. Neighing. Cursing. Where was his sword? Growling in his ear. Pungent, bloody fur against his face. Ragged claws on his chest. It was going for his throat.
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 2