Merlin looked, and sure enough, Gogi’s own horse had a tear-catcher tied under its eyes.
“Not interested, eh?” he said. “Well, how about this?” And he pulled out a flat piece of pewter polished to a smooth finish.
Peredur cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me . . . it’s for catching the tears o’ the sun, and — ”
“Nah, nah, young talker. It’s a mushroom checker. Ya hold it up to a ’shroom and see what color ya see. If it’s green, then the mushroom is safe tah eat. If it’s brown, then it’s gone rotten. If it’s red, then it’ll kill ya, aye, just like that.” And he snapped his meaty fingers.
“And what does yellow mean?” Dwin asked in a slightly mocking tone.
“Yallow? Ah, that means ya should cook ’em with butter.”
“I don’t think I’d trust your methods,” Merlin said, thinking about how dangerous mushrooms could be. A boy Merlin had grown up with found some wild mushrooms, ate one, and died.
“But ya have to buy somethin’, ya know. We’re a poor, poor, family, an if ya don’t buy something, then ma and ma daughters’ll starve, aye, it’s true.”
“Do you have anything more practical?” Merlin asked. “Something useful?”
“Aye, aye. Here’s the thing.” And he pulled out a large leather sack with pewter rivets around the top.
“And this is — ?”
“A dung hauler. The most practical thing I sell for those that keep horses. Ya shovel it all in here, and then haul it where ya want to dump it, an yar hands never touch it. Like to a garden, say, or into yar enemies boots. Normally, I’d charge six coynalls, but for ya, just for ya, ya know, I’ll drop the price to one screpall. An it’s even stitched tight with me own handcrafted sinews, so it’ll never rip and spill, or else I’ll give ya yar screpall back.”
Merlin hesitated. He really didn’t —
Gogi sucked his cheeks in. “Remember that we’ll starve afore we get much farther. Aye, we’re that low on rations, an I got nah money to buy more.”
“One screpall?”
“One. And it can even be bent or scratched, ya know. I care not.”
Merlin clenched his teeth. He really didn’t need this . . . thing. But if it helped them not to starve, then it was kind of like charity, wasn’t it? And maybe giving them some coins would free them from the boy’s false obligation to protect the girls. Merlin could only hope.
“Sure . . . I’ll . . . take it.”
Gogi smiled, showing the gaps where a few teeth were missing, and a little broken one on the bottom.
Merlin handed him a screpall coin, and Gogi tossed him the dung hauler. Unfortunately the thing had already been tested in its . . . purpose. He turned his nose away and rolled it up, tying and tucking the reeking thing behind his saddle. Maybe someone back home could use it.
Mórgana stood on a rocky headland overlooking the fortress of Dintaga, and the waves crashed in chorus behind her. The smell of salt tainted the air like a hint of blood, and before her stood five hundred or more warriors, each with a steel sword belted over his plaid.
“What do you think, Loth? Are they ready?” She turned and looked to her husband, who had just returned from Lyhonesse, having completed the construction of their new fortress. His long black hair blew in the wind, and his rugged, handsome features made her smile.
“Ya have performed a wonder, my queen. I canna’ even fathom their power, nor the destruction they’ll pour upon our enemies. When shall we set ’em loose?”
“Soon, very soon,” Mórdred said. “Am I right, Mother?”
“Exactly so.”
Mórganthu strode forward, his gait uneven and his hair unkempt. “But I grow impatient with this Voice of yours. Why has he not commanded their release?”
“You have touched the Stone, grandfather, and its power felled you long ago, remember?”
“Yes, yes.”
“The Voice’s power is much greater than the Stone’s.”
Mórganthu coughed over the sound of the surf. “Yet I have only heard the Voice through the Stone. To me, they are one and the same, yet you tell me they are not. And I myself have not heard the Voice in all these long years. How am I to believe you? Why should we not release these warriors now?”
Mórgana looked at him and sighed. Oh, how Grandfather had aged. So pathetic and frail, with his hair completely gray now. He had once been vigorous, yes, but as his strength had waned her own power had grown. No wonder he was impatient: he would soon die and his spirit would depart his lonely body. He wanted to see his vengeance. Taste it.
Ah, but what paltry insolence he chose to offer up to the Voice. Did he think he would please such a one? No, he would not. Perhaps, after all these years, it was time for her to call the Voice and ask him to appear to her grandfather. Then the old man would be silent and do as he was told. Such an annoyance. As well, these unruly warriors that Gorlas had provided for her could use a taste of fear to keep them in line.
And Mórdred? Yes, the lad could use a taste of fear.
“Well, then, Grandfather,” she said. “Why don’t you ask the Voice yourself?”
Placing a hand upon the fang sheathed at her belt, she snapped the fingers of her other hand. Her voice cried out then, and Loth joined her in the chant:
Voice of blood, Voice of Nudd, come now to us.
Lord of air, dark despair, walk among us!
And this they kept chanting until the winds began to swirl around them. The waves crashed higher, sending gray ribbons of water and spray to dash upon the rocks. The clouds grew dark, curling and boiling with great black tendrils. Lightning shattered the sky and shook the ground, striking an ancient willow that stood nearby. Its trunk exploded with searing white light. Mórgana shut her eyes as bright spots burned inside her head. Thunder crashed and crackled through the air, shaking and almost toppling her. Flaming bark flew through the air as the tree split completely open and caught fire.
“Behold!” Mórgana screamed. “The Voice, whom you doubt, appears!”
All of the warriors fell to their knees, but her grandfather’s legs seemed locked in place, imprisoning him upright. His staring eyes protruded, and his open mouth hung slack.
A dark shadow stepped out from the charred center of the tree.
After some time creeping down the road at the snail’s pace set by Gogi’s massive draft horse, Merlin and the others arrived at a small, muddy stream with a clearing beyond, and they stopped to water the horses. During this delay, Arthur, Culann, and the girls talked some more and decided it was time to have a quick meal.
Gogi didn’t protest, but Merlin had to bite his tongue. He looked at the sun — it wasn’t even midday yet. What was Arthur thinking? Ah, but he knew. He just had a hard time stomaching it.
In the center of the clearing sat a huge, twisted oak that had been struck by lightning. The bark was ripped open down one side, and there was a large hole about halfway up. In its shade, Gwenivach spread out a plaid blanket of black, white, and burgundy, while Gwenivere searched their father’s wagon.
“There’s nah food there, Gweni, but we can at least rest the horses while these good men eat.”
A look of alarm passed over Arthur’s face. “No food? How can you — ”
“We go without food all the time,” Gwenivere said as she returned to Arthur’s side. “That’s part and parcel o’ being a Walker. But we’re hopin’ tah sell a few things at Deva’s faire and fill our empty . . . ah . . . buy some food there.”
Culann stepped up. “We have more than enough. Don’t we, Artorius?”
Arthur nodded, exasperating Merlin. It was one thing to share money with Gogi, but Merlin was concerned that their own scanty rations might run out soon.
Merlin dismounted and found a safe, soft place to set his harp. A bee flew in his face and he swatted it away.
Dwin dismounted and untied their food bag. He was making straight for the blanket when Gwenivere stepped in his way.
“Oh, we couldn’t
take yar food, nah. But we thank ya very much.”
“We insist,” Arthur said as he took the bag and opened it. Culann was already sitting down on a corner of the blanket, and he drew in a deep breath when Gwenivach sat down close beside.
Arthur, Gwenivere, and Dwin also sat on the blanket, with Merlin and Peredur choosing a shady spot on the dry grass. Gogi, who was still on his horse, was rebraiding part of his beard.
Arthur passed out the food: hard bread, dried goat meat, slices from a half round of rather smelly cheese, along with some dried apple slices. Once, his hand briefly touched Gwenivere’s, and she blushed.
Merlin looked away and wanted to roll his eyes. This was not supposed to be the purpose of their trip south.
Gwenivach paused her loud crunching on the bread. “Are ya coming, Papa?”
Gogi nodded, grabbed a lone low-hanging branch, and stiffly swung his leg over. Then he began to slide down, but the branch snapped off with a loud crack, and he collapsed to his knees.
Arthur hurried over to help Gogi to his feet, waving away several more bees that flew from the trunk near the broken limb. The insects buzzed around the draft horse, which trotted off to the other side of the clearing, the wagon bumping after it.
Gwenivere joined the two men and dusted off her father, who towered a full two heads taller than Arthur.
“Look!” Gwenivere said, pointing at the tree. A long thin line of golden honey had leaked from the hole and traveled halfway down the trunk. A few bees twirled around it before flying back inside.
“Oh, Father, can I have a taste?”
“That ya can, me great Gweni!” the giant said, and he reached up to his tallest height and touched the very end of the golden streak. He brought it down and Gwenivere dabbed some off and tasted it.
“Mmm . . .” she said, closing her eyes and sucking a deep, blissful breath in through her nose. “I would love some for my bread! Can you reach the hole, Papa?”
“Nah, nah, and nah. Someone agile would have tah climb.”
Culann jumped to his feet. “I’ll do it.”
Arthur followed suit a moment later. He leapt over to the tree and started to climb first — but the trunk was too thick and he couldn’t get enough of a grip.
“Ya could use some rope,” Gogi said, “if ya had any.”
Culann was already at his horse and had pulled a rope from a bag. “I’ve got one,” he called.
Arthur ran to his horse and checked his bags, but didn’t find any.
Someone tapped on Merlin’s shoulder. It was Dwin. “Do either of you have any rope?”
Merlin looked to Peredur, and both of them shook their heads.
Dwin sighed.
By this time, Culann was trying to throw one end of the rope over a high branch, but it kept falling short.
Arthur cracked off the thick end of Gogi’s fallen branch and tied it to the end of the rope. “Here, let me try.” He spun it in the air and threw it straight up . . . and over the high branch.
Culann frowned.
Pulling the broken wood from its knot, Arthur threaded the other end of the rope through and pulled on the rope until it was secure on the branch.
“It’s my rope. I get to go,” Culann said.
“I threw it!”
Merlin was annoyed at both of them, but principles were at stake here. “Culann,” he called, “come here . . .”
The young man looked angry, but stepped over. He was taller than Merlin, even taller than Arthur, and he had handsome features, with a straight, fine nose between inquisitive, dark eyes. His hair was a wavy brown, and it fell down carelessly to his shoulders.
“Arthur is your king. I think you should — ”
“Horse hooves! If I’m going to — ”
“Things have changed, Culann. Use that cool head of yours and think about the future.”
“I am thinking about the future.”
But he said no more, for Arthur had begun to climb and was soon halfway up.
Gwenivere and Gwenivach cheered him on, their claps, whistles, and calls filling the glade.
Arthur pulled himself up, feet on the trunk, swaying back and forth. Step over step, hand over hand on the rope until he reached the hole where the honey lay. Once there, he locked his legs around the rope and, with one hand, pulled out a large wooden spoon from the bag at his belt. He carefully reached the spoon into the hole as the bees began to buzz around him.
He scooped the spoon down, and then hundreds of bees swarmed out.
Augh!” he yelled, and had to pull his hand out, leaving the spoon behind. He began swatting at the bees, but they crawled over his face and neck, stinging him.
“Augghh!” he screamed as he slid down the rope, the bees chasing him. Everyone scattered.
Arthur ran off to the little stream as the bees thinned and returned to their hive. When he came back, he had smeared mud on his stings, which covered most of his face, neck, and shoulders. Merlin almost laughed, but held it in.
Culann jabbed Merlin in the ribs and whispered, “I think you were right: always let your king go first.” And he began to chuckle — until the girls ran over to Arthur.
“Oh, that must hurt terribly!” Gwenivach said.
Gwenivere hung on his arm. “You were so brave! All to get me a little honey.”
Culann sighed, and Dwin looked on, longingly.
“Now we’ll never get the honey,” Gwenivere said. “Climbing is just too dangerous, though it was very kind of you to try.”
“Hey!” Dwin called. “Two of our horses are missing!”
Neighing came from down the path, and then the sound of galloping.
“Thieves!” Merlin shouted.
Mórgana stepped back as her grandfather gaped. The Voice had come: what would the old man do? He had been such a fool to question the Voice’s decisions. Grandfather had stewed this pot of reckoning, time and time again. Now Mórgana would let him eat his own soup.
The Voice towered over them, his dark cloak snapping in the salty spray, and a blue radiance lighting his body. With each step, fissures split in the rocky ground, and up from the cracks groped human fingers, pawing and trying to grip the sharp edge. Screams resonated from below, and the Voice slammed his massive boot down. The ground boomed and shook, the fingers disappeared, and there was silence once more.
Loth and Mórdred fell to their knees.
And, Mórgana noticed, the Voice’s face had changed from the last time she had seen him. Hadn’t he looked like her father? But now he was different. His beard was gone and his chin had lengthened. And were his eyebrows more arched? His ears had grown smaller, and they were lacerated with bloody scars, as if the Voice scratched them incessantly.
There were, however, two things the same — his eyes were still pits of blackness with no end to their depth, and the old scar was still there on his forehead, nearly hidden by his red hood. The jagged scar ran upward — as if his cranium had been smashed once, but had since healed.
Without warning, the Voice swept down with a giant hand and picked Mórganthu up off the ground. The old man sucked in his breath, his face contorted in terror.
“Arch druid,” the Voice whispered. “Do you remember me?”
Mórganthu shook his head. “I . . . h-have never seen you, my lord. B-but I . . . know the sound of your — ”
“Then why do you question my commands? My servant, your granddaughter, stands before you, relaying my instructions. Are you not to honor her?”
“Y-yes. Yes.”
“Then why,” the Voice asked, “have I been disturbed to speak to you?”
Mórganthu said nothing, his lips trembling.
“Do you fear me?”
Mórganthu nodded.
“Rightly so, but I will show you just why you should fear me.” He reached forward, ripped Mórganthu’s head from his body, and though the man’s limbs went lifeless, Mórganthu’s head started screaming.
The Voice brought the head upward until the two wer
e eye to eye. “Silence!”
Mórganthu’s head shut its mouth.
“Good. Now listen. You have been given a task, and in that task you have done well. Have you not raised up and trained a throng of new druidow and sent them throughout the land? And these warriors before you, are they not also ready to do my service?”
Mórganthu made a noise of assent, but his face was turning blue.
“Through the host of druidow you have raised, I am bringing the Pax Druida back to my land. The Romans are gone, and now I shall rule through Mórgana and the druidow, who are mine. But my plan cannot be accomplished when you think it best. The army may not attack until exactly the right moment. Any sooner and it will not have the desired effect. Any later would be pointless. Do not question my orders again. Is this clear?”
The arch druid nodded, his face now green.
The Voice slammed Mórganthu’s head back onto his body, gave it a double twist, and dropped him, whole, onto the ground. Mórganthu coughed and cowered down to hide his face.
The Voice laughed as he faded away. By the end, all that was visible of him were the pits of his eyes, and these, too, finally disappeared.
Loth stepped over Mórganthu’s shaking legs and called out to the men. “Arise, warriors!”
The army stood to attention.
“Shall we have victory?” he yelled.
The warriors shouted and grunted in response.
“Shall we have revenge?” Mórgana shouted.
The warriors howled now from their wolflike snouts, and the very air seemed to grow colder.
The plans of the Voice would succeed, and Britain would never be the same.
Merlin jumped onto the nearest horse and galloped after the thieves. Two others were right behind him, but he didn’t turn to look. The thief, or thieves, were ahead, and Merlin caught site of a man’s brown hat as he hunched over his horse and held the reins of two more.
Behind him, he heard a shout.
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 11