Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral)

by Robert Treskillard

  “Do ya think?” Peredur asked.

  Merlin nodded, and with Arthur’s agreement they rode down and passed into the fortress’s open doors, whose iron hinges creaked in the wind. Just inside the gate stood a carved stone bearing the words DINAS VITALINUS. There were barracks and various other military buildings around the outside walls of the fortress, and these were all burned to the ground. The nearest one, a former stable, contained the remains of many horses, and at the side was a great pile of dung amongst the burned animals.

  Arthur led them past all these to the ruins of the huge central building, which, Merlin could tell, had been built with ornamental stonework, now fallen, scattered, and shattered at the base of its blackened walls.

  After opening the doors, Arthur and the others viewed the interior, confirming that this had been Vortigern’s feasting hall. Down the central aisle of the building, underneath all the black, broken, and smoking timbers, lay a long, once-splendid hearth where his warriors would have reclined and feasted after a victory. Far down the hall, upon a bronzed dais, stood an intricately carved wooden throne, now charred and cracked in half by a fallen timber.

  Arthur entered the hall as Merlin and the others followed. With the roof gone, the smoke didn’t overpower them. Still, they had to step over piles of still burning wood, and the air felt hot.

  All around the floor lay the bodies of warriors with the golden lion of Vortigern’s reign pinned to their cloaks — their throats rent and torn, and their bodies burnt.

  Merlin wanted to leave, but Culann called from the side. “Here’s a different sort of warrior.”

  Merlin picked his way over. This one lay facedown, but it was clear he was clad differently . . . with a tartan of indigo, white, and teal, and a more crude, less Roman-like armor.

  “He’s one of Gorlas’s men,” Merlin said. He rolled him over, expecting to find a wolf-head, but was shocked to see that the man had a normal face.

  They searched the feasting hall further and found sixteen similar warriors, and none of them were wolf-heads. They also found the bodies of women and children in the rooms along the side and back of the feasting hall, possibly members of Vortigern’s household.

  “How many warriors would it have taken to capture the city and fortress?” Dwin asked.

  “With Vortigern absent,” Merlin said, “I’d guess a thousand or more,” He’d seen the size of the city, the stoutness of the walls, and the number of warriors and people they had found dead along the way. “But Gorlas doesn’t have that many. Sure, he’s the king of Kernow, but his fortress at Dintaga, though nearly impenetrable, is fairly small.”

  “Could he have raised them?”

  “To commit this atrocity? I doubt it.”

  “So what now?” Peredur asked. “The muster isn’t to happen fer two weeks, yet we find the city destroyed and Mabon tells us Vortigern’s gone to Dinas Marl.”

  “Back home,” Merlin answered, hope rising in his heart that Arthur would forget the whole thing.

  “Or we could go find Vortigern.” Culann said. “His feasting hall’s gone and he needs to know what happened.”

  Merlin spat. “Let someone else bring him the news. You think you’ll get a reward for telling him what’s happened here?”

  “Yet he needs our help,” Arthur said. “Even more than ever. How can Britain survive with invaders in the east and her own people stabbing from the west?”

  “True, true,” Dwin said, nodding.

  Merlin pushed his doubts away and scowled. He didn’t care what happened to Vortigern. As far as he was concerned, the man got what he deserved. If Merlin hadn’t suspected that his own sister, Mórgana, was behind the attack, he wouldn’t have even blinked.

  “I’m for going back home,” Merlin said. “Let Vortigern cook in his own fire.”

  “And you think we’ll be safe up north?” Arthur asked. “Ector understood the danger, and he told me so. Maybe you’ve been spending too much time with King Urien, eh?”

  “You know why I go there — ”

  “The last few years, I’ve hardly ever seen you for more than a week or two before you’re off again.”

  “And Ector is the one who sends me. You know that.”

  “What I know is what Ector taught me. If there is no freedom in the south, then the north cannot hold out for long, and we’ll be squeezed between the Picti and the invaders like a fish ready to be gutted. Are you prepared for that?”

  “Ector despises Vortigern.”

  “And that lessened his worries?”

  Merlin bowed his head slightly. It was true what Arthur said, even if it hurt.

  Arthur approached and lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper.

  “I know you hate Vortigern, and I understand why. They were my parents. But I don’t remember them, and I still have you and Mother. You’ve been the best parents — you’ve been the best father that I could have hoped for. But for the good of Britain, let us resolve here and now to save her if at all possible. Please . . . please. I need your help.”

  Merlin felt conflicted, pulled, and stretched. He had spent his life running from Vortigern, and now this? Did they really have to go find Vortigern and step right into the monster’s arms? And what galled him most was being told to do so by Arthur, the man who should hate Vortigern more than anyone.

  Really, though . . . Merlin and Natalenya hadn’t fostered any special loathing for Vortigern in the young man. In fact, they had done their best not to talk about the High King or the southern part of Britain. Had all that created in Arthur a curiosity for the south, and now a desire to save it? Created a spirit that could readily come to the aid of a despicable man he hardly knew?

  And what was best? Coming south meant Merlin might be able to visit his boyhood home in Bosventor, Kernow, even though that home was all but gone. Burned up by the flames of the Druid Stone. His father dead, yet his mother . . .

  He had grown up thinking she was dead too. And then he’d found her changed into a water creature by the Stone and bound to Lake Dosmurtanlin. He had been forced to leave her in order to save Arthur’s life. All these years he had longed to see her again and had stuffed his feelings down.

  And what had he done instead? Duty. Protect Arthur. Fight the slave-taking Picti. That was all he knew. Someday in the future, sure, he was planning on leading Arthur south to his destiny, but in his mind that was always in the future. Never now.

  But what of all the countless other fathers there who hugged their children before bed? What of all the mothers that baked bread for their families? What of all the little boys, the little girls . . .

  But this was madness. The voices of the innocent clamored in Merlin’s head, pounding him as he imagined the Saxenow killing them and driving them from their villages and taking their homes. Their weeping cursed his name as real fathers, real daughters, real sons, and, indeed, real mothers paid the deadly price of Merlin’s inaction. Of Vortigern’s incompetence. Of the steady decline of the British people and their waning strength.

  Was it true? Had Merlin been so content in the north that he had betrayed the south? Betrayed himself? Betrayed every Briton who had died under the axe of a merciless Saxen invader? Betrayed those here at Glevum who had died under Mórgana’s evil attack?

  He had to face it.

  Arthur coughed, breaking Merlin’s thoughts. He held his hand out and spread his fingers to reveal five golden lion pins that he must have lifted from the dead.

  “Each of us needs to wear one of these,” he said. “Not as a sign of loyalty to Vortigern, but of our loyalty to Britain and her people.”

  Each of the others took a pin until there were only two left in Arthur’s palm. One for Arthur. And one for Merlin.

  No, he couldn’t even touch it. If he did, he would smash it under his boot.

  The blood on Vortigern’s hands!

  But wasn’t blood on Merlin’s hands? Blood that had been shed by his delay? Here he was, with practically the entire kingdo
m of Rheged eating out of his hand, and he had done nothing but hide and try to stop the northern slave raids. Yes this was important work, but was it his real work? The day of Colvarth’s death came back to Merlin, and the words of the dying bard stung his ears:

  “Merlin . . . come to me,” Colvarth had choked out. His face was puffy, his eyelids thick and red, and he was always out of breath. He’d been ailing for weeks, and none of the healers could help him.

  “Merlin, I know this seems very rash . . . but I’ve been feeling . . .” And here he coughed for a long time. “No, not feeling . . . for God Himself has shown me over the last year . . . that the time has come to declare Arthur the rightful High King . . . and raise up an army from Rheged and Kembry . . . and all that will join our banner to fight against Vortigern.”

  Merlin had considered the words. He really had. But then Colvarth had died within the hour, and Merlin’s busy life had moved on, and Arthur seemed so . . . so young. The root of it, though, was that Merlin was afraid.

  So, yes, he knew what he needed to do and had ignored it. Blood was on his hands. Could he hold Arthur back now?

  “I’ll go with you,” Merlin said, and each word, though true, tore at his heart. “And I will support you in everything, but I can’t wear a sign of allegiance to Vortigern. It will make little difference.” Merlin felt the black mask that covered his face. “I wouldn’t last long in Vortigern’s presence wearing this, eh?”

  Arthur embraced him.

  Outside they heard the neighing of a horse, and turned in time to see a man dismount and apprehensively peek inside. He had a richly colored cloak and a wide hat pinned upward on one side. The man’s face . . . Merlin looked twice, but there could be no mistake. Fodor, Vortigern’s envoy, had returned to his master’s house.

  Merlin ran at the envoy, and before the man could remount his horse Merlin pulled him down and pinned him to the ground.

  “You! What are you doing here so soon? You were headed north.”

  “Get him off! Get this man of unknown parentage off of me!”

  Merlin wanted to punch him in the jaw, but held back. “Answer my question, or I’ll — ”

  “I knew you were reprehensible! Let me up, for I will not answer questions of a masked man!”

  “There’s a stable by the gate, and I saw a nice dung heap surrounded by dead horses. Maybe if I tossed you in there, mouth first, it would loosen your tongue.”

  “No! An esteemed emissary of the High King will not be abused in such a way.” And here he took in a deep breath. “If you keep me and my garments clean, I will answer your simple questions.”

  “Tell me what’s happened in the north — ”

  Fodor nodded. “I was heading to King Urien, and have come south with grave news.”

  Merlin’s grip increased along with his anger. “Tell me!”

  “An envoy’s news is for his king’s ears alone. Even the Wild Huntsman couldn’t drag it out of me.”

  “Peredur, help me drag this man to the dung heap.”

  They picked him up, face down, with Culann and Dwin on the legs and Merlin and Peredur on the arms. Arthur stood back, watching the proceedings with a smirk.

  “No!” the man yelled, but they ignored his struggles and marched him down the street toward the stable.

  “You have three more chances,” Merlin said, and at his signal they rotated the man around and began to swing him back and forth so that his face came progressively closer to the pile of dung. It had been freshly shoveled, and its overpowering odor had attracted countless flies.

  “Put me down!” the man yelled. “A great-grandson of Firsil is not to be treated in this manner!”

  They brought him back, and began counting as they swung him forward. “Yahn . . .”

  “I will not stand for this!”

  Once more they swung him toward the dung. “Tahn . . .”

  “Vortigern will hear of this!”

  And the last swing was the biggest of all. “Tethera!”

  Fodor shot forward, yelling, “Stop! I’ll talk I’ll talk I’ll talk!”

  They tightened their grip and prevented his headlong descent, but it was too late for his hat, which flopped artfully into the sloppy dung and slid down into some liquid that had leaked out from the bottom.

  They stood him up again, and the man cowered before Merlin, who tried one more time. “Tell me what you know of the north.”

  “I . . . I rode to Luguvalium, after your uncouth chieftain so ungraciously threw me out, but I never made it inside Urien’s fortress.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Picti had laid siege to it.”

  Luguvalium under siege? That was impossible. The Picti only raided for slaves . . . didn’t they?

  “I don’t believe you. How many Picti were there?”

  “Thousands, and one of their scouts caught me, the oaf. He brought me before their High King. He let me go on oath that I bring a message to Vortigern.”

  There was one way Merlin thought of to prove the man a liar. “Tell me, then, about this High King.”

  “Necton Morbrec mac Erip. Red hair. Lots of blue paint. Two torcs, both very impressive. Imposing fellow, and, though a tad ill-mannered, he knew his pedigree, he did.”

  Merlin’s legs went weak, and he closed his eyes.

  While the others showed Fodor the remains of the feasting hall, Merlin sat on a chunk of rock, alone. If Luguvalium fell, then what would happen to Dinas Crag? Could it remain a secret if Necton destroyed the northern kingdom of Rheged? Merlin doubted it.

  He reached in his leather bag and took out the torn piece of skirt that Natalenya had given him. It was so soft under his fingers, and it comforted him. She was so loving, so needed, so alone. He wasn’t complete without her. And Taliesin and Tinga . . .

  He prayed for them — but while he prayed, something strange happened. The softness of the piece of skirt became gritty under his fingertips. What was this? He looked, and where the piece of skirt had been clean before, now it had become strangely dirty . . . while he was holding it. Maybe he was confused, so he checked the inside of his bag and it was clean as he remembered. Even when he’d fallen in the mud twice, he’d been meticulous about making sure the inside stayed clean and dry.

  The dirt didn’t make sense, but Merlin prayed all the more earnestly.

  It had been many days since Natalenya had found the Pictish razor by the stream, but a part of her was still shaking with a fear that twisted her insides. Even staying in her aunt Eira’s house hadn’t helped. Her breath was always tight now, and chopping wild onions and horseradish for drying didn’t help either.

  Once the news had spread that their valley had been discovered, a meeting had been called, attended by the remaining warriors, the horse tenders, and all the heads of families. With Ector gone, a temporary leader needed to be chosen, and to her surprise, Natalenya had been selected. Aunt Eira had suggested it, and everyone agreed, knowing her wisdom and how vigilent she had been through the years to keep the valley safe.

  And so, with this new responsibility, Natalenya had personally overseen the stocking of food and water to the top of Dinas Crag by all the families. However, with the drought there wasn’t as much to put up as she had hoped.

  She had also made sure that an inspection was made of the fortress’s outer wall, which surrounded the top of the steep hill as close to the edge as the ancient builders could place it. They found numerous weak points, which she set the men to repairing.

  And the central tower — oh, how she wished it had been made of stone, but the walls must have taken all the available stone, and since timber was plentiful, the original builders had made it from that. Sure, it was stout, with thick walls and four levels including a lookout, but its construction worried her.

  The weakest point, of course, was the gate, which was made of iron-banded wood. Its doors were so heavy that she could hardly push them open, but they were wood all the same. And no, the steepness of the path app
roaching them didn’t comfort her.

  What she wanted most of all was Merlin. His strong, calloused hands rubbing her shoulders and telling her it would be all right. His tender eyebrows promising her protection. But he wasn’t here, and nothing could comfort her given the signs of danger all around. Tinga would look at her with her big, hopeful eyes, and Natalenya tried to be strong for her, but in private could barely hold back the sobs that welled up in her throat.

  And Taliesin had tried to cheer her on more than one occasion by showing her how sharp the tip of his blade was. “No worries,” he’d say. “Any Pict that attacks will be a dead Pict. He won’t get past me.”

  Though nothing eased the worry, Natalenya found herself turning more and more to practical busywork like preparing and preserving vegetables for the crag.

  “Keep chopping, dearest,” Aunt Eira said from across the culinar. “I’ve scrubbed a whole pile here and you’re getting behind. Thinking about him won’t bring him back any faster.”

  “Your Ector will come home first, I know that now.”

  “And thank God.”

  Natalenya bit her lip.

  “I didn’t mean it that way. My thought is only to the war band. We need all of them now that we may have been discovered.”

  “I know. I’m just worried about Merlin and Arthur. I had thought they’d be back by now. He’s either still looking for Arthur or else is going south with him. I don’t know which I fear more.”

  Natalenya returned to her knife work, but nearly sliced her thumb when shouting sounded from outside. Someone began banging on the door. Goffrew, the hound, stood and bayed, her two pups looking around in confusion.

  “Oh dearest, oh dearest, what could that be?”

  “Ector?”

  “I do hope so.”

  Natalenya walked across the hall and began to unbar the door, but thought better of it.

  “Who’s there?”

  A muffled voice came from the other side.

  “Who?” she yelled.

  “. . . Caygek . . .”

  Natalenya stiffened, then yanked the bar upward in a hasty arc. Pulling the door open, the former druid burst in. His beard was streaked with blood, and he was completely winded.