Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral)

by Robert Treskillard

  Mother finished the rhyme and started it again, and her soothing voice comforted Taliesin, not that he would say so.

  Tingada’s cloak is pied, pied.

  I made it from a wolven hide.

  Once we were shackled — bang, clang!

  But the time came when eight slaves sang.

  Now father goes to hunt, hunt,

  A club to swing, a spear to bunt.

  He brings along the hounds, hounds;

  They seize, they catch, in leaps and bounds.

  Mother glanced over to the dead miller, and a tear slipped down her cheek, landing on Tinga’s brown hair. When she continued, her voice sounded choked.

  He’ll trap fish from his boat, boat.

  Beyond the Falls of Derwent, float.

  Just like a lynx’s paw, claw,

  He’ll throw his net, and, filled, withdraw.

  When father climbs the crag, crag,

  He’ll slay a roe-buck, boar, or stag,

  Or certainly a grouse, grouse,

  Some tasty meat for hearth and house.

  “When is Tath coming home?” Tinga asked. “He’d get uth out of here.”

  “Yes, he would,” Mother said, and Taliesin saw her blink up at heaven with a sort of pleading look.

  “Tas can catch anything, can’t he?” Taliesin said.

  “Unless it has wings,” Natalenya said, nodding.

  Tinga frowned. “Some o’ them geth away?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish we had wings,” Taliesin said. “Then the Picti could never catch us!” But he knew that was impossible. Bedwir was right — they were already caught, and no help would come.

  Arthur held up his hand in a request for Merlin to stop speaking. The sun would soon reach its zenith, and their chance to successfully ambush the Saxenow baggage carts was slipping away. The scouts had returned with news of the enemy’s movements, and the time had come.

  “Go, then!” Merlin said, stepping back. The stone walls of the inside of the blockhouse made his words resonate.

  Arthur strapped on his sword and Merlin followed him outside. “I’ll pray that you meet with success.” He fell silent, but Arthur heard what he didn’t say: And that you don’t regret ignoring my advice.

  As Arthur marched out into the daylight, he looked out over the camps of the men who now called Dinas Marl home. Many more had found their way back, swelling their ranks to just over four hundred — still a pittance compared to what Vortigern had ruled just a short day ago.

  And not only that, but his own leadership of the warriors was in doubt, for other, better-known men began to vie for control and to express their own divisive opinions on their next move. It seemed that Arthur’s slaying of Horsa and his elevation by Vortigern meant little in their minds, and to cement his leadership with them, he had devised his daring new plan.

  So when Arthur climbed the ladder and looked out from the walls of Dinas Marl, he cringed. Far away to the south and east the land was dry and brittle. Was he foolish to use fire as a weapon against the Saxenow? Yet the present situation left little choice. Not with Hengist and his Saxenow coming to take their fortress.

  Maybe Merlin is right, Arthur thought, and I should just leave with the men. Empty the fortress and abandon these lands to the Saxenow. But the idea smoldered inside Arthur and its fumes blurred his vision. Deep down he didn’t want to concede even one handbreadth of British land to the Saxenow, and if they were going to take it by force anyway, then let it be burned. So be it.

  Culann and Dwin approached, and Arthur gathered them in a circle.

  “Do you know that old, broken fortress we passed?”

  Dwin squinted as he scanned the vale south of Dinas Marl, finally pointing to the horizon. “You mean the one on that hill way over there?”

  “You can see it from here? That’s more than a league.”

  Dwin smiled. “Can’t you?”

  “It’s the one with the road right below it.”

  Culann raised an eyebrow. “Is that the place we passed on our way to Hen Crogmen? Now that is an interesting spot.”

  “In more ways than one,” Arthur said.

  Dwin yawned. “Nice spot for a picnic. Too bad Gogi and his daughters disappeared.”

  “A picnic?” Arthur said, knocking Dwin playfully on the head. “A picnic? Look, I need twenty of the best archers along with twenty horsemen and the forty fastest horses we have.”

  “Looking for a bit of revenge?” Culann asked.

  “No. I just want to defend our land.”

  Culann nodded and ran off toward the camp of men while Dwin went to pick the horses. Within minutes Arthur had all the men and horses he needed and they were tightening their saddles and mounting.

  Just as Arthur pulled himself up onto a horse — sadly, not Casva, who had disappeared at Hen Crogmen — Merlin strolled by, whistling.

  “If you die, don’t blame me.”

  Arthur ignored him and began passing out pine-pitch torches to all the men who didn’t have a bow. Once every man had two, Arthur raised his arm to signal that they were leaving.

  Merlin grabbed onto the bit of Arthur’s horse, looked up into the young man’s eyes, and whispered, “If all of Britain burns, don’t blame me. And if you survive, you think we’re going to hold this gap-toothed fortress with four hundred against five thousand? You might as well just bury me here, then, right on Marl mound.”

  “I never said this is going to be easy, but we do have one advantage that no one’s thought of.”

  “And what’s that?” Merlin asked.

  “Hengist doesn’t fear us.”

  Merlin got a puzzled expression and scratched his scalp. “That’s an advantage?”

  “He won’t be expecting us to try anything.”

  “Right.”

  Arthur lowered his arm and gave his horse a quick kick.

  The rest of the warriors followed him out of the fortress.

  Merlin swallowed a catch in his throat as Arthur left, riding out the southern gate of Dinas Marl. Would he come back from such a foolish venture? Merlin wanted to go and find Peredur where he was busy dealing with a horse that had thrown its shoe, but the man had backed Arthur’s plan and Merlin would find no commiseration there. Everything had failed in the south, and Arthur’s presence had done nothing more than preserve a small, ragged band that had little chance against the monstrosity of Saxen domination.

  But since when did Arthur ever think about odds? He had always been reckless, even when he was little. Once, when Arthur was eight, Merlin had taken him on his first overnight hunting trip. They were supposed to be looking for deer, but encountered a large, tusked boar instead. Had Arthur shown any fear? No, the boy had run right into the path of the charging fiend and nocked an arrow. Despite his hammering heart, Merlin had run out and pulled Arthur behind a tree. And the funny part was that Arthur still got his arrow off and sank it deep into the beast’s chest. Merlin would never forget that day.

  But I’m not like Arthur, am I? At least not anymore. When did I lose my recklessness — my youthful idea that nothing can stop me? Was it when I was a slave and saw everyone dying? When I saw Natalenya suffering and slowly fading before my very eyes? Now I just want to go back home. It would be so easy. A few weeks on the road, and I could fall into Natalenya’s hard-working, loving arms once more and just rest there in her embrace. I could go hunting again with Taliesin. I could braid Tinga’s hair, so soft and tangly . . .

  He took out the scrap of skirt once more to pray for them all, happy that the cloth still felt clean and soft under his touch since he had washed the blood off. Yet within moments, its surface began to feel slimy.

  He looked down, and there was a black liquid oozing off of one end.

  He dropped it, then bent down to look more closely. The rumpled piece of cloth was clean on one end but smeared with ooze on the other. What was happening? Had the disease returned to Natalenya? The same foul illness that had long ago afflicted her whi
le a slave?

  He closed his eyes and prayed for her safety, but even as his quiet amen was spoken, he heard a ripping sound. There, below him, the piece of skirt cloth had been shredded into three pieces.

  Merlin gasped.

  Taliesin broke into a run along the top of the wall. He had to get to the stair. Something had happened to old Brice, and the man needed help. One moment they were keeping watch together — the old man telling him the well-worn yarn of how he had come to be a porter for the valley at age ten — and the next moment he had fallen to his knees, barely able to breathe.

  Taliesin found the stair cut into the rock wall and took it, three steps per bound. At the bottom he rounded to the tower, ran in the doorway, and bump-bounced into Great-Aunt Eira, who was changing the bandage on Caygek’s arm.

  “Old Brice,” he panted, picking himself up off the floor, “. . . he . . . he needs help!”

  “Whatever could have happened?” Mother asked.

  Bedwir stood from where he’d been sitting in the back of the room, looking alarmed. “Are the Picti climbing back up for another attack?”

  “No! Brice is hurt. Come see!”

  He ran out of the tower and up the stairs once more. Caygek and Bedwir were right behind him, with Mother and Great-Aunt Eira following. By the time they made it to old Brice, the man had collapsed upon his back and his body was shaking.

  That was when Taliesin saw the man’s cheek. A black, thick, bulbous boil had grown there. His arms had the same growths, and there were smaller ones on his leg, just above his boot. It was some sort of sickness that Taliesin had never seen before.

  Natalenya pushed her way through, but when she saw what had begun to grow on the man’s skin, she halted, her hand going to her mouth.

  Old Brice tried to sit up, but failed. Then he found the boil on his cheek, grabbed the edge, and tried to rip it off. “Get it awa’! It’s a rat, I say, a rat that’s eatin’ me cheek!” But his thick fingers couldn’t get a grip on the shiny mass, and the skin popped. Black pus sprayed them all, and a huge glob landed on Natalenya’s skirt.

  She backed away along the wall-top, trying to flick it off, and in the process knocked over Tinga, who had stolen up from behind. As she fell near the edge of the wall, Gaff, her little puppy, barked and jumped from her hands.

  “No!” Taliesin reached out, but he was too far away. The pup landed on the top of the stonework — and then slipped over the edge.

  Tinga shrieked.

  Taliesin sucked in his breath as the dog fell headlong down the massive, slanted wall. Halfway down, one of the stones jutted out and Gaff hit the outcrop, spun, yelped, and continued plunging down until she landed in a dry, brown bush.

  Tinga began sobbing. “My doggie! My doggie! Get my doggie!”

  Mother scooped her up and hugged her. “Are you all right? I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry.”

  And down the hill, just then, they heard the blast of a war horn as the Picti began climbing the hillside for another assault upon the fortress. There was little time before the mount would be swarming with invaders intent on killing them.

  Gaff began whimpering from below, and Taliesin knew what he had to do.

  The first thing Arthur did when they arrived at the foot of the ruined hill fort was to find the fastest way up along the western side where the jut of land was more gently sloped. The Saxenow would pass through a valley on the east, exactly under the fort’s watchful eye.

  Here, Arthur placed the archers under Culann’s leadership, instructing them to wait until the first supply wagon was ablaze, and then to fire on all within range of the cliff. Arthur then positioned his men in hiding around a ridge of land toward the south, a place where they could spy on the enemy ranks of warriors as they passed . . . until the slower supply wagons brought up the rear.

  When the first Saxenow emerged from a forest track far away, Arthur whooped with excitement.

  Dwin shushed him.

  “They can’t hear me,” Arthur said, resentful at the rebuke.

  “Best not to assume,” Dwin said.

  “What . . . do the screaming, axe-wielding Saxenow have you worried?”

  “Me? No. And you?”

  “Of course. I’m not daft.”

  Onward the Saxenow came, thousands upon thousands of foot soldiers. And they were all headed north to pluck the prize of Dinas Marl from the Britons like a sweet, damson plum is sucked from the pit.

  Arthur’s anticipation built. Little did they know that he had reoccupied the fortress and lay in wait for them.

  Soon, the companies of foot soldiers began to thin, and Arthur saw his true prize: the supply wagons lumbering forward, pulled by teams of draft horses and oxen.

  “Wait until I give the word,” Arthur whispered back to the others, but Dwin nudged his arm.

  “We can’t attack,” he said.

  “What do you mean? The wagons are almost here.”

  “Haven’t you noticed?”

  “What?”

  “The horsemen . . . they’re bringing up the rear.”

  Arthur wanted to swear, as much for the fact that Dwin was right as that he had missed it. He had counted on the horsemen and chariots passing by first and being far away when they attacked the wagons. But he had forgotten in his excitement, and now he could see them emerge from the woods and come galloping forward, perhaps a thousand strong.

  “Shall we call it off?” Dwin’s eyes looked hopeful.

  “You mean retreat?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m done retreating. The taste of death I left behind last night is still bitter.”

  “But the archers won’t shoot until one of the wagons is on fire. You told them — ”

  “Then I’ll just have to light one on fire myself.” Arthur rose, his legs poised to move.

  “No! There are too many and they’ll catch you!”

  “Then watch me get caught.”

  Arthur mounted his horse and lit his two torches using their bronze box of live coals. Passing the box back to the others, he kicked his horse forward into a trot, and then a gallop.

  “After him!” Dwin yelled.

  They all lit their torches and rode out in a ragged line.

  But Arthur felt only the wind in his hair and the thrill of challenging death. Life coursed through his veins, banishing the doubt and the waiting and the defeat of the preceding day. This was what he was made for.

  “Come on, Hengist! Do your worst!” he yelled as the dry grass of the valley floor fell away beneath his horse’s hooves and the nearest wagon rose up before him. Riding by, he thrust the pine-resined torch into the heart of the wagon’s supplies and then drew his sword. It only took moments to slay the drovers and then he was off to the next wagon.

  War horns blasted through the valley, and the earth began to shake under the pounding of the thousand enemy horsemen approaching from the forest.

  Soon he set another wagon ablaze, and his men had lit six more. But they wouldn’t make it if they didn’t ride forward into the protection of the archers.

  “Forward!” he yelled and kicked his horse until it was galloping north. By the time they came to the area below the fortress, the archers had been raining down arrows long enough that most of the Saxenow were either dying or had fled the area. This gave Arthur and company a brief opening to increase their speed as their horses dashed before the oncoming storm. Unaware of the archers, the Saxenow horsemen stampeded after Arthur and his tiny band, and many perished beneath the sharp tip of a British arrow before they pinpointed the source of the threat and swung wide.

  Breaking through the long thin line of straggling infantry took little effort, and soon Arthur and his men traversed a ridge of land straight for Dinas Marl.

  And then came the chase . . . down into the broad valley, across the dry, grass-choked remains of what had been a stream, and then up again to the fortress. Only then did Arthur realize that Culann and the archers had never joined them. They had been instructe
d to ride away once Arthur and his men passed the fortress, so where had they gone?

  Arthur turned and saw a small battle going on. A mass of Saxen horsemen had apparently taken a more westerly route, intercepting the archers, and Arthur saw flashes of red as the Britons and their mounts went down under the spears and axes of the Saxenow.

  “Dear God Almighty,” Arthur prayed, “have mercy . . .” But there was none given that he could see, and Arthur ground his teeth at his own shortsightedness. Twenty men dead. If he had called off the attack instead of going ahead with it, then maybe . . .

  The thunder of chariots cresting the nearest ridge put an end to Arthur’s second-guessing. With a shout, he urged his men forward to Dinas Marl, where they rode in just before the gate was shut.

  And there was Merlin, standing alone beyond the guards, his white face and pursed lips accusing.

  “Where are the archers?”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Arthur said, dismounting and throwing his reins to a nearby warrior.

  “I asked a question . . . where are the archers? And where is Culann?”

  “A moment of peace is all I ask,” Arthur said, and his words felt bitter on his tongue. He climbed a nearby ladder to the top of the wall, as much to get away from Merlin and his condemning eyes as anything, and looked out in hope he had been wrong. Had the archers survived? But he couldn’t see any among the mass of Saxen warriors approaching.

  “Everyone to the wall!” Arthur called, and the men responded quickly, already having prepared for the oncoming assault by donning their armor.