The Sangraal!
Over the sleeping men it floated, past the horse pickets and beyond the vastness of the southwestern forest. Toward Kernow. Toward Mórgana. Toward all that Merlin feared. Yet it gave him hope and faith as it directed him onward.
And as it went, words filled the air, and they brought back a remembrance from long ago.
The bear will charge — with steel claw free
’Gainst hoary swell of peoples be.
All things will lose — and dead the tree,
Lest wisdom to — he bend the knee.
Hell dog will dark — the sun’s bright face.
The beast will rise — from secret place.
All men will flee — to water trace,
Till sword and spear — with prayer grace.
The beast will bring — forth fetid birth,
And bear will scratch — and prove his worth.
But land will not — have new its mirth,
Till red-leg crow — be brought to earth.
It was the words of the madman, Muscarvel — and his prophecy floated away on the air like a nightingale’s lament. Merlin knelt down in prayer, embracing the wisdom that he knew was right, fearful though it was. After Glevum they would travel to Kernow to fight Mórgana. She and her conspirators were the source of all that was wrong in Britain, and even if he had to fight wolf-heads to stop her, this he would do.
The Picti crashed their battering ram into the doors of the tower once again.
Boom!
With panic ripping into her soul, Natalenya tried to breathe slowly, evenly. The ground seemed to lurch under her feet even as all that she had trusted in for the last sixteen years failed. She had been a slave of the Picti once, and had vowed that it would never happen again. Then she had carried a disease that had caused the Picti to loathe her — the same disease, from appearances, that was killing the inhabitants of the tower.
Merlin had tried to tell her that her disease had been caused by his sister, but Natalenya had never fully believed him. It just seemed so . . . strange. Yet now, with slavery and disease surrounding her once again, she began to truly believe her husband’s stories — seeing apparitions of Ganieda far from home, even fighting her ghost. Thankfully, their family had all been spared such evil goings-on during the last many years. Yet now, with Merlin away, they had come upon her again, like a crazed mountain bear slavering to kill.
She closed her eyes and, for a brief moment, grabbed hold of the secret dream she’d held on to throughout the siege. She imagined that she was sailing away from this hell. Sailing away south to Kernow — to Dinas Camlin — to see her mother once more. Sailing to the ends of the earth in search of her love, her Merlin. She longed to hold his face, look up into his tender eyes and feel his strong, safe arms around her.
Boom! pounded the battering ram.
Her dream faded like a phantom, and the nightmare took her once more:
Slavery. Disease. Death. Was there no way out?
Then, in a flash of insight, it all made sense. How could she have missed it? She had been protected her from Necton before when she was a slave — would God do it the same way now?
O bright Father, O holy Son, O sanctifying Spirit . . . grant us your safety!
She grabbed Bedwir’s shoulder. “How long will the doors hold?” she asked.
He looked at the tower doors, the bars, and the hinges.
Boom! crunched the battering ram.
“Ten more blows, I’m afraid, if that.”
That’s not enough time!
“Everyone!” Natalenya shouted, startling Garth and those around her. “There is a way to save ourselves, but we’ll need more time! Is there anything to brace the doors?”
Caygek shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Anything! Please!”
Crack!
And one of the door hinges bent.
Garth ran to her. “I can slow ’em down! I know a tune . . . it’s about their greatest king. If I play it, they’ll stop to listen!” He reached into his sack and pulled his bagpipe out — the same one he had owned when he was a young orphan, the one he’d inherited from his father.
Natalenya smiled to see it after so many years. “Run! Up the stairs! On the third floor there’s a window facing the gates . . .”
But Garth was already bounding up the steps while fitting the drone pieces on.
Boom!
Parts of the lower bar shattered, sending splinters into Natalenya’s hair.
Taliesin patted her on the shoulder. “Can I help?”
She turned to look at him. He had blood smeared on his cheek and there was fear in his eyes, but a maturity and determination too that Natalenya had never seen there before. “Yes.” She ran her hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. “Protect your sister. Take Tinga and the pups to the third floor. Help Garth.”
“But — ”
“Hurry! Now!”
Taliesin grabbed Tinga’s hand and ran upstairs with Gaff and Gruffen.
Boom! The post on the right side started breaking away from the wall.
Natalenya called everyone over and began instructing them.
A sound interrupted her, a skirling sweetness raining down that could only be Garth’s bagpipe. The man’s fingers played a low, complex, and mournful tune that immediately tugged at Natalenya’s heart.
The battering ram stopped its swinging, doom-filled rhythm.
Natalenya forced herself to focus once more, then finished her directions and sent everyone running to their given tasks.
But halfway through the preparations, while Natalenya was running up to the second floor for the third time, Garth’s bagpipe faltered in squeaks and honks. He’d run out of air. Natalenya sent up a supplication urging God to give him a second breath.
Then she smelled smoke.
Taliesin came bounding down the stairs. “Necton was mad that the men stopped hittin’ the doors, an’ so he lit them on fire!”
“Help me!”
Taliesin did, and when they made it down to the first level, once more the flames were shooting through the door. Smoke began to fill the room.
Garth started playing again, weakly, and yet he provided enough distraction to hold off the Picti until Natalenya and the others had completed their task, coughing and choking through the smoke.
When it was done, Natalenya ran up to the third floor with Taliesin and the others, legs weak and lungs burning.
Garth’s face was deeply red, and his poor bruised lip was swollen even more.
She nodded for him to stop.
When he caught his breath, all he could say was, “. . . Outta practice . . . way outta practice . . .” And she gave him a hug.
“Hey!” Taliesin reported from the window, “Necton’s got piles o’ tinder against this side o’ the tower, an’ the fire’s climbin’ higher!”
And then the battering ram boomed once more.
Crack!
Natalenya sat down with her back to the wall, pulled Tinga close, and called Taliesin away from the window.
He came, bringing little Gruffen.
Loyt led them all in a prayer for protection, and Natalenya and others joined him, for it was the twenty-third Psalm, which they had been memorizing:
The Lord God, my Good Shepherd, sates my hunger
And gives unto me verdant fare on the heaths,
Where I may feed my soul.
The Lord God, my True Chieftain, quenches my thirsting
And gifts unto me crystal streams in the glens
Where I may fill my spirit.
And now Taliesin joined in, and Tinga snuggled closer with Gaff.
The Lord God, my Just High Priest, slakes my longing
And grants unto me righteous paths on the heights,
Where I may praise His name.
The Lord God, my Stout Shield Arm, guards my lifeblood
And walks with me through the vale of deathly shades,
Where I must fear no more
.
Boom!
The whole tower shook.
Tinga whispered in Natalenya’s ear, “Mammu, why do I see Tath’s drinking bowl when I shut me eyes? An’ I feel funny too, like little happy angels are danthing on my skin.”
Natalenya hugged her closer. “I don’t know, honey. I don’t know.”
Loyt raised his voice to continue the psalm, and Garth joined in.
The Lord God, my War Hammer, clouts my haters
And lights hearth fires with sumptuous meat on the spits,
Where I may mock my foes.
The Lord God, my Great Delight, makes the honey
And fills unto me bowls of drink from the vats
Where I will join the feast.
The Lord God, my Torc Bearer, gilds my own neck
And runs after me to goodly joy on high,
Where I may always dwell!
Boom! smote the battering ram, and Natalenya heard the doors below burst inward amidst the shouting, angry Picti.
Outside, flames licked as high as the window, and Natalenya began to cough as rolling smoke poured across the ceiling.
Garth called out for them to sing a hymn in these, their final moments.
“What can stop them?” Tinga asked. Her face was pinched up in a scowl and her hands shook.
“Only the dead can stop them. Only the dead.”
She pulled both children close and let the silent tears flow.
Mórgana screamed as she lifted the fang from the orb. A searing pain shot up her arm, and what did she get for her trouble? Natalenya’s little girl was still unharmed. Mórgana hated it . . . hated her. In fact, she hated all young girls, including her own, brief childhood. The Voice had taught her to despise her former innocence. To kill off all childish, girlish desires. To be willing to sever all ties and familial love unless it advanced her master’s plan. To serve no one but him.
“Is the girl sick yet?” Mórdred asked.
“No, the little beast.”
“Perhaps she is sae protected because she’s your brother’s daughter?” Loth asked.
Mórgana swore. “Blood has nothing to do with it. Merlin has no relation to the two warriors standing there, but they are protected as well.”
“What . . . what are those warriors waiting for?” Mórganthu asked, his question ending with a wheeze and a cough.
“They await in futility to attack my servants, the Picti,” Mórgana said, returning the fang to the safety of its sheath.
Mórdred peered eagerly into the orb. “Have they finally broken in?”
“I do not know, but even if the Picti fail to break down the doors and smite the inhabitants, the flames will devour them more surely than the moon can conquer the sun.”
The image in the orb shifted to the Picti below, and Necton Two-Torc, their High King. They heaved the battering ram back one more time and slammed it into the tower doors, which burst and shattered, the right one falling off of its hinge.
Mórgana snapped her fingers as she looked into the orb. “They’ve broken in! They’ve broken into the tower!”
Merlin awoke to Arthur’s hand pressing his shoulder. The slanting rays of the sun blinded him, and the camp stirred with the sounds of breakfast.
“’Morning. Did you get good sleep?” Arthur asked as he turned to wake Dwin.
Merlin stood and stretched his legs. “None worth mentioning.”
“So what do we do? You never answered me yesterday. I’m out of ideas.”
“Let’s gather everyone,” Merlin said. “We need a council of war.”
Arthur agreed, and the word was spread throughout the camp that anyone could come share his opinion. At Arthur’s direction, several fallen logs were placed in a circle near the center of the camp, and the men selected five warriors to represent them, though all were allowed to speak.
Merlin brought his harp concealed in its leather cover — not because he planned to play it, but because he wanted the men to think hard on who he was, and to see his support for Arthur. He positioned himself to Arthur’s right as the leaders sat and the entire camp gathered around to listen.
Merlin scanned their faces. There he saw sadness, anger, curiosity, and hopelessness spread among them, with varying shades of pain. One man had lost his hand and the stump was covered with a stained bandage. Another stood with the help of a crutch. Beyond him was a warrior who had lost an eye. All the men were filthy from many days of battle and they stank of sweat, dirt, horse, and blood. These were the survivors of one of the greatest calamities ever to strike Britain, and Merlin could feel their fear and frustration gathering like a storm — ready to beat upon the rock that was Arthur.
“My fellow Britons,” Arthur said, standing, “for those who do not know me, I came from Rheged with my companions in answer of Vortigern’s call to fight the Saxenow. Many of you have heard that my name is Artorius . . . but that is a false name, and for this I ask your forgiveness. As I declared yesterday, my real name is Arthur, and I am the lost son of High King Uther.”
Murmurs spread, and it was obvious that not a man among them was unfamiliar with Arthur’s declaration at the fortress wall. A bearded man stepped forward, a seasoned warrior wearing grimed scale armor with a notched battle-axe hanging from his belt. His arms were thick, and his bald head shone in the morning light.
“I am Percos mab Poch, and I speak for the rough-blade lads . . . right?” He turned around and raised his arms as the men behind him hooted and jeered. Turning back to Arthur, he spat on the ground and then smeared it into the dirt with his boot. “And we heard yah, an’ have been followin’ ya for the last day . . . But ye can hardly grow a beard yet . . . and where’s the proof? No one here’s heard bone or breath of Arthur in nigh a score o’ years.”
Arthur opened his mouth, but it was clear he didn’t know how to respond.
Merlin stood and raised his voice. “Legends live again,” he said. “They walk among you. Behold the Harp of Britain, which has lain in hiding all these long years!” He unwrapped the instrument and held it before their eyes. None of these men had witnessed his ballad in front of Vortigern.
“I am Merlin mab Owain, heir of Colvarth, the chief bard of Britain and bard to High King Uther mab Aurelianus. It was I who took Arthur away to safety and hid him from the world until he was old enough to reclaim the torc of his father. If any man dares question my testimony or Arthur’s claim to the High Kingship, let him speak.”
But Percos spat again, and this time the glob landed halfway between him and Merlin. “If a piece o’ wood makes you the chief bard, then my axe can make me the high blacksmith!”
The crowd roared in laughter, and the nearest man slapped Percos on the back.
He took another step forward and thrust his chin out. “And how’re we to know you didn’t kill ol’ Colvarth and steal the harp? Maybe you’re the one who killed Uther too!”
The crowd went silent at this accusation until a man to Merlin’s left stood and cleared his throat. He wore a thick leather jerkin, and his face was weathered and lined, centered with a reddish, pitted nose. His long pepper-gray hair was pulled back and tied with a leather thong, and he had a thick sword at his belt.
The man jostled through and found his way to the center of the gathering. He stepped close to Merlin and peered at his face, then he turned to Arthur and did the same. The man’s eyes were watery, and he blinked many times.
Finally, he turned to face the crowd.
“You all know me, for good or ill. I’ve seen each one of you join the war band as fly-catching fools with yer thumbs still in yer mouths. Yes, I’m the eldest o’ you all, and you know that I used to be a war chieftain under our goodly king, but then lost my position when my sight went bad.”
Here some of the warriors smirked, and one of them called out, “You mean you gutted Vorty’s horse wit’ a spear!”
The men laughed.
“Ah, well, sure, but that was a tough battle, and yer changing my tune. What I’m here
to tell ya, you see, is that I was one of the very few in strict confidence with ol’ Vorty, and I know a sight more about him an’ his dealings than anyone else alive. An’ when he took my position away, I threatened to tell all o’ you the truth.”
Merlin began to recognize the man’s voice. Had he heard it somewhere before?
“An’ do you know what ol’ Vorty did? He threatened to kill me. To take my guts an’ feed ’em to his pigs. To poke out my eyeballs and stuff ’em up my nose. Called me a sot, he did!”
“You are a sot, Rewan,” called a voice from the crowd. “So sit down and shut up!”
And when Merlin heard that name, a memory came back to him. Rewan was one of the battle chieftains that Merlin met that fateful day in Uther’s tent . . . so long ago. Rewan had been the bloodthirsty one, and Merlin had recoiled at the man’s advice. Taking a step back, Merlin sat down on a log to give the man room to speak, but part of him shuddered with worry that Rewan might lie.
“Well, I am a sot, but so are you, Tethion, and I’m not going to be quiet anymore.”
Tethion swore, but Rewan ignored him.
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 25