Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral)

by Robert Treskillard

  “Loth!” she said. “Tell the warriors to bring the wagon forward.”

  “Is that wise, my queen? They canna do much against Arthur and his men — ”

  “Of course. And afterward you must go to the rendezvous point and hide. The appointed wolf-heads may need to be reminded of their final task. Now do as I command.” And she snapped her fingers.

  Loth bowed and ran off into the dark.

  She leaned against the pine and imagined what would happen, unable to suppress a wild grin at the thought. Her foes had all been such simpletons, hadn’t they? Did they really dream that they could escape the grasp of the all-seeing Druid Queen? She could predict exactly what Merlin would do. For she knew her brother — heart, mind, and soul.

  Oh, yes, it was true that the Voice’s older plans had been thwarted, yet just as he had promised, it only sweetened the final victory tonight and made it more sure. Hah!

  Turning to Mórganthu, she took his hand and patted it. “Go now . . . you and Mórdred must prepare a place for our guest.”

  “But I want to watch,” Mórdred said, creasing his brow.

  “The other side of the mountain is not far, and it is too dangerous for either of you here. We must be ready when the moment arrives, true?”

  Mórganthu nodded. “I know . . . know very little of this moment you speak of, but I will obey.”

  “Do you remember our other guest . . . the one we caught last night? Make sure he has not escaped. This will be the grandest pleasure of all. Loth and I will join you both very soon.”

  “We will do as you say.” Mórganthu bowed and limped off into the night, leaning upon Mórdred and mumbling to the young lad.

  Soon she heard the wagon rumbling from the north. Loth didn’t see her at first, and so she stepped out to meet it. The horses whinnied in dread to be so near the wolf-heads, but Mórgana gave a singsong and stroked their cheeks, putting them into a stupor. Leaving the horses to loll in their sleep, she walked to the back of the wagon where her prisoners lay — tied up and brought here just for this occasion.

  Her army of wolf-heads turned to see what this new thing was, and Gorlas himself, her werewolf, came lumbering over. His claws hung low to the ground, and saliva dripped from his teeth as he sniffed the nearest prisoner.

  “What do you think?” Mórgana asked him. “Shall we make a snack of them?”

  The werewolf looked at her with his wild, agitated eyes and snarled. With one claw, he scratched at the side of the wagon.

  “Not yet . . . and if that time comes, you must only eat a little. You don’t want to be slowed down in the fight, do you?”

  The werewolf roared at her and snapped his teeth.

  “Back!” she yelled. “You have a special task to do. Do you remember it, my Gourvlyth . . . my Gorlas?”

  The werewolf looked at her menacingly, his nose twitching and his fangs bared.

  She reached into the bag at her waist, pulled out her green, glowing fang, and raised it threateningly before him. “Do you need help remembering? At the utter end of the fight, what must you do?”

  At the sight of the fang, he cowered down, nodded, and slowly backed away.

  “Good. And do not forget . . . you must conduct the entire battle exactly as I have instructed you. No matter what happens, you must obey me. And if you do not, I will release Gorlas’s soul from the orb and then you will be thrown out of the world once more. Do you want that?”

  The werewolf shook his head.

  Now it was time for Mórgana to select which prisoner. Ah, what fun. Who should she choose? A warrior? One of the young? They could all serve her purpose, and Merlin would know the truth no matter who she chose. But why not the one prized by both Merlin and Arthur? Yes, the one whom she had failed to slay before.

  Mórgana climbed up into the wagon, found the one she sought, and undid the gag. Natalenya’s long, dark hair had covered her face, and Mórgana pushed it back to reveal defiance set deeply in the woman’s eyes and lips stiff with rage.

  No matter . . . that look won’t last long.

  “You’ll not break me!” Natalenya said.

  Mórgana laughed. “You are so dimwitted — even if you were rather clever at Dinas Crag. You may have escaped from my gullible and fearful Picti by piling diseased bodies on the lower level of your fortress, but you cannot escape me, especially when you foolishly flee to your mother — so close to the center of my power! Know this, ridiculous girl, that I captured you on the shore of Dinas Camlin for an entirely different purpose than you could ever imagine.”

  She untied Natalenya’s legs and arms and lifted her to a standing position within the back of the open wagon.

  “Where am I?”

  “Are your eyes so dull that you cannot recognize the land of your childhood? You are north of Bosventor. Before you lies the marsh, and within it, Inis Avallow.”

  “Those men on the island . . . is that . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Mórgana said, her voice turning sarcastic. “It is your precocious Arthur and your beloved Merlin leading powerful, well-armed warriors. They are ready to liberate these lands, but we can’t let them do that now, can we?”

  Mórgana turned to the werewolf, who was hunched over to the rear of the wagon. “Take this one,” she commanded.

  The werewolf howled in delight and scuffled over.

  Natalenya saw the beast for the first time and screamed.

  Mórgana smiled. Just as she had hoped.

  The werewolf reached for her, curling his black lips and revealing fangs as long as Natalenya’s fingers.

  Natalenya fell backward, screamed again, but then grabbed one of the loose ropes that had been used to tie her up. Standing quickly, she turned on Mórgana, threw the rope over her head, and tightened it around her neck.

  Mórgana was taken off guard. The werewolf should have made the girl cower, twitch, and beg for mercy, but this . . . was . . . unexpected. Natalenya tightened the rope, and Mórgana suddenly found it hard to breathe. She gasped, and tried to twist away, but Natalenya was stronger than she expected.

  “Call your beast off or I’ll kill you.”

  Anger surged in Mórgana, and she shoved a palm into Natalenya’s chin, pushing the girl back. With her other hand, she took out her fang and cupped it in her fingers. It only took a moment for power to pulse within her arm, and then she slammed her fist into Natalenya’s shoulder.

  The girl yelled and collapsed, letting go of the rope.

  Mórgana pulled the rope off of her neck and sucked in a few angry breaths.

  “Take her!” she screamed, her voice raw.

  The werewolf loped forward and scooped Natalenya up.

  The girl struggled against him, beating his chest and kicking furiously until the werewolf opened his maw and roared, his teeth inches from her face.

  Natalenya stopped struggling and began to whimper, barely breathing.

  Mórgana rubbed the rope burns on her neck. “Good,” she said. “You finally see the wisdom in cooperating. And if you give any more trouble, do not expect to see your children alive again. Now take her to the shore and hold her before the eyes of our enemies.”

  Merlin stood beside Arthur on the shore and watched the activity across the marsh. After a period of relative quiet, the wolf-heads had again begun to mill about as if in restless expectation. Arthur raised his arm, ready to give Tethion’s archers the order to fire on the far shore, but Merlin grabbed his elbow.

  “Stop!”

  Arthur turned. The flaming arrows wavered as the archers held their bowstrings taut.

  “There’s a woman in the hands of the werewolf . . . Look!”

  Arthur followed Merlin’s gaze.

  “Is it Mórgana?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Now the woman began to scream for help. Her voice floated across the marsh and pricked Merlin’s ears, swirling inside his soul until, until . . . But what his heart told him his mind contradicted. It couldn’t be, though it had to be tr
ue. He knew the voice too well. And just as recognition dawned on him in a blazing heat — he heard her call his name.

  “Merlin! Arthur! They have the children!”

  His wife! She and the children were alive! And that very truth shocked him more than the startling fact that she was here in Bosventor and in the clutches of the werewolf.

  “Natalenya!” he called, but the word caught in his throat and cut him so painfully that he fell to his knees.

  The werewolf howled, and his massive claws lifted her up. The reality of the situation hit Merlin like a blow to the chest. He had already counted her as dead in his heart, and now to find her alive beyond all hope . . . yet in the hands of his worst nightmare!

  An inner scream began in his heart — ripping, ripping — until his spirit bled and bled and he would stand it no longer.

  “We’ve got to save them!” he yelled as he ran down the shore. Finding a boat left behind by the wolf-heads, he shoved off and paddled furiously out into the marsh toward his wife.

  And the werewolf.

  He would save her or die.

  Merlin paddled with such strength and power that the water churned and flowed as if it were time itself, each flash of wetness passing like a moment, a day, a year, a decade — until all his life slipped away and he was old, old and frail, and his wife was dying before him, now entombed, now dust, a living whisper on the wind-shaped shore.

  God of Abraham, in Your mercy, take our crumbling lives and make us whole.

  Save us, Lord Jesu!

  Save my wife and children.

  Please, don’t let them die.

  Merlin was dimly aware of his fellow warriors following him across the water, and he turned once to see Arthur, Dwin, and others paddling in the forefront of all the serviceable boats and rafts, each one filled with warriors. And there was old Gogi rowing his own boat, and tucked into his white belt was a big iron mace.

  But none of them made any difference. Merlin felt alone in this. And the closer he paddled, the more he saw, and the more he feared. His greatest earthly treasure in the hands of the greatest horror.

  Red, thick fur and rippling muscles.

  Razor, slashing claws.

  Eyes aflame with the fire of hell.

  A tongue ready to taste Merlin’s worthless, yellowed blood, and a throat ready to gulp it down.

  As the cold coils of dread squeezed his heart, his paddle fell slack. His arms useless. How could he fight this beast? How could he save her? He wanted to scream, but his pinched lungs could let out nothing more than a thin wheeze.

  Yet as Merlin looked helplessly upon Natalenya, his hearing sharpened and he heard a voice speaking his name.

  MERLIN . . .

  The world stopped. Nothing moved. A flaming arrow shot from behind hung in the air to Merlin’s left, its flame frozen. The drool from the werewolf hung, floating idly from his teeth.

  The words came again. MERLIN, WHO ARE YOU?

  “I am a warrior,” he said, holding up his dirk. Blood covered the tip, and the wooden handle was cracked, but the short blade felt good in his hands. His father had made it.

  MERLIN, WHO ARE YOU?

  He was confused. “I am a . . . a bard.”

  With persistence, the voice spoke once more. MERLIN, WHO ARE YOU?

  “I am . . . a servant of Arthur, my king.”

  A wind swirled, and when the words came again, they vibrated all around him. MERLIN, WHO IS YOUR KING?

  “Arthur . . . Arthur is my king.”

  The wind became furious, buffeting him, and he hunkered down lest he be blown off the boat and into the water.

  The words came next like a whisper, a still, small voice speaking through the raging winds. MERLIN, WHO IS YOUR KING?

  Merlin closed his eyes. Then he knew. Not only who was speaking to him, but why. He had forgotten, hadn’t he? He had prayed for his family, yes, but it was a cornered kind of prayer, the type you say when you have no hope.

  Certainly all the events before his eyes screamed for him not to hope. Justified him. So few warriors left alive. The powerful and numerous wolf-heads ready to attack. Very few weapons. His wife and his children half a breath away from dying.

  MERLIN, WHO ARE YOU?

  He hesitated, but when he spoke he knew it was true. It had always been true, for he had been chosen. Picked out.

  “I am . . . a servant of the Most High.”

  AND WHO IS YOUR KING?

  “You . . . You are my King. My Emperor. My Sovereign. My Suzerain.”

  AND WHAT DOES YOUR KING REQUIRE OF YOU?

  Merlin knew the answer but could hardly say it, and the words escaped from his throat like jagged fish bones. “It is required that I follow You. Through suffering, to death . . . and beyond to Your feasting hall . . . to Your very throne.”

  BE STRONG AND COURAGEOUS, MERLIN. DO NOT FEAR THE ONE WHO CAN ONLY SLAY YOUR BODY, FOR HE CANNOT SLAY YOUR SOUL. FEAR ME, FOR I HOLD BOTH YOUR SOUL AND YOUR BODY, AND NO ONE CAN STEAL YOU FROM MY HAND.

  The world around him lurched. The arrow hissed, speeding toward a watery grave, the wolf-heads howled, and the water rolled under his boat once more. Merlin paddled then, new strength in his limbs and his dirk ready at his belt.

  As he closed in, he saw more clearly Natalenya’s peril. Her screams had faded now and were replaced by fearful moans as the beast sniffed near her face and licked his dagger-like teeth.

  The wolf-heads had arrayed themselves behind the werewolf, and farther up the bank stood a lone wagon. A light breeze blew at his back, and above him hovered a silent raven that was soon lost in the darkness.

  Merlin propelled himself to the shoreline and leapt on a rock. His dirk was in his right hand and he kept the short paddle in his left for a shield. He breathed heavily and clenched his jaw in seething fury.

  “Let her go!” he yelled at the beast, who stood not five paces away.

  The creature howled, and all the wolf-heads joined him in a barking cacophony. Merlin covered his ears to block it out as the sound fairly shook the air.

  “Merlin!” Natalenya cried, fighting and kicking to get free from the clawed hand. The beast tossed her into his left hand and held her kicking limbs away from his face. With his right hand he extended his claws toward Merlin and roared.

  Merlin ran at him.

  The beast lunged forward, making a swipe at Merlin’s face.

  Merlin dodged to the left side, jabbing into the palm of the clawed hand with his dirk. The blow had come at him so hard, however, that it knocked away his dirk and jammed his wrist.

  The werewolf pulled his hand away and yowled.

  Merlin threw himself toward where his dirk had landed but fell short.

  The werewolf’s razor-sharp nails came down.

  He rolled and tried to block the attack with his paddle as a shield, yet the beast’s claw ripped the wood out of his hand and cut through the scale armor, slicing him. He grabbed the dirk, slashed out at the beast, and rolled up onto his feet. His whole arm hurt now, and even his shoulder felt weak.

  The wolf-head minions advanced now, and three crouched, ready to pounce on him.

  Flaming arrows came hurtling in from the marsh.

  All three beasts barked and screamed, pulling on the arrows that had lodged in their flesh.

  Merlin attacked the beast holding Natalenya just as another volley of arrows flew past. Many wolf-heads went down, and one arrow struck the giant werewolf in the leg.

  “Ready!” Arthur yelled from behind him, and Merlin saw that they had kept their boats just offshore and were using them as platforms for the archers.

  Merlin took his chance and dove, trying to strike a blow to the fur-covered body.

  But the creature yanked the arrow out of his bleeding thigh and flung it, still flaming, at Merlin. The tip of the arrow caught in Merlin’s hair, and the burning rag started to flame up.

  Natalenya screamed.

  Merlin ignored it and dove inward toward the beast. The smell of burn
t hair filled his senses as flicks of flame danced at the edges of his vision. He slammed his head into the creature’s stomach, reached around with his left hand to anchor himself — and stabbed the creature in the side with the tip of his dirk.

  But the beast’s fur was too thick and its skin too tough for Merlin’s weakened arm, and the point penetrated only part way.

  The beast roared and threw Natalenya behind him like a rag doll. Merlin saw her hit the side of the wagon and slump to the ground.

  Now with both claws free, the werewolf grabbed Merlin by the scruff of his armor and flung him back toward the shore so that he landed with his head in the water, extinguishing his hair.

  Coughing and choking, he thrashed to sit up. When he did so, he was alarmed to see a wolf-head launch itself right over him and out into the water. Flaming arrows shot past, and yet more wolf-heads came running toward the shore.

  Merlin turned and saw that Arthur and the others had floated too close, and the enchanted creatures were leaping and landing on the boats, taking the archers down. Roaring and ripping sounds erupted and the warriors began to scream and yell from the boats.

  Merlin stood, dizzy. He still had his dirk but had lost his makeshift shield.

  The werewolf lunged at him with ferocious speed. Merlin ducked, but a claw raked across his chest, piercing his armor, and he was vaulted into the air.

  The shoreline flipped, and Merlin landed headfirst on the ground, making his whole body buzz and colors dance before his eyes.

  He tried to move . . . to sit up . . . to lift his head . . . to do anything, but nothing worked. As Merlin’s eyesight cleared, he panicked to see the werewolf’s face hanging over him, grinning with his white teeth and long, slavering tongue. The beast’s nose twitched and his lips pulled away from his fangs as he opened his mouth.

  The tingling in Merlin’s limbs began to decrease . . . too late.

  The Werewolf picked Merlin up, but then the fearsome face twisted, and the beast howled in pain, throwing Merlin back to the ground.