Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral)

by Robert Treskillard

  “Leave my tas alone!” yelled a hoarse, wild voice.

  The beast hesitated, confusion in his wolfish eyes. Then he snarled in rage and spun around, thrashing out with his claws.

  A smirking, determined face poked around the left leg of the beast and ran to Merlin.

  Merlin’s heart pounded in joy and fear at the same time. “Taliesin! How did you — ?”

  “Always hide a knife in your breeches!” he said, and then stabbed the beast in the calf.

  The creature turned again, roared, and swung downward.

  Taliesin ran through the beast’s legs and back toward the wagon, snaking through the wolf-heads who were running forward and launching themselves at the warriors on the boats.

  The werewolf set off after Taliesin, and Merlin yelled to warn his son.

  More screaming erupted from the boats. Merlin’s heart beat out a rhythm of Doom . . . Dead . . . Doom . . .

  He sat up, trembling, and stood. Arthur was still fighting, for he could hear his clear, strong voice calling to the men. He was Merlin’s earthly king, yes, and they would both die together serving their Sovereign, for disaster was at the door, and the door was being ripped from its hinges.

  The time has come for me to die, my King. Make me brave! Make my family brave! Take us to Your kingdom!

  And then he heard a drum sounding from the east.

  Louder now . . . it was a battle drum!

  The sound of thundering horses followed, and Merlin looked up to see a mounted army ride over a ridge and attack the wolf-heads, spears raised and swords slashing. And at their head rode three men — one whom he did not know with red and grayish locks and bronze armor — and two whom he did:

  Peredur . . . and . . .

  Culann!

  A cheer rose from Merlin’s raw throat, and the men on the rafts joined him. The wolf-heads attacking them faltered and were thrown into the water.

  Arthur raised his voice in a shout and ordered the men to shore.

  Dwin yelled, his exuberant voice floating over the battle.

  Five hundred or more horsemen rode through the wolf-heads, cutting them down and striking deeply into their ranks.

  The werewolf left off chasing Taliesin and, howling in rage, grabbed a warrior off of his horse. Swinging him into three others, he slammed them all to the ground.

  Merlin ran, ducking and diving through the chaos, until he reached the wagon where his son had just finished cutting Tinga’s bonds and helping her down. Together the three of them pulled Natalenya underneath where they could hide. Tinga closed her eyes and jumped into Merlin’s arms, sobbing.

  “It’s all right, Tinga . . . it’s going to be all right.”

  “No, ith not. Make ’em go away!”

  The boats landed and Arthur led the warriors in his company up the shore to harry the wolf-heads from that flank. Gogi towered above them all, swinging his iron mace and clouting any wolf-head that came near.

  “Culann!” Dwin yelled. “I knew you hadn’t deserted us!”

  He ran toward his newly returned friend, but the raging werewolf turned, saw him, and leapt. The beast’s arm swung out in a ferocious strike, and Dwin crumpled.

  Arthur screamed as he rushed toward his friend. The werewolf gave an evil, barking laugh as he lifted Dwin by the throat and squeezed. Running past two fallen horsemen, Arthur picked up an ash-wood spear with a sharpened iron tip and charged.

  Arthur had known Dwin for as long as he could remember, but as he closed the distance to the werewolf, the time compressed into flashes of memory: climbing trees; taking their first deer on the same day; throwing each other off of an old, fallen tree into Lake Derwent; learning to tame horses together, to ride bareback, to fight; sharing worries they couldn’t voice to anyone else, talking late into the night about girls; getting to know Culann, who had moved to the valley with his family when they were fourteen.

  “Let him go!” Arthur shouted.

  The beast lifted Dwin up and bit into his side, ripping away a chunk of armor and flesh together. Dwin screamed until his air ran out, and then he kept screaming in silence, his lips writhing in pain — and that was the worst of all for Arthur to see.

  Arthur vaulted forward, anger hot in his veins and rage stretching his neck muscles taut until it felt like they would burst. He smashed the spear point into the werewolf’s left hip until he heard a ripping of fur, skin, and muscle.

  “Die, you demon!” Arthur yelled, twisting the tip and shoving it in deeper.

  The creature bellowed and threw Dwin down upon a large, blood-stained rock, and turned upon Arthur. Clawing outward, he caught Arthur on the shoulder with a glancing blow as Arthur leapt back to dislodge the spear.

  The werewolf lunged forward again, but Arthur ducked to the side, placing himself between the creature and Dwin’s bleeding body. Backing up, his heel bumped the large rock Dwin was laying on.

  The werewolf turned, snarled, and leapt.

  Arthur planted the butt of the spear between the rock and the ground and angled it up toward the monster.

  The creature impaled itself on the spear, the tip sliding in between two muscled ribs on the right side. In a rage it thrashed out and backhanded Arthur across the face.

  There was a jolt as his head snapped to the side.

  The monster’s leering, gnashing teeth — crimson and white.

  The skewed, sharp-tipped moon — dancing in the darkness.

  The spurting chest wound of the werewolf — red and black with gore.

  The world spun and Arthur fell, his hand sliding down the length of the spear.

  The cold and musty gravel of the shore smashed into his face.

  Howling. Shuffling feet. Horses neighing. Warriors shouting. The blare of a battle horn.

  The spear quivered as Arthur tightened his grip, and then the tip fell free of the beast’s chest and Arthur was alone. He pulled himself up to a sitting position, shook his head and spit out a chip of broken tooth, a molar from the upper left side of his jaw. His face felt numb. But where had the creature gone?

  Dwin moaned beside him, and Arthur turned to see his friend reaching out a blood-soaked hand. Arthur took it.

  “Kill the werewolf . . .” Dwin rasped. “No one . . . should die this way.”

  “You’re not dying. Hang on, I’ll wrap you up, you’ll heal, you’ll — ”

  “Arthur . . . ?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take my necklace. My grandfather gave it. Remember me . . .”

  “You keep it. You’re going to heal, see?”

  “Tell my mother I love her. My tas, tell him — ” But Dwin choked on his words and his body fell limp. He wasn’t breathing, and his eyes . . . his eyes . . .

  Arthur shook his friend’s shoulders, but there was no response.

  “No!” Arthur yelled, digging his hand into the blood-soaked pebbles and squeezing them in his fists.

  “No-o!”

  He laid his head on Dwin’s silent chest and wept angry, bitter tears that coursed down his cheeks and into his mouth, wetting his tongue enough to curse the werewolf and all of its bloody kin.

  Arthur closed Dwin’s eyes, and the finality of the act squeezed his heart dry. He then slipped the cord off of Dwin’s neck and placed it over his own. It was strung with the teeth of a wildcat killed long ago on the slopes of Dinas Crag. Dwin had prized it along with the stories his grandfather had told about the hunt.

  But how could Arthur go on without his friend? The impossibility of it smote him. Using the spear to steady himself, Arthur stood and surveyed the battlefield. Victory was at hand. The main body of the surviving wolf-head army was fleeing north at top speed, while a small group of six wolf-heads ran away eastward.

  But the beast wasn’t among either party.

  Arthur looked for his men and saw that all those who had come with him on rafts across the marsh had found horses and mounted: Percos, Neb, Mabon, Tethion, and all the others. All except Gogi, who was stumping slowly toward
the wagon where Merlin sat.

  “Culann!” Arthur called, wiping the tears from his stinging eyes. “Where’s the beast?”

  Culann turned in his saddle, a gruesomely spattered blade in his hand and a look of satisfaction on his face. “South,” he said, pointing along the shore between the mountain and the marsh.

  Arthur must have appeared confused, for Culann scowled. “Toward the village.”

  Arthur finally saw the creature limping urgently away.

  “Chase him! We have to kill him!”

  “No!” Culann said. “I saw what happened to Dwin . . . I’m sorry, but we’re riding after the main force of the wolf-heads.” He kicked his mount forward and followed all the other horsemen.

  Arthur’s face heated up . . . this, on top of Culann running off with the gold, was serious defiance the two would have to settle later. He turned back to see the werewolf disappearing into the darkness. The beast was wailing in pain.

  Arthur looked around, and the only man left who could help him was his father — but Merlin was comforting Taliesin and Tinga, and needed to tend Natalenya.

  Arthur clenched his teeth and set off after the badly wounded beast.

  “Come back!” Merlin called, but Arthur couldn’t stop.

  I will finish this beast. Dwin begged me to do it, and I will, so help me God.

  Merlin jumped up in a panic, torn between following Arthur and tending to the rest of his family. He called after the young king again, but Arthur did not turn. Just then, Merlin heard muffled grunting emanating from the wagon above. He turned to find Caygek and Bedwir still tied up in the bottom. Focused on his family, he had missed them before, so now he slipped their gags off and cut their bonds, explaining to them the need to help Arthur and protect him.

  The two were stiff from having been tied up, so they tried urgently to rouse the horses hitched to the wagon, but found them unresponsive. “Wake up!” Merlin said, patting one on its warm cheek. But the horse’s eyes were closed, and their heads hung down.

  Bedwir set a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “See to your wife . . . we’ll go after Arthur.”

  Merlin locked eyes with him, and then with Caygek. Although these hardened warriors had already survived things that Merlin could only imagine, he saw fear on their countenances: pinched lines at the corners of their eyes and tight lips. But there was also a determination — a steadfastness that Merlin needed right now.

  “I’ll follow as quickly as I can.”

  Caygek nodded, and the two found some discarded spears and ran off into the night on Arthur’s trail.

  Back beside the wagon, Merlin lifted Natalenya into his arms and held her close.

  Her lips were moving, and this little sign of her recovery melted his heart. But he had no time to stay until she awoke. He had to help Arthur, but couldn’t leave his family unprotected.

  Gogi plodded over and dropped his bulk down so that he leaned against the front wagon wheel. He was out of breath, and there was a bloody wound on his left hand, but other than that he was unscathed.

  “Go . . . after tha lad. It’ll take every man . . . to kill it, ya know? I’d go meself, but . . . ah . . . I don’t have the legs for it. So then, I’ll stay here and guard the little ones. I assume this is yar family?”

  Merlin nodded, grateful beyond words.

  “Taliesin . . . stay here with this man, Gogi. He’ll protect you all. The wolves are gone now, but I need you to help him keep watch.”

  “Yes, Tas . . . Where are you — ?”

  “I’m going after your brother.”

  “I’m coming — ”

  “Stay!”

  Taliesin held on to Merlin’s chest and wouldn’t let go.

  “I need you and Tinga to be strong. I’ll be back very soon.”

  Tinga grabbed on to his neck. “Don’t leave, Tath!”

  “Take my dirk, Tal.”

  Taliesin looked up, his face tight and his brows wrinkled in worry. A lone tear hung at the corner of his left eye. “I won’t need it.”

  “It’s yours. Just in case.”

  Taliesin nodded and received the weapon.

  Natalenya stirred and opened her eyes. “Merlin . . .”

  “I have to go, my love. Arthur.”

  “When . . .” She placed both hands on his face and looked into his eyes.

  “Now. I’ll be right back.”

  He hugged her, kissing her on the lips. She coughed, and so he pulled the water bag from his belt and gave her the last few drops.

  Away south, the werewolf howled. He had to help Arthur. Why did he have to choose between those that he loved? He didn’t want to let any of them go. Never. He had thought he’d lost Natalenya, and now she was here, hurt, and needing him. And Arthur, loved as a son, needed him too.

  He pictured Arthur fighting the fell beast in the dark. And what of Mórgana? Bedwir and Caygek didn’t know what they were dealing with . . .

  Merlin closed his eyes, hugged Natalenya one last time, and then set her in Taliesin’s arms. He kissed Tinga on the head even as the little girl clung to her mother, weeping and coughing.

  Gogi stood and held out his mace. “I’m ready ta guard ’em, ya know, so don’t worry.”

  Merlin picked up the spear of a fallen warrior, stood, and backed away. But he couldn’t take his eyes from them.

  A sweet family. Surrounded by darkness. Hiding under a wagon.

  And he belonged with them.

  His whole heart. His whole life. Bone and soul.

  And as he backed into the gloom, he saw them sitting close, so needful, but he had to turn away to save Arthur — whom he belonged with just as deeply — from death at the hands of the werewolf. He dashed off into the night, hardly able to see through his tears, following the shore and hoping he could find Caygek, Bedwir, and Arthur.

  Arthur had no trouble tracking the creature in the moonlight, for its claws had left deep impressions on the trail and its wounds had dripped black blood upon the dry scrub and dirt. But then the path split, and the beast must have been unsure of its direction, for the trail became confused.

  Following the path to the right, he found that the tracks passed a burned-down and overgrown crennig and then ended at the marsh. A set of decrepit docks stuck out into the water, and moss sucked at the rotten boards, many of which hung sadly into the murky water below.

  Without finding any sign of the werewolf on the trail beyond the docks, or on either side of it, Arthur turned back to the crossroads and picked up the beast’s tracks going the opposite direction. These led uphill toward the village of Bosventor, Merlin’s childhood home. Over to the left, on a spur of the mountain, stood a fortress, and though there were a few flickering torchlights upon the ramparts, all was quiet.

  Soon he passed a crennig whose walls had fallen in and whose thatch roof lay broken and torn. In fact, at least half of the crennigs he passed had been destroyed, perhaps by something more deliberate than decay. In Merlin’s stories of his growing-up years, the place had been a bustling village. This seemed nothing like that. The path was little trod. Weeds overran the gardens, where the little plots remained at all. Field walls had tumbled down.

  Arthur ran faster now, and the path turned downhill toward a distant road. The blood of the beast had poured more freely here, for it left a near continuous trail, scraped and spattered as it was by its right foot, which appeared to be dragging.

  The werewolf howled ahead, not far off, and Arthur heard a crennig door creak open to his right. Two men stepped out. One of them was balding, and he held an oil lamp and a jagged iron shovel. The other grasped a poker. They both looked around fearfully.

  “It’s a werewolf!” Arthur called to them. “Gather help!”

  “Where’s it runnin’ to?” the balding man asked.

  Without stopping, Arthur answered, “Across the road!”

  “It’s goin’ after the sheep an’ goats!” the younger said.

  As Arthur raced away, he heard the two men rai
se the hue and cry among whatever villagers remained. More crennig doors opened and men gathered on the path behind him. He crossed the road, sighted the trail of blood ending at a stone-stacked pasture wall, and vaulted over it to pick up the trail again. Eastward the creature had run, and Arthur set off after it, now nearly out of breath. Ahead of him lay a large crennig, and to its right came the frantic bleating of sheep. Heedless to the clumps of dung, he followed the trail of claw marks.

  A scream, not human.

  Arthur tightened his grip on his spear and dashed toward the sound.

  And there was the werewolf, holding a young sheep. Before Arthur could get any closer, the beast had slain the sheep and was swallowing great hunks until the blood stained his snout, neck, and finally ran down his chest to drip on the broad slab of granite under the creature’s feet. On the slab lay a black stone about three feet wide with a long metallic object protruding from its center — a beautiful sword. The blade was long and gray, and it had a hilt and pommel of golden bronze with inlays of red glass.

  Arthur drew a sharp breath. This wasn’t just any stone . . . This was the Stone, the very Stone that Merlin had told him about in all the old tales. Which meant this was the sword Merlin’s father had made for Uther. The last true sword of the High Kingship.

  But the stories of Merlin’s youth would have to wait, for the werewolf saw Arthur now and threw the sheep’s body down as it swallowed its last bite. The beast’s menacing gaze never left Arthur, though, and it seemed as if there was a strange recognition in the beast’s countenance — perhaps it remembered Arthur was the one who had injured it.

  Arthur stepped forward, spear ready.

  The beast stepped off of the granite slab, its left leg shaking and weak. Blood still poured from its chest wound, but the injury did not stop the beast from swiping out with its deadly claws.

  Arthur shifted his spear toward the beast’s hand and sliced into it. Then, while the creature was recoiling, Arthur lunged in with the tip pointed at its gut.

  But the werewolf was still quick enough to evade the blow and swiped at Arthur.

  Ducking, he jabbed the spear blindly upward and heard the beast howl.