The Merlin Chronicles: Box Set (All Three Novels)

by Daniel Diehl

  “God, I’m hungry.”

  “Ah. Subadie packed us some bread, cheese and cold meat. Would you like some?”

  Jason twisted around as far as he could, staring at Merlin out of the corner of one eye. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. I had forgotten about it until you mentioned it. He gave it to me while you were packing. He said there would be no place to eat on the road and thought we might get hungry. It seems he was right and it would probably do us good to eat something.”

  “Oh, God, yes. Where is it?”

  “In a cloth bag behind the front seat. Can you reach it?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find it.”

  As they sat shivering in the cold and dark, eating the last of their food, Merlin began to reminisce. “When I was a young man, studying for the priesthood, I was often sent out to visit anchorite monks - hermits who lived in caves and stone huts. Some of them lived in the same hut for forty or fifty years. Most of the huts were so crudely built there wasn’t even any mud chinking between the rocks to keep out the elements. In the summer the wind drove the rain through the cracks and in the winter the snow blew in, drifting across the floor.”

  “It’s amazing they could survive for weeks, let alone decades. How did they manage?”

  “Some of them didn’t. But back then, Christians had an unshakable, almost childlike belief that God would protect them for as long as they continued to be of service to Him. I suppose it was their faith that kept them alive; that and sheer hard-headedness.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you were very tempted to join them.”

  “I never believed mortification of the flesh was the most enlightened road to salvation. Physical discomfort can be endured when necessary, and faith helps a person endure it, but personally, I would rather avoid discomfort whenever possible.”

  “You survived fifteen hundred years in a glass ball.”

  “True, but it was necessary. Now, being here is necessary. We can certainly survive one night.”

  “You sound pretty sure we’ll get out of this.”

  Merlin brushed the crumbs of bread off his thick fur coat and snuggled down against the back of the seat. “I’m sure because I have faith that we still have work to do.”

  Within minutes, Jason could hear the old man’s breathing take on the easy rhythm of sleep. But for him, there was no sleep. Cold and shivering, he watched the minutes and hours crawl by on the luminous dial of his watch. With each passing hour the temperature in their metal chamber dropped a few degrees. Shortly after three o’clock, with teeth chattering and fingers numb, he too, drifted into sleep, muttering a silent prayer that it would not be his last.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Morning in the desert is announced by a cold, hard light creeping across the landscape, melting from rusty brown to pink, finally taking on the hard edged yellow of the sun. On occasion, things other than light creep through the early morning. This was one of those mornings.

  Had either Jason or Merlin been awake and outside the Land Rover they would have seen four tiny shapes moving towards them from the far-off horizon. As the shapes drew nearer, their outlines solidified. Four Mongolian nomads mounted on short, shaggy steppe ponies were on some early morning mission when one of them caught the reflection of the low, morning sun glinting off the windows of the nearly obscured Land Rover. Standing in his saddle for a better look, he called to his companions while urging his horse from a slow trot to a full gallop. As they neared the exposed side of the car, the riders dismounted and ran toward the wreck. Walking cautiously toward the car, the first rider stepped gingerly; checking the loose soil to be sure it would hold his weight. When he was satisfied, he leaned across the side panel, peering into the depths of the vehicle through a sand-etched window.

  “Hey.” The man banged on the window with an open palm. “Hey. You in there, are you alive?”

  The banging and shouting roused Jason almost instantly, but he was confused. There was a window under his feet and the floor of a car at his side. Where was he?

  “Hey, hey.” More urgently now. “You people hurt?”

  Fully awake now, Jason looked up, let out a sigh and waved his arms above his head. “Open the door.”

  Two of the Mongols heaved the door open sideways and one of them stuck a broad, smiling face down into the car.

  “What happened? Are you alright?”

  Roused by the commotion, Merlin waved a hand, attempting to hoist himself to a sitting position while Jason spoke to their rescuer.

  “We went off the road in a sand storm, but I think we’re ok.”

  “Can you get out of there on your own?” The face in the door asked with a look of concern.

  “I’m ok, but my friend is very old. Help me get him out.”

  “Can he stand?” But by the time the question was out of the man’s mouth, Merlin was already hoisting himself to his feet. Fortunately, Merlin was tall and the old Land Rover was narrow, allowing his head and shoulders to protrude above the doorframe. With Jason lifting him from the waist and two of the men grabbing him by the armpits, Merlin was soon helped down the slippery side of the car and onto solid ground. Almost before he took his first steps, Jason heaved himself through the door and stood next to him.

  Nervous and solicitous, their rescuers patted them and stroked them reassuringly, all asking questions at the same time. While Merlin held gratefully to the arm of one of the men, Jason dealt with the questions. Raising a hand for quiet, he spoke to the man who seemed to be in charge.

  “Thank you for helping us. I think we’re ok now, but I am concerned about my friend. As you can see, he is old and a night in this cold can’t have been good for him.”

  “Of course. Come with us to our camp. It is only a few miles from here. Over there.” The man pointed toward a faceless horizon.

  “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

  “In the desert, one learns to depend not only on oneself but on others as well.”

  Jason laid a hand on the man’s shoulder as he and Merlin followed the four to their horses. While two of the men mounted, the other two helped first Merlin and then Jason, climb into place behind the riders. Minutes later, they were trotting into the desert, the morning sun warming their backs. Exhausted, stiff with cold, and thirsty, the only thing Jason could think about was the heady smell wafting back from the man seated in front of him. He must not have bathed in a month.

  An hour later, the Mongols and their guests approached a cluster of yurts situated on a withered plain near the fringe of the Gobi. Near the camp a mixed herd of yak, goats, sheep and horses grazed on coarse, brown winter grass. As the riders headed toward their camp, first one raised voice was heard, then another, and soon a group of men, women and children were running out to meet them. One of the riders shouted orders to those on the ground. While some of the crowd helped Merlin and Jason dismount, others ran toward a large, heavily decorated yurt at the center of the camp.

  Merlin and Jason thanked everyone profusely as they were led to a roaring campfire in front of the largest yurt. One of the women poured cups of tea, motioning them to sit near the fire and warm themselves. The unwarranted excitement of strangers in camp seemed to draw the entire tribe to the fire pit. Looking around, Jason was struck by the brilliance of their clothes. Heavily padded against the biting winter wind, the tunics of both men and women were dyed in brilliant primary colors; dark blue, rich ochre and bright red-orange, each trimmed in fanciful embroidery. While the women’s skirts were of the same material as their jackets, the men almost universally wore heavy leather trousers as protection against the rigors of long hours spent in the saddle. As he sat shivering, trying to warm himself and taking in his strange surroundings, Jason’s attention was drawn toward the big yurt. Like a wave, the crowd of people parted to admit the figure emerging from the door flap.

  Striding toward the fire, the man stopped directly across from Jason and Merlin, crossing his arms across a massive barrel chest. In his
early middle years, he wore his graying hair long and greased into plaits. Like most Mongols, he sported a moustache, but rather than hanging down in the mandarin style, his was neatly trimmed and his golden-brown skin had taken on the texture of old leather common to everyone who spends their life exposed to the elements. Jason could not help but notice that although he was going soft around the middle, the man’s arms, left exposed to the winter wind, were hard and bulging with muscle.

  “I am Gumolin. These are my people.”

  Jason cast a nervous glance toward Merlin, assuming that as the elder of the two he would be expected to do the talking for both of them. Merlin obviously had the same thought. “I am Merlin and this is my friend Jason. We are most grateful to your men for rescuing us.”

  Evidently satisfied that the demands of courtesy had been met, Gumolin unfolded his arms and smiled at the newcomers. “You must be exhausted from your ordeal. Do you know how lucky you are to be alive? The desert is an unforgiving and perilous place even for those who spend their lives in it, and you are obviously strangers to the Gobi.” He paused and drew a deep breath before continuing. “Now you must be hungry, so you will be fed and then we will find a place for you to rest. As long as you are here you are my guests and will remain under my protection. When you are rested we will meet again. Then you must tell me your story.”

  Without waiting for their reply, Gumolin turned and returned to his tent, leaving his weary guests to the ministrations of his people.

  * * * *

  The smell was horrendous. Heady, cloying and greasy, it was strong enough to bring Jason up from sleep, coughing and gasping for air. Rubbing his eyes to clear his vision, he tried to focus on his surroundings. The first thing he saw was a shaft of light filtering through a circular hole in the center of the ceiling. Now he remembered. He was in a yurt.

  Built like a round tent supported by stout poles and a latticework frame, the yurt’s walls and ceiling were insulated against the fury of the Mongolian winter with a thick layer of yak-hair felt. Turning toward the wall, Jason inhaled. Wet yak hair; that was the smell, and it permeated the entire world of the nomadic Mongolian. Rising to take in his surroundings, Jason thought if you could just get rid of the stench, a yurt wouldn’t be such a bad place. Fifteen or more feet in diameter and nearly as high at the peak, the tent was spacious and, although the only interior light drifted down through the smoke-hole, the support poles were brightly painted in red with yellow designs. Along the walls bright fabric panels added splashes of color. It was all very snug and homey.

  “Merlin. Merlin, wake up.” Jason nudged the old man’s shoulder until he snorted, turned on his side, and opened his eyes.

  “I told you we’d survive the desert. How do you feel?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Now, yes. But I admit I was pretty scared in that Land Rover.”

  “Be brave, Jason. There may be far worse things to face before this is done.”

  “I know. This is just all so new to me; chasing after bad guys, and all. How do you feel?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  “I was worried about you this morning. You didn’t say much when Gumolin’s men pulled us out of the wreck.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but like the early monks, I will survive so long as I have work to do.” Merlin sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “But we’re still a long way from solving our little problem and we’re losing time. I think we should be out and about.”

  “I’m almost dressed. I’ll see you outside.”

  “Find Gumolin so we can thank him properly before we ask him to pull our car out of the sand.”

  “Good idea. I’ll meet you outside.”

  The sun was now slightly past perihelion, so Jason assumed they had been asleep for three or four hours. It wasn’t long, but the rest had done him wonders. Walking toward the central campfire he saw the old woman who had given them blankets and tea. At the moment, she and a young girl were turning a spit on which two goats rotated.

  “Excuse me.”

  The woman looked up, a wide, nearly toothless grin spreading across her broad, flat face. “You feel better now?”

  “Yes. Much. Thank you.”

  “Then Gumolin will wish to see you.”

  “I was going to ask where I could find him.”

  The woman pointed toward a small chorale in which several men were examining a hairy steppe pony. “You can find him over there. You will know him?”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

  “Here. Wait.” She called as Jason started to walk away. “Two cups of tea. One for you and the other for Gumolin. It will help warm you.”

  Jason accepted the tea with a smile and a nod and strolled across the encampment toward the corral.

  “Ah.” Gumolin looked up from the fence where he watched three men saddle-break a young pony. “The young western gentleman has recovered from his adventure then? It is Jason is it not?” He pronounced the name so it sounded like “Jai-soon.”

  Jason offered a tiny bow and handed the chieftain a steaming mug of tea.

  “All recovered. And thank you for remembering my name.”

  “To be a good leader, you must remember many things.” He said, accepting the tea with a nod. “Names are among the most important tools of the diplomat. They allow us to identify both our friends and our enemies; both of which are equally important.” He raised his gaze over Jason’s shoulder and stared toward the camp. “And where is your friend...Merlin is it? Is he well?” Extra emphasis on Merlin’s name demonstrated that neither of their names had been forgotten.

  “He’s better now. He’ll be along in a minute.”

  “He is very lucky. The desert can kill an old person in minutes.”

  “I know, I was worried about him, but I think he’ll be fine.”

  “Good. Then the two of you must come to my yurt and tell me your story before the feast.”

  “Feast?”

  “Of course.” Gumolin smiled and rubbed a hand across his thick stomach. “We have so few visitors here; we cannot let the occasion pass without offering our hospitality by sharing good food, airag and kumis.”

  Jason wanted to get on the road as soon as possible but it would hardly do to insult their hosts, particularly when they still needed their help. To that end he smiled, nodded and said “You’re very kind. Umm. I don’t know the words you used - what were they - airag and kumis. What are they?”

  Gumolin grinned an evil, secret smile but only muttered “they are a central part of the Mongol way of life and tradition. You will learn. You will learn.”

  Soon Jason and Merlin were explaining how they ended up stuck in a sand trap, carefully editing out any references as to why they were on the Chinese border. Gumolin nodded and scratched his head. “Sandstorms are very strange things. Sometimes they sweep across hundreds of miles of desert, sparing nothing in their path and at other times they are quite localized. It is odd that for the intensity of the storm you describe, we experienced nothing here. Still...” He looked up, shrugged and smiled. “There is no explaining the ways of nature.”

  Rising to his feet, Gumolin placed his hands in the small of his back and arched his stomach forward. “Now,” he said with the air of a man not used to having his orders questioned, “you must watch my men display their skills before we go to the feast.” Stepping through the door of the yurt, he turned back, adding, “My people were once mighty warriors, you know. We may not be as feared as we were in the glorious days of the mighty Khans, but I think we can still impress you.”

  In a field beyond the furthest edge of camp a light, three-sided tent had been erected as a windbreak. Inside were piles of cushions. Gumolin sat in the center and indicated that Jason and Merlin were to sit on either side of him. Nearly a hundred yards across the barren field a series of poles had been driven into the ground; on top of each pole was a small, round bull’s-eye no la
rger than a dinner plate. As the three men settled into the cushions, twelve of Gumolin’s followers appeared at the far end of the field, brilliantly dressed in native costume and wearing a conical helmet with cheek flaps. Each man was mounted on a fat, shaggy pony and held a short, recurved bow in his left hand. On one side of their saddle was a quiver of arrows and on the other a rifle was tucked into a saddle holster. Waving an arm in an expansive gesture toward the field, Gumolin proceeded to explain what they were about to witness.

  “Long before the time of the Great Khan, even before your Greeks held their first Olympic games, we had the Naadam. Once each year our warriors still come together from all across Mongolia to show off their fighting skills and compete for honor and prizes. The Chinese tried to stop us, the Russians tried to stop us, first under the Czars and then under the Communists, but none of them could. Now we hold the Naadam so all the world will know we remain a free people. Today, you will be honored to see them practice. But first, you must share a drink with me.”

  Gumolin reached behind his cushion and dragged out a wineskin so large it must have been made from an entire goat, followed by three small, crude pottery cups. He squeezed a full measure of watery white liquid into each one. The first was handed to Merlin, the second to Jason and, laying the wineskin against his knees with a reassuring pat, Gumolin picked up the third and raised it slightly. “Gumolin welcomes his friends to his camp. Drink.” And he upended the contents of the cup down his throat.

  Merlin lifted the cup to his lips, sipped gently, nodded and took a large gulp with a satisfied sigh. Having watched the other two Jason lifted the cup gingerly to his lips. First he gagged. Then he choked. The slimy, bitter drink came back up his throat nearly as fast as it had gone down. His cheeks swelled as his palate and stomach rejected the offering. Only with the greatest effort did he manage to keep from spitting it onto the ground. When he finally forced it down and wiped the tears from his eyes, he realized Merlin and Gumolin were on the edge of hysteria.