The Merlin Chronicles: Box Set (All Three Novels)

by Daniel Diehl

  “You mean something about Greek myth or the Styx or that something-dune place you were talking about with Mrs Rainbird or something else?”

  “No. Something else entirely.” Swiveling his head owl-like, he muttered to himself, “This place is…something.”

  “The Styx?”

  “No.” Merlin jabbed one finger toward the slimy ribbon of water at his feet. “This particular river.” For nearly fifteen minutes Merlin walked back and forth along the muddy bank of the dark river in silence while Jason and Beverley stood against the wall, allowing him space to be alone with his thoughts. Finally, shaking his head in frustration; “I’m sure it will come to me if it’s important enough.”

  Having given up, he walked away from Francis Dashwood’s pretend River Styx and toward the tunnel down which they had come.

  “Come on. I’m finished here. Let’s go to the airport and find a drink. I’m parched.”

  Chapter Eight

  Brother Jerome had been leading the boy along the broken remnants of the old Roman road for nearly a month. Their journey had begun deep inside Wales, where there were no roads, and taken them across nearly seventy miles of near wilderness, finding shelter at night in hollow logs and beneath rocky overhangs to avoid the worst of the intermittent drizzle, the occasional downpour and the many night-hunters – both four legged and two legged - that sought easy prey after the sun disappeared. From a local fisherman Brother Jerome had bartered the use of one of the strange, round boats the Welsh called coracles to ferry them across the Severn Estuary in exchange for blessing the fisherman’s wife who was heavily pregnant and desperately ill. Jerome and the boy had stayed with the couple for three days until the women’s pains became too much to bear and she died delivering a sickly baby boy who followed his mother into God’s arms within hours. Jerome baptized the dying child and said holy offices over both of the deceased before taking his leave, promising to tie the coracle securely on the opposite bank of the Severn.

  Once inside the kingdom of the Britons the monk and the boy stopped at the old Roman town of Aquae Sulis, which the Britons called Vaddon but would eventually be known as Bath. Here they worshiped and rested before taking what was left of Akeman Street on their way to Verulamium and the monastic school where the boy would be taught to read and write Latin and Greek and study the scriptures in preparation for becoming a novitiate and eventually taking holy orders. In his eight years as a priest and scout for Holy Rood School, this was the seventeenth child Brother Jerome had brought safely to God and the light of an education. But over the last few years, as the Saxon soldiers flooded into the British Isles from the lands of the Franks and the German tribes, the passage through the southern kingdoms, had become ever more dangerous. The larger towns still remained relatively safe but the open countryside had become a constant battleground between warring factions of Britons, Picts, Scots, Welsh and the newcomers - the fierce Saxons and their allies, the Angles. As always, the conflict revolved chiefly around land but those who clung to the old religions seemed to take a particularly macabre joy in capturing and torturing those who followed the way of the Cross.

  Jerome would have made it to the safety of Verulamium and Holy Rood School much sooner but the small legs of a nine year old child are only capable of traveling ten or twelve miles a day. Fortunately, this particular journey had proven relatively uneventful and they were only two days from their destination when Jerome inadvertently stayed on Akeman Street at a point where it ventured too close to the still-smoldering ruins of a hill village. Even as he realized the danger he was in, and frantically began pulling the child into the dense forest and bracken on the northern side of the old roadway, seven heavily armed Saxon mercenaries, wearing bronze helmets and leather breastplates, came storming around a bend in the road and seized them.

  After beating the defenseless Brother Jerome mercilessly, the angry looking soldiers dragged the terrified boy and the priest up the side of the hill to the site of a collapsed stone tower standing at the edge of the burned-out ruins of the village. There, they threw their prisoners face down in the dirt before a cluster of men who were arguing amongst themselves.

  “Is this a Christian boy-child?” asked a hard, cruel looking man wearing an ornate bronze breast plate.

  “Yes, lord Vortigern,” the battle scared sergeant of the guard answered, raising his right arm in a stiff Roman salute. “He was traveling in the company of this Christian priest when we took them, therefore he, too, must be a Christian.”

  “Do what you will with me, but if you have any mercy in you then let the boy go.” The priest was obviously frightened but refused to allow his fear of death to weaken his vow to protect the innocent. “He is only nine years old and cannot be your enemy. If you seek the death of Christians then kill me, just let him go.”

  “Oh, have no fear, priest. I will, indeed, kill you...and then I’m going to kill the boy. I will do anything necessary to complete my fortress.” Vortigern turned to one of the men he had been arguing with when the guards first approached. The man was dressed in a long, filthy, white robe and carried a tall, ornately carved staff of yew wood in one hand.

  “So, druid, do you still believe that if we make a blood sacrifice of a virgin, Christian boy I can complete the construction of my fortress without it collapsing yet again? Consider your answer carefully; your miserable life depends on its accuracy.”

  The druid priest, although trying his best to sound confident, was obviously terrified. “I do, lord Vortigern. Since you have chosen to invade the land of the Britons and drive out the Christianized Romans who stole our land and killed our priesthood, the gods are becoming angry that they have not gotten their due share of Christian blood. And the blood of sexually innocent children always makes a more pleasing and powerful sacrifice than any other kind.” From his vantage point on the ground, the terrified boy could see the druid's knees quivering beneath his dirty robes.

  “This had better work, you sniveling piece of horse crap”, Vortigern snapped at the old druid. “It took me nearly a week to subdue this miserable hill-village...what was its name again?”

  “Haeferingdune, my lord,” said the sergeant.

  “...this miserable Haeferingdune; just so I could have a viable site for my fortress, and now the accursed thing won't stand. Three unworkable solutions - three dead druids. If this doesn't work…” Vortigern's eyes burned a hole through the priest's quaking heart, “you will be number four. And believe me, your death will be so slow, and so exquisitely excruciating that it will take weeks for you to die and every single minute will seem like an eternity. Do you understand, druid?”

  “Yes, my lord Vortigern. I understand.”

  Finally, the boy raised his head from the ground and turned his piercing, electric blue eyes toward the ruins of the tower for a long moment before he spoke. “The druids can't help you build your tower because they don't understand why it keeps collapsing.”

  “What did you say, boy?” Vortigern shifted his furious countenance from the Celtic priest to the skinny child at his feet.

  “I said; your druids can't help you because they don't know why the fortress keeps falling down.”

  “And you do?”

  The boy hoisted himself to his knees and stared up past the shining breastplate and directly into the war-hardened face. “Yes.”

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Myrddin Emrys ap Morfryn.”

  “You’re Welsh, then?”

  “Yes, I’m Welsh, just like you, Lord Vortigern.”

  Vortigern’s eyes flew open in surprise, driving his eyebrows nearly into his hairline. “Oh, so you know who I am, do you.”

  “I do. I also know that you have usurped the thrones of the rightful high kings of Wales and that you take the evil Saxons as your allies in order to make war on your own people as well as on the Britons and the Picts.”

  “A brave mouth for a boy about to die.”

  “If I am about to die then I have
no reason not to be brave.”

  “So tell me, brave young Myrddin Emrys ap Morfryn, why is it that my tower keeps falling down?”

  Knowing that he had everyone's undivided attention, Merlin stood up and cast a quick, hard look at the old druid before turning his attention back to Vortigern. “Beneath the hill of Haeferingdune are a series of caverns. And through the deepest of these there runs a river...”

  Vortigern held up a hand to silence the boy, and turned to one of the other men standing near him. “Are there caves beneath this hill, master builder?”

  “Yes, my lord. They are old mines, but they are deep enough and solid enough that they pose no danger of subsidence.”

  “Go on, boy.” Vortigern was both fascinated and impatient, tapping his foot restlessly.

  “Near the river there is a great chamber in which live two dragons...”

  “Did you say dragons?”

  “Yes.”

  Vortigern roared with laughter, choking out his words. “This boy is touched by the moon goddess. He believes in dragons. Is this what your Christian religion teaches you; superstitions and fairy tales?”

  “No. It is what my vision teaches me, and it is the truth.”

  “This is amusing. So, tell me about these 'dragons'.”

  “I see a red dragon and a white dragon. They will come forth in fire and blood, destroying the land and its people. Eventually the red dragon, if it is not stopped, will devour the white one and everything else along with it.”

  “And now you are going to tell me that the red dragon is Wales, yes?”

  “It is a usurper who shall rise from among the Welsh; like you, but not you. It is one who is yet to come to power.”

  Vortigern laughed and shook his head in amazement. “This boy has a wondrous imagination and his story amuses me but, unfortunately, I already have a storyteller and I also have much work to do. Master builder, send some men to find this river inside the caverns if, indeed, it exists, then sacrifice the Christian priest to whatever gods the druid thinks might be protecting it. And bring a trough of mortar and bleed this whelp's life blood into it. That should appease the gods and allow me to finish my fortress in peace.”

  “And may I sacrifice the boy's lifeless body to the water god, lord Vortigern?” The druid's eyes and voice were anxious for this blood sacrifice which would surely endear him both to the gods and his liege lord.

  “Yes, yes. Do whatever you want with the carcass.” Vortigern strode away in the company of his chief builder, leaving Merlin and Brother Jerome to the mercy of the shaman and the Saxon warriors.

  The druid smiled and turned to the sergeant. “Take the priest to the caves. Kill him at the edge of the river, drain his blood into the water and bury him on the river bank. Bring the boy with me to the construction site.”

  Ten minutes later, the old Celt had Merlin's head stretched across a tub of mortar. Chanting softly, he raised the bronze knife and plunged it into the soft flesh at the side of the boy's neck, holding the thrashing child tightly so not one drop of blood missed the trough beneath him.

  The last words Merlin’s dying ears heard were, “Take the body to the lake and throw it in.”

  Later, much later, Merlin awoke. As full consciousness began returning, he realized he was wet and shivering from the cold. He was on his back, on the ground, and his head was resting in the lap of a young woman.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Vivian.”

  “I'm called Myrddin.”

  “Yes, I know who you are.”

  “Do I know you?” The boy could not remember ever having met the woman and his brow knitted in confusion.

  “Of course you do, silly, or at least you will. I can't seem to remember which.”

  “I don't understand.” Merlin raised his head enough to look around. He and the delicately blond young woman were on the rocky shore of some sea. Out in the water, in the middle distance, he could see an island.

  “What happened to Brother Jerome? How did I get here?”

  “Don't you remember?”

  “No.”

  “That’s probably just as well, but I’m afraid your friend won’t be back for you.”

  “Where did he go?”

  Vivian shrugged silently and then added. “Where were you going, Myrddin?”

  “We were going to the church school in Verulamium. I was to enroll there to become a priest. But if Brother Jerome is gone, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to get to Verulamium by myself. Should I go home?”

  “No. I don't think you would be welcome there anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “You are no longer like the others of your kind. You never really were, but you are even less so now.”

  “What does that mean?” Merlin was both confused and slightly frightened. Rather than answering his pleading question, Vivian only shrugged again.

  “So where do I go?”

  “I will find someone who will help you complete your journey to your school.”

  Merlin surveyed his surroundings again, rubbing his hand over his soggy thatch of hair. “How did I get here?”

  “It doesn't matter. Don't think about it. When you need to remember, you will. At the moment, it is enough to know that you are safe and well and have work to do.”

  The young woman gently lifted Merlin's head from her lap, rose, took his cold little hand in hers to warm it, and walked from the shore toward the road in search of someone to guide the boy back on his way.

  * * *

  “Jason. Jason, WAKE UP.”

  Merlin pounded frantically on the door to Beverley and Jason’s room. While Jason’s sleep-clouded brain tried to decide whether the banging sound was thunder or gun fire, Beverley was already on her feet and climbing into her jeans. By the time she pulled the door open Merlin was pacing back and forth in the hallway like a small child frantic to be taken to the toilet. His hair and long beard were completely disarrayed from sleep and his eyes were wide and staring.

  “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m so sorry to have disturbed you, my dear, but I’ve just had an epiphany. Vivian was right about everything. I have things I need to explain to Jason. To both of you.”

  “What time is it?” Jason’s head appeared over Beverley’s left shoulder, one hand wiping the sleep from his eyes.

  “Almost two-thirty. Merlin needs to talk to us. He says it’s really important.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, children, but this is absolutely urgent.”

  “Ok. It’s almost time to get up any way. I have to be at the airport in two hours. Can it wait till we get dressed?

  “Of course. But please hurry. I need time to explain.”

  Half-an-hour later they had driven the two miles from the Kings Regent Hotel to Heathrow, parked the car, and had taken a table at a too loud, too brightly lit restaurant in the concourse of terminal three. While Beverley got tea for herself and coffee for Jason, an ever-more excitable Merlin walked across the promenade and purchased a tall, double Jack Daniels on the rocks for himself.

  “Breakfast of champions?”

  “I’m overwrought. I need to calm down. Are you ready?”

  Jason looked at Beverley, who nodded her assent as she blew gently across the top of the steaming cup of tea. “Ok, shoot. What’s so important?”

  Merlin launched into a complete account of an extraordinary dream in which he remembered his encounter with the warlord Vortigern and his own death as a child, nearly seventeen centuries earlier.

  “And this all really happened?” By the time Merlin finished relaying his bizarre tale both Beverley and Jason had completely forgotten about their drinks and were staring in rapt attention.

  “Absolutely. I don’t know how, but I had completely forgotten about it for all these years.”

  Beverley nodded in understanding. “People often lose the memories of particularly traumatic events.”

  “And I guess getting your
throat cut is about as traumatic as it gets.”

  “As you say, Jason. But, you see, Vivian was absolutely right. Brother Jerome was taking me to Verulamium and…”

  “Verulamium, that’s the old Roman name for St Albans.” Suddenly realizing where the conversation was taking them, Beverley became so excited she almost choked on her tea. “It can’t be more than twenty miles from West Wycombe. I saw a road sign in the village, yesterday. You very nearly made it, Merlin.”

  “And your friend Vivian saved your life.”

  Smiling weakly, Merlin nodded. “She said we were there together when I was a boy and that it was where the dragons live. She even knew about Vortigern because she said I told the king about the dragons, but I thought she meant Arthur. I think what happened that day is that Vortigern had me killed and she brought me back to life. I’m certain I was quite dead.”

  “She resurrected you from the dead?”

  “Absolutely. And I always thought I was a great wizard.” Merlin shook his shaggy head in sheer wonder at the naiad’s powers. “Be that as it may, all of this proves that I was in that same cave before and that it really is where the dragons come through into our world. I just didn’t remember. I’ve been such a fool.”

  Reaching across the table Beverley laid her hand across one of his, stroking it gently. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Merlin, nobody’s memory is perfect.”

  “Yeah. Take it easy, man. The important thing now is that we know Dashwood’s Hellfire cave is the right place after all.” Looking at his watch, Jason jumped to his feet and grabbed his jacket. “Look, I have to do the security thing and get to the gate or I’m going to miss my plane.”

  “Did you remember your mobile phone and the charger?” In response to Beverley’s question Jason smiled and patted his coat pocket. “Then this time you don’t have any excuse not to call me.”

  Leaning down to give Beverley a last, slow, gentle kiss before shouldering his duffle bag, he whispered. “None at all. Talk to you soon.” As he exited the restaurant and started walking down the concourse, Merlin called after him.

  “The Gnostic book. Do you have it?” Jason smiled, nodded, held up his briefcase and disappeared into the crowd.