by Daniel Diehl
Even seen through the eyes of the security guard, Merlin had no trouble recognizing the layout of The Slaughtered Lamb where he, Beverley and Jason had received such a cold welcome on their first visit to the village. Now, rather than the maudlin, suspicious lunch crowd of a month earlier, the pub was filled with noisy, laughing patrons washing away the cares of the day on a bubbling cascade of alcohol. While the security guards ordered drinks Merlin carefully separated his consciousness from that of Phil and manifested himself in the form of an elderly man in a rumpled tweed suit. To guarantee that the figure did not simply materialize in the middle of the crowded room, he appeared as though he was in the process of exiting the men’s toilet. Staking out a vantage point at one end of the bar counter, Merlin surveyed his surroundings. Careful planning was an essential part of any well-executed plan.
First he scanned the customers lined up at the bar counter, slowly appraising their potential for stirring up mischief. Next, he judged the appropriateness of the customers sitting at the tables lining the walls and finally those standing in the center of the floor as they laughed and chatted amiably. Two or three seemed to offer some limited potential, but nothing really piqued his interest until his eyes came to rest on the group of six youths clustered around the pool table. Three young men and one young woman were attempting to play a game of rotation, but their shots were sloppy, often missing the cue ball entirely. As he counted the number of empty glasses littering the nearby tables and listened to their badly slurred conversation, Merlin decided their performance on the pool table may not have been entirely due to a lack of skill.
While the four at the table were making vain attempts to sink the colored balls into the appropriate pockets, two young women sat at a table piled so high with empty and half-empty glasses that they had to hold their drinks in their hands. One of the women stared blearily at the floor, constantly swearing under her breath while the other chain smoked cigarettes, lighting each new one off the butt of the last before dropping the glowing stump into a beer glass. Eventually, the one who had been staring at the floor heaved herself onto unsteady feet, pausing to collect her balance, and approached a shaven-headed young man with multiple piercings and tattoos who was leaning against the bumper of the pool table, sucking the last mouthful of beer from his pint.
“Buy me ‘nother gin, Bobby. ‘M thirsty.” The girl ground her black sequined halter top into the boy’s heavily tattooed bicep.
Shoving the girl roughly away, he snarled, “Fuck off, ya drunken slag.”
“Aw, c’mon, Bobby, don’ be like that. Buy me ‘nother drink.”
Without saying a word the boy upended his pint glass, allowing the last few drops of lager to trickle onto the girl’s blouse. Finally, while the drunken girl stood open-mouthed, he handed her the empty glass. “Get ‘cher own fuckin’ drink ‘n get me one too.” Before turning back to the pool table he shoved the girl toward the center of the room where she collided with one of the other patrons before managing to regain her balance.
“Woah. Watch yer step, girly.”
“Fuck off.”
As the girl weaved across the room in the general direction of the bar, Merlin knew exactly what needed to be done next. Two miles away from the noise of The Slaughtered Lamb, snuggled down in the cozy warmth of his bearskin coat, Merlin waggled one index finger, leaving streamers of faint, blue light in the air as it wove strange runes in the night.
Like a badly aimed bank shot, the girl careened off of two more customers before slamming into the bar counter, bruising her ribs and dropping her boyfriend’s beer glass into a puddle of beer, sending up a splash of sticky, yellow liquid that clung to her neck and shoulder. Fumbling awkwardly in a failed attempt to right the glasses and simultaneously wipe beer from her body, her hand was pushed aside by the hand of a man wearing a grey uniform.
“Here. Let me help.”
“You a copper?” The girl weaved unsteadily back and forth, finally moving one foot behind her to broaden her wobbly stance.
“No. Private security guard.”
“You’re cute. You want to guard my privates Mister s’curity?”
None too sober himself after his fifth pint, Phil grinned awkwardly.
“Sure. I’ll guard your privates.”
The girl giggled, tried to move toward Phil, stumbled, caught herself and finally elected to remain where she was but grabbed the hem of her sequined halter top and pulled it upward, past her face and over the top of her head with a loud squeal.
“Do me, s’curity guard.”
Phil grinned a gap-toothed grin and reached for the girl’s breasts. His booze-numbed fingers were within a scant inch of their target when the girl was whisked out of Phil’s line of vision and thrown to the floor with a loud shriek. In her place stood a six foot tall youth with a shaven head and piercings across his eyebrows, lips and nose – a nose which was now only three inches from Phil’s face.
“Hands off, fuck head. She’s mine.”
When the boy slammed his fist into Phil’s midriff, Phil doubled over and whirled into the center of the room, leaving ample space for his uniformed companion to land a round-house punch on the boy’s left cheek. With the exception of the boy’s companions from the pool game – all of whom jumped into the brawl with drunken glee - it was impossible to tell who was trying to break up the fight and who was joining in. In a matter of minutes half of The Slaughtered Lamb’s patrons were assaulting each other with fists and chairs, while the remaining half were ducking for cover and scurrying for the door by whatever looked like the safest route at the moment. While the barman vaulted over the bar wielding a cricket bat, his wife frantically dialed 999, screaming at the police operator to send every available car as quickly as possible.
The eighteen arrestees who were led out of the pub in handcuffs, to be bundled into cruisers and two paddy wagons, included all six of the pool players, ten random customers and two men in grey security guard uniforms. Setting amidst the ruins of his establishment on one of the few chairs that remained intact, the publican surveyed the room and shook his aching head, a damp bar towel pressed to his throbbing, bleeding temple.
“It were like they was possessed, sergeant…”
“That’s detective sergeant and how, exactly, do you mean ‘possessed’?”
“I dunno’, sort of like som’thin evil just took over their minds and made the lot of ‘em go half mad. One minute they was all gettin’ quietly legless and the next minute women was pullin’ off their tops an’ the lads was tossing everythin’ they could get their hands on at each other. It were like a bleedin’ war zone in here.”
“Do you intend on pressing charges against the detainees, then, Mr Timson?”
The publican’s jaw dropped in disbelief as he swiveled his head from one side of the room to the other, mentally calculating the extent of the damage. At least three dozen two-liter bottles of expensive liquor lay smashed on the back bar, more than two dozen pieces of furniture lay broken, two windows were shattered, half of the pictures and photos that had decorated the walls were smashed and an incalculable quantity of glassware lay in millions of tiny, sparkling shards that glimmered in the light of a broken, dangling chandelier. Finally, the publican looked back at the detective sergeant in sheer disbelief.
“Sodding right I’m gonna to press charges. I want the bloody book throwed at every one of ‘em.” Almost as an afterthought, he added “And one of them security blokes walked in wearin’ a gun; I made him take it right back out to his motor, so you might bloody well look into that, as well.”
The detective jotted notes in a small notebook before flipping it closed and inserting it and his pen into the breast pocket of his suit coat.
“I think that should be all for now, Mr Timson. You and your wife should try to get some rest. You can come into the station in High Wycombe tomorrow morning and we’ll have you sign a full statement.” The publican squeezed his eyes shut and nodded his head. On his way to the door, the dete
ctive paused and turned back. “Oh, and Mr Timson, if you know anyone who can board-up those broken windows you might want to see to that tonight. Keep out the vandals.”
“Why? What do you think they might do, break in ‘n wreck the place?”
Far from the pandemonium of The Slaughtered Lamb, Merlin smiled to himself and chuckled. Satisfied that the caves would remain unguarded for some time, he pulled himself up from the ground and managed to dust off the rump of his coat before he burst out laughing. After taking a minute to lean against the friendly old oak he shook his shaggy head and walked toward the big steel door that barred the entrance to the Hellfire cave.
The locking mechanism he melted only days earlier had been replaced with a shiny new unit and Merlin laid the palm of his hand flat against the new lock, examining the mechanism with his mind. Opening a lock was slightly more complicated than simply melting one because it was essential that he understand how its internal system worked. Slowly, one at a time, the six metal tumblers fell into place, causing the bolt to retract. At the satisfying ‘thunk’ sound of the bolt withdrawing, Merlin pulled open the door and stepped across the threshold of the cave for the second time in three days and the third time in almost seventeen centuries. As he stood orienting himself, his eye was caught by a tiny flashing red light.
There, about a foot from the door, a small box had been mounted on the limestone wall. On the box were twelve numbered buttons not unlike the ones on the telephone in Jason’s apartment. Above these were two small lights - one green and one red - and it was the later one which was now blinking. Contemplating the object, Merlin recalled the time when he had suggested breaking into Morgana’s office and Jason explained the concept of modern security alarm systems and how they could be triggered by physical movement or by the heat from a human body. Concluding that this must be the control center for such a system, Merlin laid his hand on the box, trying to see how the interior mechanism worked.
Curiously there were no tumblers or other moving parts like the ones inside the lock on the door. Here there was nothing but thousands upon thousands of minute silver lines running across the faces of dozens of small, green cards. He could feel the electrical current running through the system, but how could such a thing function in any predictable way? Realizing that his time to disarm the thing was undoubtedly limited, Merlin merged his mind with the trickle of electrical current, feeling for the place where it could be diverted but was being prevented from doing so. There - in the center of that small board - a switch connected to the numbered buttons on the face of the box. In less than the time it took to blink an eye, a series of minute, electronic switches had been thrown and the red light on the box ceased blinking, to be replaced by the steady glow of the green light.
What a very strange, miniature world these people have created to serve them.
Satisfied that the alarm system would not alert Morgana or her soldiers, Merlin began investigating his immediate surroundings. Inches away from the security alarm a light switch had been mounted on the stone wall. One quick flip and the long, dark tunnel flashed brilliantly to life, making the old sorcerer smile and shake his head at the startling things modern society had produced. Satisfied that he would be safe at least until midday, when the security men now in the local lock-up would undoubtedly be released or replaced, he closed the steel door and re-engaged the lock.
Somehow, the long, narrow tunnel of the cave looked very different than it had when he was here with Jason and Beverley and he had illuminated the inky darkness with dancing orbs of fairy light. Of course, at that point he had not yet remembered what had taken place here so many centuries ago. Now, the tunnel ahead – illuminated by the harsh glare of artificial lighting - seemed not only a place of vast, unspeakable emptiness, but a direct conduit to the far distant past and the nightmare horrors that had been unleashed on Uther’s realm and the surrounding kingdoms. Later, during Arthur’s time, Morgana must have come to this place to strike her unholy bargain with the dragons. Had she somehow contacted them or had they come to her, sensing that she would betray her own kind into their hands? Walking slowly along the first section of tunnel, Merlin could almost hear the rustle of monstrous leathery wings as they scraped along the limestone walls, anxious to break out into the world to begin burning every living thing in sight, sucking up the released energy like obscene, gluttonous banquet guests who, after devouring all the food, ate the table, chairs and finally the banqueting hall itself.
By the time Merlin had drifted past the first bend to the left and on into the small cluster of catacombs jumbled together near the halfway point in the tunnel, he broke out of his reverie and returned to the business at hand. Traversing the web of niches where the ancient dead had once rested, he moved upward, through the short hallway leading into the huge, circular room where Sir Francis Dashwood had entertained his guests and where. More than a thousand-and-a-half years earlier, the boy Merlin had envisioned a scene of two dragons fighting to the death in this very room, snarling and clawing, turning and twisting, around and around, their saber-like teeth slashing and gnashing, until one lay torn and dying at the feet of the other. Now, however, the scene suited neither the fifth century nor the eighteenth; the walls of the room were lined with sleek metal desks, tables and row upon row of electronic equipment, much of which Merlin recognized as having come from Morgana’s library. There, to his right, stood the banks of strange crystals, connected to modern computer terminals and a keyboard. On the wall above, waited the empty space where the brass disk should have been. Merlin could not resist a private smile and chuckle at the thought. Turning one hundred-eighty degrees, on the opposite wall he saw a refrigerator, stove, sink and table, obvious signs that Morgana planned to make this her headquarters throughout the duration of the dragon’s attack on earth and until such time – as she foolishly believed – they would make her ruler over the ashes of human civilization.
Stupid, stupid woman. Merlin shook his head in disbelief.
Peering into the semicircular area behind the kitchen facilities, he found that the small cubicles had been transformed into a sleeping chamber with bed, dresser and other necessities tucked into the alcoves. After all these years Merlin was unsure what amazed him the most, Morgana’s continued ability to plot the destruction of the entire world or her foolish belief that the Dragon Lords would allow her to survive so she could reign over whatever remnants of civilization survived their onslaught.
Exiting the dining hall and reentering the passageway leading toward the triangular divide, Merlin saw, for the fifth time, the strange Roman numerals XXII. Reaching out one hand, he touched the wall, running his finger through the neatly chiseled grooves. As he moved down the long, final stretch of tunnel, in the distance he could hear the murmuring sound of the underground river jokingly referred to as the Styx. In the glare of the newly installed lighting it became clear that the cavern which the twenty foot width of the Styx had carved for itself in the soft limestone was at least a hundred feet long from end to end and about half as large in width and height.
As Merlin stepped out of the tunnel and into the river cave, he craned his head to the right to stare at the last of the enigmatic engravings reading XXII. Turning back to face the fat, sluggish snake of black water, he leaned his back against the cool stone wall and slid slowly to the ground. Coming to rest on the floor, he stared at the murky Styx for a minute before leaning his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and allowing his mind to travel back through the centuries during which he had been his own prisoner in the small blue orb and then, further back, through the decades of his own life to the time when a nine year old boy and a terrified monk had been taken prisoner by a brutal half-German-half-Welch mercenary known as Vortigern. Even after all these centuries he could still hear the grating rumble of Vortigern’s voice.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Myrddin Emrys ap Morfryn.”
Now, he even remembered Vortigern’s excuse for behaving s
o irrationally as to kill a man of God even though it was commonly believed to be bad luck.
“I have an advantage over other men: they think before they act, whereas I always act before I think.”
The statement was as bizarrely irrational now as it had been almost seventeen centuries before, but it served to focus Merlin’s mind on the death of Brother Jerome.
Vortigern’s soldiers had brought him here, inside the cave, to murder him at the edge of the river. They wouldn’t have bothered to ford the river when it would have been so much easier just to kill him on this side. There would have been no reason to bury him, but the natural cycle of flooding would have eventually covered the skeleton with silt. I need to know the things Jerome saw in here. I need to know if he saw the entrance to the dragon’s realm and whether his last moments of vision can lead me to it; and for that, dear brother, I will need your help.
Opening his eyes, Merlin scrabbled to his feet and looked around the area immediately to the left and right of the entrance, trying to put himself in the place of the soldiers. He decided they would have moved a few steps to one side or the other of the tunnel’s end - not too far, just a few feet. The only question was, which way did they go, to the left or the right? After only a moment’s hesitation he decided he would start digging where he was; if he found nothing, he would simply move to the opposite side of the tunnel entrance.
Crouching down on hands and knees and crawling along the base of the wall, he found a flat, dinner plate-sized stone that would serve as a shovel. Crawling back to his starting point, he began scraping away the soft, muddy soil, breaking the surface of the river bank with the rock and scraping the dirt off to the sides. An hour later he was working at the far end of a small trench, two feet wide, two feet deep and now about four feet in length, when the edge of the stone exposed a narrow strip of white. Laying his improvised shovel aside, Merlin dug into the soft dirt with his fingers until the slash of white proved itself to be a femur - a human thigh bone. Enlarging and expanding the grave site, fifteen minutes later the side of a deteriorated skull appeared. Gently cleaning away the wet earth, careful not to damage the fragile find, Merlin reverently lifted the skull out of the soil and stared into the grinning, hollow-eyed face.