The Merlin Chronicles: Box Set (All Three Novels)

by Daniel Diehl

  “Babe, I only know two things. The first is that we have to get Merlin out of there no matter what else we do, or don’t do. That is absolutely priority number one”

  When he failed to continue, Beverley prompted him. “And the second thing?”

  The halt in Jason’s dialogue had been prompted by his rising in his seat far enough to shove his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. When he pulled it out, he extended his fist toward Beverley and opened his fingers to reveal the Urim and Thummim.

  “The second thing is that we give him these and hope he knows what to do with them, because I sure the hell have no idea how to lock Morgana’s fucking intergalactic dragon gate with two stupid rocks.” And after a pause, “And, of course, there’s still the other thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “We have to kill Morgana.”

  “Oh.”

  * * *

  Morgana le Fay paced back and forth along the undulating black edge of the River Styx, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides in nervous anticipation. For more than seventeen straight hours she had alternately injected her ancient nemesis with one cocktail of drugs after another, forcing him to divulge certain information that she needed for her plans to unfold in an orderly fashion, and other information she wanted for no reason beyond the satisfaction of her perverse sense of humor. Sometimes she would administer a drug that deadened the nerve endings, and then she would inflict pain on Merlin because she found it amusing that he was unable to feel it. At other times she injected him with a concoction that would starkly heighten the senses and then inflict more physical torture, enjoying the fact that it felt ten times more painful than it normally would.

  Now she had grown bored with inflicting one round after another of abuse on the old man and she was waiting until the drugs wore off sufficiently for Merlin to wake. Then she would gloat over her ability to torture an old man tied to a chair. But consciousness was returning more slowly than suited her and she was becoming as peevish as a spoiled child. She had been pacing back and forth along the bank of the murky river for more than an hour and her patience was wearing thin.

  She considered giving Merlin yet another infusion of drugs to waken him, but with his system already flooded with half a dozen deadly drugs the risk of a fatal overdose, and the accompanying end to her fun, had become an increasing possibility. So she paced and waited. When a small brown rat appeared on the opposite bank of the Styx and paused long enough to stare alternately at Morgana and her prisoner, she whirled around on one foot, leaned forward and pointed a finger toward it, sending up a shower of dirt at the point where the laser-like stream of energy slammed into the dirt, making the animal squeal in terror as it dove toward the safety of a dark crevice in the rock wall.

  “Oh, good gracious me. What have we here?” Morgana squatted down next to the chair where Merlin had begun to moan quietly, one eye trying valiantly to pull itself open. She grabbed a handful of lank, white hair and lifted his head so his eyes were level with her own. “The sleeper awakes. How are you feeling, love? Things still just a bit foggy in there?” Pretending to pat his cheek she slapped him viciously.

  “Damn you. I should have killed you when you were a child.” Merlin’s words were still slurred and indistinct, but his meaning was clear.

  “Now, now, is that any way to talk? For sixteen centuries I have patiently put up with the results of your sanctimonious, holier-than-thou meddling in my affairs and now, just when I catch you out, you lose your sense of fair play.” Her leering grin disappeared to be replaced with a venomous scowl. “You make me want to puke. Still, just to prove that I’m not one to hold a grudge, I’m going to show you just how helpful you’ve been since your rudely unannounced arrival at my door.”

  Morgana released Merlin’s hair, straightened up and began pacing again, this time with her hands clasp behind her back.

  “I have to admit, old man, I never knew a person could project their own image through a scrying glass. Did you even remember you knew how to do that? I used that little trick to renew my all-too-brief acquaintance with your boyfriend, Jason.”

  “Leave him out of this. This is between you and me.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid you are just SO wrong about that, old man. You see, the one thing you have still managed to keep from me is where that snot-nosed little bastard hid my disk after you stole it. Now I suppose I’m simply going to have to ask him myself.”

  Merlin raised his head and stared at his captor, his brilliant blue eyes were now severely bloodshot, their hypnotic gleam extinguished.

  “Oh, I see that got your attention.” Morgana’s sadistic smile returned and she began pacing again, a smug look on her face. “I only gave him a quick peek at you but I’m sure it was enough to let him know exactly where you are. He’s a fairly clever boy, so that should be enough to bring him running like the good little doggy he is. Then he can keep you company and I promise you that I will only work on one of you at a time so the other one can watch. I don’t want either of you to miss one second of the excitement. And I’m going to keep at it until somebody can’t stand it any longer and tells me where in the hell you put my bloody DISK.” She whirled around and stared daggers at Merlin. Then, her voice rising to a piercing shriek, she screamed, “DO YOU HEAR ME OLD MAN OR DID YOU LEAVE YOUR EARS IN YOUR OTHER COAT?”

  After an extended pause during which she walked the length of the cavern and forcibly brought her emotions back under control. Morgana sauntered back toward her prisoner and smiled benignly down at him. Leaning forward she encircled his head with her arms and drew him to her breast, hugging him as gently as a loving mother might cuddle her child.

  “I really shouldn’t yell at you. For all the problems you’ve caused me over the years you finally made up for them in the end…at least a little bit. And for that I am supremely happy and grateful.”

  Releasing Merlin’s head she leaned over far enough to look directly into his face. There she saw exactly the small scowl of confusion she had hoped to find.

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You were unconscious at the time, weren’t you, you poor old thing? You see, while you were spilling your guts in a drugged stupor it seems you lost control of your mind and could no longer hold the gate closed. Its mine again and the only thing that keeps me from opening it right now is that teensy sense of propriety that demands that I tell my friends on the other side what’s happening before I let them out.”

  While Morgana was gloating over her triumph, Merlin twisted his head toward the limestone wall on the far side of the river. It stared back at him, black and blank, no more than a particularly nasty looking spot on the rough grey wall.

  “Hey. Do you want to see what it looks like when I open it?” Merlin snapped his head around to stare at Morgana. “You really do, don’t you? You’re just dying to know what it looks like after holding it closed for all these centuries. Ok, just for you, but only for a second.”

  Standing erect and thrusting her hands out in front of her, Morgana spread her fingers wide and began casting a spell, muttering to herself, reciting a series of incantations she had been waiting sixteen centuries to repeat. As she worked, the dull, black face of the dragon gate began to change; shifting and moving, becoming a swirling kaleidoscopic vortex, a gaping, devouring maw swirling away into infinity. As the gate opened, a howling, shrieking, fetid wind rushed from it, filling the cavern, whipping the river into a froth and driving the dirt from the riverbank into the air to rip motes of limestone from the cave walls and use them to tear at Morgana and Merlin’s flesh and clothes. Leering and laughing, Morgana leaned down toward Merlin, shouting over the roaring tumult.

  “Behold, old man, the end of the world as you know it.”

  Seconds after the hurricane began, Morgana reversed the spell and the gate closed, returning tranquility to the cave and the River Styx. A broad, vicious grin spread across Morgana’s perfect lips and over her lovely face.

  “And just think, the next ti
me I open it, it’s going to be permanent; and then there will, quite literally, be hell to pay.”

  * * *

  The sun had just passed its zenith when Jason jockeyed the rented Vauxhall into a narrow parking space in a small public lot two streets off the main thoroughfare of West Wycombe. Knowing that Morgana would be expecting them to mount a rescue mission, he and Beverley decided that parking in the village and walking to the Hellfire caves was probably the best way to avoid any observation points or ambushes Morgana’s guards might have set up along the road leading to their destination. They also agreed that darkness would be their best and only ally, and that the longer they lurked around in the woodland near the cave, the more likely they were to be discovered. Now they stood on the sidewalk in front of The Slaughtered Lamb, staring up at the grotesque image of the wolf’s head, its muzzle smeared with blood. Curiously, one of the pub’s front windows was now covered with a sheet of plywood.

  “This place gives me the creeps, Bev.”

  “Me too, but I think it’s the only pub in the village.” Beverley craned her neck in one direction and then the other, looking at the signs and shop fronts along the high street before continuing. “At least I haven’t seen another one anywhere, and we really should get something to eat. Who knows when we might have another chance at a hot meal?”

  “Yeah, Ok, you’re right. And if they don’t try to throw us out like they did the last time, maybe we’ll run into that old bum and he can give us an update on life around the Hellfire caves.”

  Beverley grabbed Jason by the arm and nudged him through the heavy oak door. One quick glance behind the bar was enough to cause Beverley to steer Jason into an abrupt left turn. The same man who had given them such a hard time on their last visit was behind the bar, but as it turned out he was too occupied with other customers to notice them.

  “Over there.” Beverley pointed to a small, unoccupied table in the far corner of the room. Surrounded by booths and tables filled with midday customers, the table was nearly out of sight of the bar. Leaning close to Jason as she propelled him across the room, she whispered into his shoulder. “I don’t think the landlord is going to notice us over here.”

  A waitress holding a tray piled with dirty plates and empty glasses came around the corner almost before they were seated. Smiling, she asked if they wanted something to drink and if they would be having lunch. Taking their drink orders before handing them menues she scurried away into the crowd.

  From tables all around them random bits of conversation floated on the air and Beverley and Jason strained to listen without appearing to be eavesdropping.

  “I don’t think the bloody coppers have so much as a single lead. Don’t suppose they even looked.”

  A man seated across the small booth from the speaker shook his bald head. “Poor old Charlie. Gamekeeper for the council for nigh on thirty years, he was, and they can’t even be bothered to find out what happened to him.”

  “Just vanished, he did.”

  “Just like them two German tourists never came back from their ramble.”

  And from a tiny round table behind Jason’s left shoulder: “Something’s not right up there, Lizzy, I’m telling you.”

  “Oh, Mary, you worry too much; always have. New owners and things are bound to change. Everything changes.”

  “That’s no excuse and you know it. I’m telling you Janie’s nephew and his mate were run off by some bloke with a gun.”

  “A gun? Are you sure that’s not just kid’s talk?”

  “Yes I’m sure. Janie said the lad was near hysterical.”

  “If that’s true then something’s really not right. Did your Janie tell the police?”

  “She did and they said they’d look into it. You know about how much good that did.”

  “Humm.”

  Throughout their meal Jason and Beverley listened in near silence, only exchanging occasional knowing glances and a few whispered words as they gathered more information than they could have hoped for about the goings on around the Hellfire caves. Unfortunately, they learned nothing that might tell them how many men Morgana might have guarding the cave and where they might be stationed. Already feeling apprehensive by the time his fish and chips arrived, Jason stared at the steaming food and thought to himself: And the condemned man ate a hearty meal. Trying not to let his anxiety rub off on Beverley he nodded toward her plate. “Everything ok, Babe?”

  Showing more enthusiasm than she felt, Beverley smiled and nodded, her mass of auburn hair bobbing around her head. Trying to ease the tension and inject at least a tiny smile into their otherwise grim day, Jason pointed his fork toward a pale green mound on her plate.

  “Mushy peas?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “God, how can you eat that stuff?”

  “Oh, brilliant. A commentary on international cuisine from the nation that invented the hot dog and the crisp.”

  “Chips, Babe. They’re potato chips.”

  “Well here they’re crisps.”

  “Then you can’t blame us for them.”

  She elbowed him gently in the ribs, eliciting a low ‘uumph’ sound. A momentary smile passed between then but they quickly fell back into an uneasy silence.

  When they left the Lamb they wandered toward the northwest corner of West Wycombe and the general direction of Wycombe Hill and its caves. Following an old walking path that began just beyond the edge of the village, they skirted the edge of two fields standing green with ripening winter wheat before coming to a wooden signpost with a painted arrow and words that read ‘St Lawrence Church’. As the path veered away from the open fields and headed into a spotty patch of woodland, Beverley dredged up frightening memories and reluctantly relayed the encounter she and Merlin had with the deadly creeper vines.

  “You WHAT? Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

  “This is why. I didn’t want you to get all upset and freak out.”

  Jason rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. “I’m not freaking out. I just think you should have told me sooner.”

  “It didn’t matter then. It might now. So keep your eyes open for vines moving toward us.”

  “Moving vines. Dragons. Guys with guns. Lions and tigers and bears, oh, my.”

  Beverley pulled her eyes away from the forest floor, glancing at Jason. “What are you mumbling about?”

  “Nothing. Just ignore me.”

  By the time they realized how close they had come to their destination, the land was already rising up to meet the foot of Wycombe Hill.

  “Look, Bev. I really wish you’d reconsider…”

  “Don’t even think about it, Jason Carpenter.” Beverley held up an index finger, cutting him off in mid-sentence, knowing exactly what he was going to say. “I appreciate that you’re concerned about me but I’m not some fainting violet and I’m not letting you go in there alone. We’re going in there together, we are going to help Merlin lock the gate, and then we’re going to get him out.” Jason let out a long, loud sigh of resignation. “Besides, you’re the one with the gun. Right?”

  Jason nodded as he patted the small of his back, extending the body search to check the three clips in his hip pocket and the small irregular lump made in his front, right pocket by the Urim and Thummim. Satisfied that he was as ready as he was ever going to be, he stepped close to Beverley and spoke in a hushed voice.

  “Ok, look, I think we’re getting close now. We’ve got to be really quiet and move slow. If any of her goons spot us they won’t hesitate to shoot. Believe me, I know. Merlin and I danced with some of those morons in Mongolia.”

  Beverley nodded and fell in line behind him. Following in his footsteps she was careful not to step on even the smallest twig whose snapping might give away their presence, while remaining constantly wary for the crawling tendrils of Morgana’s guardian vines. Moving as silently as a pair of street mimes, it took them another twenty minutes to spot the gray walls of Sir Francis Dashwood’s foll
y.

  When the first glimpse of weathered stone caught his eye, Jason held up a hand, stopped walking and turned to face Beverley. Silently he pointed through the undergrowth. Beverley leaned forward, moving her head until she saw the wall and then nodded. Together, they inched forward, keeping their bodies low, until they reached the base of a venerable old oak tree surrounded by high rhododendron bushes. They were now situated directly across from the front of the folly and had a clear view of the steel door barring entrance to the cave. Four vehicles were parked inside the courtyard; one compact Ford, two white vans and a massive Bentley, and it didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out who the last of these belonged to.

  In addition to the vehicles, they could see two security guards. One was pacing back and forth in front of the steel door, alternately appearing and disappearing behind the vans. On his right hip was an automatic pistol in a covered leather holster. The second guard was much closer to where Jason and Beverley crouched, leaning against the outermost corner of the folly wall. Lying loosely in the crook of one arm was an ugly looking automatic rifle with an extended clip. With his free hand he was excavating one nostril, occasionally examining his discoveries before flicking them into the dust of the roadway.

  As they settled into the underbrush to wait for nightfall, Jason’s mind kept replaying the scene from Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer where Tom and Becky Thatcher escape after being lost in Injun Joe’s cave. Except in Jason’s mind the story ended differently and they didn’t escape. In this new, nastier version, Injun Joe cuts Tom’s throat before raping Becky and choking her to death. Jason knew he couldn’t afford to lose focus, but try as he might, he couldn’t get the images of the two dead children out of his mind.

  For more than two hours Jason and Beverley waited, their legs becoming numb with inactivity and the only distraction beyond the occasional warm breeze stirring through the trees was the moment when a pair of glistening ravens suddenly swooped along the length of the roadway leading to the cave. The flash of the birds’ wings and their raucous cries startled the armed guards as much as it did Jason and Beverley and both men ran into the road looking left and right in case the birds passing heralded the approach of trespassers. Finally, the sun dipped behind the crest of Wycombe Hill, its last ruby fingers painting the leaves and worn stones of Francis Dashwood’s clubhouse a bright copper color before it snatched away the light and the warmth it brought with it.