The Merlin Chronicles: Box Set (All Three Novels)

by Daniel Diehl

  Pulling away from the image of this astonishingly evil creature, Jason broadened his range of vision and realized that Morgana was wearing the exact same color combination she had worn every time he saw her in his own world. Her floor length gown, cinched at the hips by a belt of gold links, was a brilliant scarlet and the cloak, which he had seen when she sat with her back toward him, was bright purple and was fixed at her throat by a large silver brooch inscribed with Celtic knot work. The biggest difference between this woman and the one he had known sixteen centuries in the future was the length of her hair. In his own time she had worn it in a jaw-length bob, now it reached nearly to her waist.

  As she walked across the room, threading her way between pieces of furniture, glowing braziers filled with hot coals and a seemingly random collection of armor and weapons, Jason was struck by two things; first, how cat-like and sensuous her movements were and, second, how very much she looked like the wicked queen in Walt Disney’s classic cartoon, Snow White.

  “You see, Jason, even this early she dressed like the biblical Whore of Babylon, ‘arraying herself in scarlet and purple’.”

  His reverie broken, Jason’s attention snapped back to the real world as he turned toward Merlin. “Yeah, I noticed. And I also see she wears a purple cape, like she thinks of herself as a king.”

  “She does. She fancies herself the rightful heir to Uther Pendragon’s kingdom and her only goal, at least at this particular point in time, is to kill Arthur and assume his throne.”

  “And you’re the only thing that stopped her from doing that, right?”

  “Well,” Merlin stared into the bowl of water, worry lines creasing his forehead. “The Saxons kept her from seizing the throne by overrunning Arthur’s kingdom after his death; I just kept the dragons from destroying the world. Unfortunately, I was too late to save Arthur.”

  The tone of Merlin’s voice pulled Jason away from the images in the water. “Hey, look, we’ve already taken care of the Saxons. We’ll make everything alright. Things just take time. All we…”

  “Wait. Jason, look.”

  Merlin’s hand drew Jason back to the scrying bowl and the image of a young man who had just entered the room and was striding toward Morgana. Appearing only a few years younger than the woman next to him, he was of medium height and slim build. His most notable feature was an unruly mop of curly, red-blond hair that tumbled to his shoulders. In a matter of minutes his silent conversation with Morgana became agitated and within seconds it turned into a shouting match.

  “So who’s that?”

  “That would be Mordred.”

  “That’s her son? He doesn’t look much younger than her.”

  “Remember, Morgana is five years older than Arthur. Her youthful appearance is already being maintained through the dark arts.”

  Jason leaned closer to the watery surface, staring at the tiny figure. “So, is he as crazy as the legends say?”

  As he answered, Merlin never took his eyes off of the two figures in the bowl. “I believe that in your time he would have been referred to as being both sociopathic and psychopathic. He has no regard for anyone else, has absolutely no conscience and is frequently disconnected from reality.”

  Jason inched closer to the two tiny figures. “And what do you call him in your time?”

  “A monster.”

  “And that monster is the one who killed Arthur?”

  “Not this time, my boy. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

  While Merlin and Jason were talking, Morgana had unceremoniously dismissed Mordred with a flourish and a silent shout, and moved into an adjacent room where she turned her attention to an array of chests and cases stacked along three walls of the narrow space. After pulling a small, leather covered trunk out from behind the door, she began to riffling through one of the larger chests, selecting a few pieces of clothing, examining them with a critical eye and placing those she deemed suitable in the small trunk. She repeated this process a half dozen times before being satisfied, closing the chests and standing up, dusting off the knees of her gown.

  “I do believe our Mistress le Fay is going on a little journey, my boy.”

  “And?”

  “And I think this would be a marvelous time to pay her library a brief visit and make a few discrete withdrawals.”

  “Look, Merlin, judging by the size of that trunk, I don’t think she’s going to be gone long enough for us to get all the way to wherever she lives. I mean, there aren’t even any roads in this world.”

  “It all depends on how we travel, doesn’t it?”

  “Ah-ha, I see. It’s a magic thing.”

  “Look, here comes Mordred again. Possibly we can get some idea of her travel plans.”

  The man with the strawberry blond hair stood talking calmly with his mother, their violent argument of fifteen minutes earlier apparently forgotten or, at least forgiven. Their conversation was animated and included much gesturing and arm waving, particularly on Morgana’s part. Finally she gestured toward the small chest and laid a hand on her son’s cheek.

  “God, I wish we could hear what they were saying.”

  Even as Jason spoke, Morgana drew Mordred close, pressing her mouth to his. Long, slow and moist, this was no motherly kiss. It was the kiss of a lover about to be parted from their beloved.

  “Oh, yuck. That is just so not right.”

  “I don’t think we should expect any less from someone who is so spectacularly evil that they have willingly allied themselves with the demons of hell. Do you?”

  “Evil’s one thing, but that’s just gross.”

  By now, Mordred had separated himself from his mother’s embrace, picked up the small chest and carried it out of the room, Morgana close on his heels. As they walked down a long, dark passageway, Merlin waved his hand across the surface of the bowl causing the image to waver and fade from sight. While the old wizard moved to his chair, Jason rubbed his eyes while gathering his thoughts.

  “Ok. So now is the time to rob her library; while she’s gone. So are you going to at least tell Arthur what the hell is going on before we do a break-and-enter on his sister’s house?”

  “Half-sister.”

  “Whatever. Are you going to tell him?”

  “I need time to prepare him properly.”

  “Well, you can’t wait till the last minute and just spring it on him when he has a million soldiers all standing around waiting to march off to war.”

  “I’m well aware of that, and I think, at the moment, I should tell him that you and I are going to reconnoiter information about the dragons’ whereabouts. That way he knows we’re working on it.” Jason raised his eyebrows, cocked his head to one side and stared at Merlin blankly. “It’s not a lie. That is exactly what we’re going to do.”

  “And you’ll tell him the part about Morgana being in league with the dragons when we get back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Immediately after we get back?”

  “Oh, all right. I promise that as soon as we get back I will tell the king that if he wants to confront the dragons, his army will have to attack his half-sister’s fortress.” After drawing a long breath and letting it out in a great sigh, he added “Are you happy now?”

  “Yes. Thank you. Now, where, exactly does the mad harpy live?”

  Merlin smirked at Jason’s creative description of Morgana, rose from his chair and walked to one of the many shelves piled high with random heaps of scrolls, parchments and books. Rifling through one stack after another, he finally drew out a rolled-up piece of velum, spread it out on the table and held it open with an inkwell, a cup and a wine pitcher positioned at three corners.

  As Jason moved next to Merlin he could see it was a map of the British Isles but the political divisions were a far cry from the Great Britain he was familiar with. The entire eastern half of what he knew as England was designated as being Saxon territory. In the center, running from the southern coast to what would one day be the Sco
ttish border in the north, was a narrow area defined as the land of the Britons. To the west of this was an area denoted as belonging to the Welsh Tribes. From north to south this last area was identical to modern Wales, but it extended much further westward, into England, than it would in the distant future. Running a long, gnarled finger across the map until he had his mental bearings, Merlin pointed to a black dot near the eastern border of Briton, nearly level with the head of the Severn Estuary.

  “This is where we are now.”

  “That’s Baenin?”

  “Correct. Now…” Merlin’s finger slid due westward, across the top of the Severn Estuary, until it reached a point along the coast about half way across the Welsh territories, roughly where the town of Swansea would one day stand. “And here is Camlann.”

  “That’s where Morgana lives?”

  “It is.”

  “Camlann; I know that name. Why do I know that name?”

  “Because your legends record it as the place of the battle in which Arthur dies.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry about that.”

  “But you’re not going to let that happen, are you, my boy?”

  Jason jerked his head up from the map, staring at Merlin. “Hey, don’t put this whole thing on me. I’m just here to help. I’m not the United States Marines and I’m not Royal Air Force.”

  “My apologies. I meant WE are not going to allow that to happen.”

  “Right.” Jason nodded, shifting his gaze back to the map. In his mind, he tried to calculate the distance from twenty-first century Swindon to Swansea, guessing that it must be roughly one hundred miles. That made it about two hours in a car traveling on modern roadways but how far would it be in the trackless wastes of the fifth century? “That’s a long way. You really think you can get us there by magic?”

  “Let’s just say I have a plan.”

  “Oh, thank you; clear as ever. So when do we leave and how long should I tell Bev I’m going to be gone?”

  “Obviously we have to wait till Mistress le Fay has time to get well away from home. It wouldn’t do to run into her as she was going out the door. Of course, it’s still early in the day and she seems to be packed, so she may plan on leaving today. If not, I assume she will leave in the morning, so you should be ready at any time.” After offering a wry smile, he added “And you don’t need to pack for a lengthy trip. We know what her library looks like – you just saw it – so we should be able to get in and back out and be home in a matter of hours. You shouldn’t need anything more than the clothes on your back.”

  Jason remembered the nightmare they went through when they escaped from Morgana’s fortress on the Chinese border and sighed long and deep. “That’s what I like about you, Merlin; eternal optimism.”

  * * * *

  “I don’t care. I’m coming with you.”

  Beverley had been following Jason around their room throughout the course of a conversation which had produced no results beyond a growing mutual frustration.

  “You say that like you don’t remember how close that woman came to killing you five years ago.”

  Beverley crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Jason. “I remember perfectly well, but she won’t be there.”

  “That’s right, SHE is won’t be there. But that psycho kid of hers is still going to be there and so are God knows how many of her hired thugs. Don’t you remember that fun little shootout we had with her friends in the Hellfire caves? I am SO not looking forward to another one of those entertaining afternoons with Morgana’s buddies.”

  Beverley flopped into a chair, crossed her arms defensively and muttered into her breast. “You and Merlin will be there.”

  Jason stopped his frustrated pacing and knelt on the floor next to her, taking one of her hands in his own. “You’re right. Merlin will be there and I will be there, but just as sure as I’m sitting here it’s going to take every ounce of energy we can muster just to keep our own asses out of hot water. We won’t have time to look out for your ass as well.” When she didn’t react, he leaned closer, his mouth touching her shoulder, and whispered “And I really don’t want anything bad to happen to your ass. It’s a very nice ass.”

  Beverley pulled her hand from his, placed it gently against his forehead and pushed him away, giggling. Standing up, she reached a hand down to help Jason to his feet. “Ok, Romeo, you win.” When they were face to face, she looked directly into his eyes and laid a single finger on the end of his nose. “Do you have any idea how much alike you and that horrible old man really are? Sometimes you’re every bit as bad as he is.”

  “Look, Babe, I’ve been following that old man around for years on this weird quest of his and I’m not dead yet. Almost, but not quite.” Then, after a brief pause “And, despite my better judgment, we did promise to help him with this mess.”

  Beverley nodded in acknowledgement and offered a tight smile, but also held up a warning finger. “By God, Jason Carpenter, if you end up getting yourself killed I swear I will never speak to you again.”

  “Deal.”

  The following morning, as he and Beverley were sharing a small loaf of freshly baked bread, still warm from the oven and spread with a mild flavored, runny cheese, Jason wandered toward the small window of their room, pushed open the roughhewn shutter and stared at dawn’s first pink fingers of light as they caressed the roofline of the barns on the far side of the kitchen garden. Near the edge of the garden, in the more-than-shadowy half-light, he could make out two vague figures walking side by side, heads bowed, deep in conversation. Peering into the gloom he tried to pull them into focus. The one nearest him was obviously wearing a long cloak and a glint of dawn light bounced off the heavy gold torque encircling the man’s neck. This was clearly the king. Although the other figure was nearly invisible, blocked by Arthur’s body, the sound of a deep chuckle echoed off the distant barns and found its way to Jason’s ear. Merlin. Jason turned from the window and walked back to the table and Beverley.

  “I think Merlin is finally telling Arthur what the hell is going on.”

  Beverley shook her head. “Well, it’s about bloody time.”

  Jason nodded silently and cut another slice of the soft, warm bread. A few minutes later, as Beverley was pouring them both a second mug of flat, room temperature ale, a small knock came at their door. Beverley fumbled to set the pitcher down, but Jason waved for her to relax, and crossed the room. When he opened the door he found himself staring in the face of a sleepy looking boy who could not have been more than eleven or twelve years old.

  “Hi there. Who are you?”

  “I’m Cadwaladr.” The boy was only half awake and obviously embarrassed.

  “That’s a lot of name for so early in the morning.”

  The boy smiled awkwardly and nodded. “I’m one of the king’s pages.”

  “I see. And what can I do for you, Cadwaladr?”

  “Oh.” The boy started as though he just remembered why he knocked on the door. “My Lord the King sent me to tell you that the praefator wants you to join him at the gate of the new town. I can take you there, if you like.”

  “That’s ok; I think I can find my own way to the hill fort. You go back to bed.”

  The boy yawned so wide it looked like his face was going to split in half, nodded and wandered away down the hall toward the far end of the villa. Pulling his head back into the room, Jason returned to where Beverley sat, chugged down the half cup of ale she had poured before they were interrupted, and leaned down to kiss her.

  “I’m being paged. Literally. That was one of Arthur’s page boys and it seems Merlin wants me at the hill fort. I think it’s time to pay the sister-in-law from hell a little visit.”

  Beverley stood up and hugged him hard before turning him around to face the door and swatting him on the bottom.

  “Nice bum. No wrinkles.”

  Jason offered a lop-sided smile and walked out the door.

  By the time he joined Merlin in the meadow near
the barbican gate of Arthur’s new capital, the sun had risen sufficiently to add depth, detail and a few glints of morning gold to the world. Merlin gave Jason’s shoulder a comradely pat and was happy to make idle conversation, but steadfastly refused to divulge any details about how they were going to get to from Baenin to Camlann. Walking due northward, through air sharp enough that it allowed their breath to hang in gossamer clouds before their faces, it was no more than half an hour later that they approached the banks of the River Og.

  Even when the river was far enough away that it appeared as little more than a gray smudge along the horizon line, Jason could see the figure of a child playing on the riverbank, darting in and out of the water, running between the trees and bushes lining the water’s edge. It was not until they were within a few hundred feet of the water that he thought he recognized the girl, and even then he was not certain until she looked up, spied Merlin and ran toward him, calling his name. Throwing herself against the wizard’s bony chest, the naiad buried her face in his beard, taking in his scent for a full minute before turning her head to stare at Jason.

  “I know you. You are Merlin’s other friend. Where is your companion?”

  Jason smiled, nodded and offered a small hello. “My who?”