The Merlin Chronicles: Box Set (All Three Novels)

by Daniel Diehl

  “Somebody found a deserted village up ahead. A lot of the buildings are burnt out, but the church and some barns and a few houses are still ok. We’re going to try to find a dry spot for everybody to sleep tonight. Pass the word, will you?”

  Beverley leaned forward, kissed Jason on his unshaven cheek and said “Sure. We just have to deal with this mess first.”

  Jason surveyed the milling men, the small group of wounded lying under the trees and a pile of bodies a few yards away. “Right. So what’s going on here? Is there anything I can do?”

  Merlin shook his head. “No, we’re fine, you carry on spreading the word. I’m sure the thought of a dry place to sleep will be the best morale booster possible.”

  Leaning close to Merlin, Jason whispered “Does this mess remind you of anything?”

  Merlin lowered his eyelids and nodded. “Slashing rain, mud slides, wrecks, dead men. It is reminiscent of one of our previous encounters with le Fay and her friends. I was just telling Beverley, I think this is all Morgana’s work and I’m trying to work out a counter spell.”

  “What kind of spell did you use when her buddy, Doctor what’s-his-name, did this to us in Mongolia?”

  “If you recall, I broke the spell by killing him. Tragically, Mistress le Fay is not here, or I would gladly facilitate her demise, as well.”

  Jason nodded, remounted and moved on down the line of drenched men and horses, telling everyone the king had ordered them to move around the wreck site and follow the column to the abandoned village. Once there they should unhitch their horses and find shelter anywhere they could.

  By the time the last of the wreckage was cleared away and the salvage pulled up the hill, the loss included the deaths of all five carters, two of the five baggage boys and thirteen of the fifty men who had been pushing the wagons. Four of the five cart horses were dead and the fifth had broken a leg and had to be killed. Eight of the ten equite horses helping to pull the carts were safe, if panicked. After the crates, boxes and loose weapons had been rescued, the dead horses were laboriously hauled up the hillside, their gutted carcasses thrown across wagons and hauled to the deserted village to be cut up and eaten by the starving men.

  That night Merlin went from campsite to campsite, using his magical power to warm the air inside buildings and light fires in piles of wood far too wet to have been ignited by the traditional method of striking a piece of flint against steel. While everyone in Arthur’s army, including the thousands of men from Britany, Cornwall and the Frankish Kingdom had heard of Merlin’s powers, less than a dozen of them outside Arthur and his uncle Ambrosius had ever seen him perform one of his miraculous feats. After the initial moments of unease and fright, sometimes accompanied by hurriedly made signs of the cross, the sight of a warm fire brought rounds of cheers and whistles from even the most superstitious among the company.

  Seven dead horses did not stretch far enough to adequately sate the ravenous appetites of nearly four thousand men, women and boys but when supplemented by a small portion of cheese and a pint of ale, the pain of three days hunger was sufficiently abated to allow the army – now dry and warm for the first time in almost a week – to drift into a deep, dreamless sleep. Outside the sound of the endless rain lapped against the deep layers of thatch on the roofs above their heads.

  The rain, which had been sluicing down the hillsides for days, digging rivulets through the forlorn village, gnawing at the foundations of the houses and the village church, had also been digging away at the churchyard. Long before the soldiers arrived the soil around crudely carved tombstones had been loosened and washed away, leaving the stones to tilt and topple, the smaller of them bumping along on newly made rivers until they found anchorage and came to rest. But if the grave markers eventually found rest the same could not be said for those whose presence they commemorated. With the removal of each tiny mote of dirt the bodies below the soil lost one more shard of their covering.

  After days of torrential downpour, the first glimmers of white bone and putrefying gray flesh were exposed to a world they had long ago abandoned. Under less careful eyes than those of Morgana le Fay this would have been a tragically sad, and rather disgusting, state of affairs, but now it was about to become something far, far uglier. Released from their earthy tombs, the dead fingers and toes of the village’s dearly departed began to twitch and contract, digging at the last of the dirt and their confining shrouds, scratching frantically to free themselves from the soil. In various stages of decay and dismemberment, they crawled, stumbled and walked toward the door of the old church only a few yards from where they had lain.

  The endless droning sound of the rain, combined with utter exhaustion, conspired to guarantee that none of the men sleeping in the church heard the scraping, scratching, dragging noise of the corpses as they lurched into the temporary haven and fell on their unsuspecting victims. Ripping and tearing at the living flesh with bony fingers, gnawing with hideously exposed teeth, the things attacked the soldiers’ heads, devouring their skin and eyes, searching, probing for the delicate brain matter beneath. Within seconds of the onslaught the sounds of the screaming, thrashing men aroused their companions who, assuming an attack by enemy troops, grabbed their weapons and began hacking at anything that moved. In the near total darkness, injuries to their comrades were inevitable, but within minutes nearly three dozen of the living dead things had been hacked to pieces as more and more heavily armed reinforcements poured into the crowded church, aroused from their slumber by the commotion. Less than twenty minutes after the things first crept across the church threshold, the excitement was over. The creatures were gone and eleven men lay dead, their faces gone and their heads smashed open. The sad, broken bodies were dragged outside, but the fear the creatures had instilled left the men shaken, nervous and, in many cases, in a near-catatonic state of shock.

  To provide some degree of comfort, Merlin created glowing orbs of soft light that remained suspended in the air, near the roof of any building where the sleepers requested them. He explained that he would also weave a spell of protection to ensure that no more of Morgana’s things would attack the unwary, but all the reassurances on earth would not allow sleep to return to the camp. Later, as the first fingers of wet, gray light crept over the crest of the hills, Jason came upon Merlin, standing alone on a hillside, his back to the camp, his right arm uplifted and a single finger raised toward the lowering clouds. This sight, which would have once fascinated Jason for its sheer weirdness, was now something to be studied closely, observed for its subtle nuances. As he watched, bright gold tracers drew out behind Merlin’s finger like smoke from a cigarette. Slowly swirling and twisting, they rose into the air, whisked upward in defiance of the falling rain. After nearly a half hour of constant spell casting Merlin dropped his arm, turned and walked directly toward Jason as though he had known he was being observed the entire time.

  “All done.”

  “What were you doing?”

  With the wave of a hand Merlin directed Jason’s attention eastward. There, just above the tops of the far hills, the first pink and gold streaks of a clear, bright dawn were creeping across the landscape.

  “The things that attacked us last night gave me the clue I needed to figure out the precise nature of the spells she was using. Once I knew that, counteracting them was fairly simple.”

  My midmorning the rain had completely stopped and the warmth of the sun began drawing a steaming mist out of clothes, animals and supplies, bringing a deep sense of relief and renewed vigor to the enterprise.

  One the third day after the rain stopped, as the sun stood high in the sky, two advance scouts rode hard toward the head of the line where kings and noblemen cantered alongside one wizard and a chief engineer. As the men pulled their mounts to a halt they reported that less than three hours ahead was the place Merlin had described; a long, open meadow near the seaside, bisected by a river marsh. In the distance, beyond the marsh, stood the remains of a ruined Roman fort. Merlin
insisted that the column should halt immediately while he, Arthur and Jason rode ahead to scout the landscape. Arthur agreed, but ordered Ambrosius, Aegidius and Hoel to come with them. As the six men prepared to ride toward the proposed battle site, Arthur told the captains to move the tail of the line forward and establish a permanent camp, promising that he would be back by nightfall.

  Three hours later the group sheltered under a small cluster of trees. Ahead of them lay the scene, just as Merlin and the scouts had described it. The field of marram grass extended for more than a mile ahead of them, the only sign of the swamp and river which cut it neatly in half was a swath of brown where the furry heads of the rushes grew in the swamp. Sweeping down from the hills an uneasy wind rustled the grass, but otherwise the only sound was the snorting of the horses; the only movement the men twisting uneasily in their saddles.

  “Wizard.” Aegidius’ quite voice sounded loud and jarring in the preternatural silence. “How many days do you make it since we left Baenin?”

  “Twenty-seven, my Lord.”

  “Odd. And you feel certain she knows we’re coming?”

  “Oh, most assuredly, my Lord.”

  Arthur nodded and grunted. “Strange, isn’t it, that there aren’t any mercenary encampments?”

  “It may be, my Lord,” Merlin rubbed his nose with the back of a hand as he spoke, “that she has cast a spell over them, or over us, like she has over the fortress. You see, what appears to be the ruins of a Roman fort is actually a complete and very well maintained fortification.”

  Aegidius leaned forward, leaning far out over his horses’ neck, staring into the distance. “Are you certain we’re seeing an illusion?”

  “Absolutely, my Lord. Master Jason and I have been inside and I assure you it’s a most impressively large complex.”

  With a muttered “This should be interesting” Arthur turned his horse, motioned to the others and headed back the way they had come.

  As he nudged his mule toward the end of the line, Merlin trotted alongside Jason. “I’ll wager she knows something else, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That I’m here.”

  Jason pulled his head back and stared at Merlin. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean; up until the rain started the invisibility ointment kept her from finding me. No way to remain hidden after a week of rain pouring down my face.”

  “So I guess you can’t sneak up on her, huh?”

  “It would seem not.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The combined army of the Britons and their allies marched out of base camp more than two hours before sunrise, advancing as far as the edge of the long narrow meadow before Arthur held up his hand, bringing the column to a standstill. With the line halted, forward scouts crept silently through the tall marram grass, making their way to the edge of the swamp, searching for any forward troops or spies that might have been sent ahead by enemy commanders. Even before they left, Merlin insisted that his scrying bowl could find no one in the field. He did confirm that inside the fortress hundreds of scruffy looking fighters were engaged in frantic activity; how large their number might actually be, he could not predict. When Arthur’s scouts returned they verified Merlin’s prediction of an open field and Arthur felt safe to begin deploying men and equipment to their assigned positions.

  Dealing with the most labor intensive job first, while more than a thousand men clambered up the escarpment and formed an ad-hoc defensive line to guard against a surprise attack, another two hundred soldiers and engineers attacked crumbling sections of the low cliff face with picks and shovels, chipping away rock and earth to form a pair of crude ramps – one on each side of the river - across which horses and carts could be moved from one side of the watery barrier to the other. While they worked, eight ballistae carts were hauled westward across the shallow mouth of the river where they waited in a patient line. Less than an hour later the ballistae were moved to their assigned position along the northernmost end of Arthur’s main defensive line. Following the carts, sixty cavalry horses charged into position as three thousand foot soldiers raced down one ramp and up the other, reforming into thirty orderly units of one hundred men each. All in all, Arthur and his commanders were more than pleased with the speed and economy of effort their men showed in getting their defensive line into position.

  While Arthur dealt with the line facing Morgana’s fortress, Jason and Llewellyn struggled to get twenty-two ballistae, along with eighty equites and their nervous mounts, into position on the eastern edge of the swamp. Arthur had assigned thirty of the baggage boys to help the carters control the cart horses during the anticipated nightmare of a dragon attack. One by one the ballista wagons were pulled into position along the edge of the swamp. By allowing a gap of roughly twenty-five feet between each of the twenty-foot-long horse and cart units, the line of battle wagons stretched for nearly a quarter mile. While the equites organized into units of twenty men each and took up position in front of the ballistae, Jason’s engineers, carters and baggage boys tied the ends of nearly four hundred and fifty copper chains to large rocks, heaving each one into the murky water only a few feet behind the carts.

  Jason briefly contemplated explaining the purpose of this strange ritual but the longer he thought about the complexities of the explanation, the more he realized there was no way he could make his men understand what he was talking about; it was easier just to give orders and see that they were carried out. The work would have gone quicker if Llewellyn’s equites had been willing to pitch in and help, but apparently equites did not roll rocks into swamps.

  During every minute of the four hours it took the Britons to organize their battle lines, every man among them expected a hoard of murderous enemy soldiers to appear at any second, swoop down on them and decimate them before they assumed their position. Many among them also expected to see the huge leathery wings of the dragons come plunging out of the sky and incinerate the entire army without giving them a chance to defend themselves. Neither of these things would have surprised them; the only surprise was that no enemy, either human or reptilian, appeared. The absolute silence was, if anything, more unnerving than an attack would have been.

  Taking advantage of the continuing inaction, Jason gathered his engineers and gave them a final review and pep talk. He reminded them that they only had twenty projectiles each, so it was essential that they not fire until the dragons were close enough that they were certain of a hit. He reminded the baggage boys that part of their job was to keep the chains from getting tangled and to always, always have a fresh arrow ready to hand to the engineer when he called for it.

  “And most important of all, guys, remember that the only way the arrows are going to penetrate that scaly hide is if you wait until they pass over your head and then shoot them from the rear. Since they will undoubtedly circle around during successive passes, there’s no telling which direction they might be coming from. You have to be ready to swing your weapon around and fire from any angle. And you have to time your shots just right. If you shoot while they’re still headed toward you the arrow will just glance off of their belly. If you wait too long, you’re just going to hit their tail. You need to get them right after they pass over you, before they pull up and start climbing. And always aim for their belly; it’s the softest part and it’s the biggest target.” Jason paced back and forth, counting off the important points on his fingers like a university professor grilling his students.

  “And I know this one is really hard, but you have to remember that no matter how terrifying the fire looks when the dragons come diving down on you, belching flames, it’s absolutely essential for you to stay calm. Merlin is going to weave a protective shield that will keep all of us safe from the dragon fire. I know how hard this is. I’ve been there. I’ve stood directly in line of a dragon and, thanks to Merlin, I not only lived but I killed the thing. You’ve got to have faith in Merlin’s magic.” This last brought nods and murmurs of agreement
but Jason knew that every one of them had their doubts; the prospect of being roasted alive was one of the most terrifying things a person could imagine. He wished there was some way he could convince them not to be afraid, but courage was something everyone had to find within themselves. “Ok. Are there any questions?”

  There were no questions; not then or over the next long boring hours while engineers, carters, baggage boys, equites, foot soldiers and noblemen all waited for something, anything, to happen. During the nerve crushing wait, King Arthur rode up and down his line, surveying the anxious faces, shuffling feet and sweaty hands clenching and unclenching around weapons. Every few paces he would draw to a halt, offer a few words of encouragement, joking with one man here, reminding another of how important this battle was to the future of the kingdom. Long experience had taught him that no matter how desperate any military situation looked there was always a sense of exhilaration, a heightened sense of awareness, that comes on the eve of battle and that it was now his job to ensure that these men retained that special edge. He also knew exactly what his sister was doing; she was attempting to wear his men down by increasing their stress level to the point where they were too emotionally exhausted to fight effectively. He understood the tactic and he had no intention of allowing it to work.

  Hour after weary hour they waited, tension growing, nerves fraying. Even the normally ethereally cool Merlin was beginning to fidget, levitating himself back and forth across the murky depths of the swamp and river, moving from one set of battle lines to the other. It must have been nearly noon, while Jason, Merlin and Llewellyn reviewed tactics for the dozenth time, when they heard the collective gasp from more than three thousand men on the opposite side of the river.

  Nearly a half mile beyond Arthur’s defensive line, up the hillside, amid what appeared to be the fragmented ruins of an old Roman fort, an arch-shaped hole appeared out of thin air and hundreds upon hundreds of tiny figures were pouring through the opening, screaming, running pell-mell down the hillside directly toward the allied line.