Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (11 page)

“No, I’m — ”

Peredur cut him off. “Yes, ya are. I’ve seen it. You’re not scared tah ask your uncle, or even Urien, to fight the Picti, but when it comes to you yourself doing something about Vortigern, you freeze all up. Arthur needs to realize he’s the true High King. And that means ya can’t go on hiding in this safe little valley. Ya have to confront Vortigern.”

Merlin stared at the other man in shock. Was this the taciturn horse master he knew? Shaking off his surprise, he said, “It’ll take years of planning. Preparing an army alone will — ”

“Are ya sure?”

“I said
no!
The timing isn’t right.” Merlin stood and began pacing with the torch.

Peredur shut his mouth and looked on in concern.

A sudden urge came over Merlin to see the Sangraal once more — the very cup that the Christ had used at the Last Supper, the very cup that caught his blood when Jesu was nailed to the cross. Merlin had hidden it just a little way down the passage. Who knew? Maybe now was the time when God would raise Colvarth.

“Come along,” he said. “I want to see the cup.”

Peredur got a distant look in his eyes, but made no move to follow.

“Are you coming?”

“I still remember when I first saw it.”

“On Atle’s mountain?”

“Yeah. That unforgettable day I saw heaven itself open. Colvarth had spoken o’ the Sangraal before, but I didn’t comprehend. Can I really see it again?”

“Yes.”

Peredur momentarily covered his eyes with his hand. “Thank you.”

Walking deeper into the cave, Merlin slipped on some loose gravel. Somewhere on the left wall there was a natural pit that he’d filled in with rocks to hide the Sangraal . . . but something was odd.
Charcoal had been scratched onto the walls in seemingly random patterns. Merlin turned toward the depths of the cavern, and the sputtering light illuminated the floor ahead —

Someone
had
been here.

An old campfire lay before him. How long ago? The smell of wood smoke was extremely strong here, the oily torch notwithstanding. He unsheathed his sword and dug the tip into the charred remains and ashes. A small, glowing coal emerged from the depths, and Merlin gasped.

“What is it?”

“This fire was lit just last night. See? The ashes are still warm.”

“That’s strange.”

“Is there anyone who would’ve taken this road from Dinas Crag? Think!”

“Only Arthur, Dwin, and Culann.”

“But they left this morning. Who, then?”

Peredur shook his head. “None else, with Ector’s rules about keeping our escape route secret except in times o’ war. Anyone would have had to get permission, and there just wasn’t time for someone to do that. Or else — ”

“Or else someone was on their way
to
the valley. Maybe spying.”

“Could it have been the envoy?”

“No. Brice told me he let the man out yesterday, and he was cursing as he headed north to Urien.”

Peredur bent to examine the wall above the old pit. “Merlin . . . lift your torch higher.”

“What?”

“I want to see . . .”

Merlin raised the light, and what he had thought were random, unconnected charcoal scratches on the walls were revealed to be, when taken together, a monstrous creature — a dragon. Merlin’s gaze followed the shape from its sharp teeth and horns down to its elongated, muscular tail, which was poised directly over . . . the hiding place for the Sangraal.

He handed the torch to Peredur and began pulling the rocks from the hole. When he had taken the last one out, he motioned for Peredur to hold the light up. From deep inside gleamed the ornamental gold box that Colvarth had commissioned to house the Sangraal.

Praises! It was still there!

Reaching in, he pulled the box to the edge of the hole.

Peredur looked over Merlin’s shoulder.

From inside his tunic, Merlin produced a bronze key hanging from a leather necklace. Inserting the key, he pushed it upward and then slid it to the left.

Click!

Merlin lifted the lid.

The box was empty. The wooden bowl was gone.

Running his fingers frantically around the inside, Merlin groaned in frustration. But what if he were the only one who couldn’t see it? The Sangraal had perplexed him before, with only some able to view and touch its ancient wood. “C-can you see it?” he asked, hoping beyond hope.

Peredur shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “No one could’ve stolen it without the key . . . and why would a common thief take the Sangraal and leave the expensive box? That’s passin’ strange.”

Merlin picked up the box. Anger rose in him at his own stupidity. Why had he left it here? “It’s gone,” he yelled. “It’s stolen!”

But then an odd feeling came over him. His hands . . . he couldn’t feel them, nor the box. His arms began to shake as the numbness crept past his elbows and inched up toward his shoulders. Soon it held him across the chest like a death grip, and the sensation climbed up his neck, as if he were sinking into a cold lake, deep in the depths of the earth. His sight began to fail. Peredur seemed to tilt, and then the torch faded from view.

Merlin awoke on his back, with a black thorn bush growing beside him. To his left lay the carcass of a deer, its head missing and flies buzzing madly at an open wound in its chest. Far above him he heard the clap of thunder, and a violent wind began to blow through the dark foliage of the distant trees. Merlin sat up and found he was barefoot. He didn’t recognize the place — or the large mound that lay in front of him, round like the shell of a massive turtle, a dark tunnel gaping where the head of the reptile would have hidden.

“Stand, intruder,” a voice said from behind. Three men jumped forward and leveled their bronze-tipped spears at him. And these men were strong, with sinewy, bulging arms, massive chests, and legs as thick as Merlin’s torso.

“Get up!” said the man to his left, and then he poked Merlin below the shoulder.

The wound throbbed in pain, and Merlin scrambled up, fearing another jab. Each of these men towered over him by a foot.

“Now march. We need to find out what Grannos the Mighty will do with a trespasser like you.” The men pointed toward the mound and its maw.

Merlin began to march, taking stock of the fact that his dirk was hanging from his belt. It took a long time to reach the mound, it being larger than he’d realized and almost half a league away. There they bade him stop next to the dark opening. Merlin blanched — it wasn’t a tunnel for anyone his size. Even the men with spears were dwarfed by the colossal pillars supporting the roof.

The men began cheering, “Grannos the Grand! Grannos the Powerful! Grannos the Mighty!” And from deep within the dark tunnel sounded the grinding and scraping of metal as if a massive door were being opened.

Then came the sound of steps, one heavy footfall after another.
Death
,
ruin . . . Death
,
ruin
they boomed, and Merlin quaked.

G
rannos! Grannos!” the men shouted, stamping their feet so that rocks fell and the ground shook.

He turned his gaze around and was stunned to see hundreds more of the warriors, spears in hand. Merlin’s dirk was useless. Thick smoke began to pour from the tunnel, rotten sulfur that was bitter on Merlin’s tongue.

“
Grannos! Grannos!
” the men sang, delirious at the mighty man’s coming.

The boom of the steps drew nearer, until . . . until a little hand poked out of the smoke at about the height of Merlin’s knee.

A man stepped forth, coughing. A little man.

“Grannos!” the warriors yelled, bowing down.

He wore black breeches and a white tunic under a tiny orange woolen vest. Upon his long yellow hair he wore a bright blue pointed cap with a feather. His face was thin, with a pinched-up nose, and
the strangest thing of all was that his teeth were green, with a little black tongue that slipped in and out of his mouth as he spoke.

“Bring the interloper to me,” he squeaked.

Two warriors grabbed Merlin’s arms and twisted them behind his back. They dragged him forward and shoved him to his knees.

Merlin wanted to look up at Grannos — but instead had to look down, for the man was
that
short.

“So . . .” Grannos said, “how are you feeling?”

Merlin tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“How are you feeling lately? Have any sniffles? Are your elbows giving you trouble?”

“No . . . no, I’m, uh, fine.”

Grannos pulled out a rolled-up parchment from inside his vest and shook it out. The thing was yellowed with age and filled from top to bottom with little squiggles. “Aha,” he said, “perhaps you have wooden tongue?”

Merlin shook his head.

“Gray, painful toes? A big black mole on your left knee? Gassy billows? Cracky-wack-a-back?”

“No, no, no, no . . . and . . . no.”

Grannos licked his lips with his little black tongue. “That’s one answer too many. Let’s proceed without insubordination. So . . . do you have a crankled ankle?”

“No, but my shoulder — ”

“That’s not on my list, and I’m very sad, because I would so much like to heal you. Thankfully, all of these other things can be arranged.”

Merlin was confused. “What did you say?”

“First off, we must have privacy. I simply cannot work with all these eyeballs and ruckuses.” His little voice went shrill as he said, “Go away, you!” He waved his hands at the warriors, and in three heartbeats they faded away, freeing Merlin from their grip.

Merlin and Grannos were alone.

Suddenly, Merlin’s dirk seemed more useful. If only —

“Now, which of these illnesses would you like?” He showed the list to Merlin, who couldn’t read the writing.

“Ah . . . nothing.” Merlin stretched his arms and ended with his fingers near his belt and the handle of his dirk.

“I think I’ll give you . . . a wonderful case of blabby-nose.” Grannos stepped back and pretended to shoot an arrow at Merlin. But a real arrow, hardly bigger than a twig, appeared from the air and jabbed into Merlin’s cheek.

“Ow!” he yelled, but even as he tried to pull it out, the arrow melted away. His face began to feel strange, almost heavy. Before he knew it, his nose had grown so large that it hung down over his lips and pressed against them.

“Thstop that!” Merlin said, grabbing for his dirk.

But Grannos had already nocked another invisible arrow and shot it. “And here’s some flibbity-fingers, just for your defiance!”

The arrow appeared from nowhere and sank into his wrist.

“Oucth!” Merlin said as the arrow faded away. But Merlin’s fingers began to hurt as the knuckle bones of both hands twisted grotesquely and began to wrap around each other. The pain was intense and the muscles in Merlin’s arms began to seize up. He became enraged at Grannos, and the nostrils of his flabby nose began to twitch. He tried to grab the dirk, but his fingers couldn’t grip it, so he stood, ran forward, and kicked at the little imp.

Grannos slipped sideways and Merlin missed.