Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (12 page)

He aimed again, and the slippery creature jumped, causing Merlin to slam his bare toes into the rock pillar holding up the tunnel. He fell to the scrubby grass and writhed in pain.

“Aha!” Grannos said, “now you have gray, painful toes!”

The devilish man appeared above him, smiling and licking his green teeth. “But we must have one more, so . . . Grungy-gut for you! And then, I truly believe, you’ll be ready.” He shot another arrow, and its painful tip stabbed into Merlin’s stomach. Merlin’s black tunic powdered and coagulated into wet, moldy dirt. Then mushrooms began to sprout from his abdomen, and their roots sank into
his flesh, turning it a sickly purple. Veins popped out to feed the white and speckled, bulbous mushrooms.

Merlin screamed.

“Now,” Grannos whispered in his ear, “to make you hale I will require you to undertake a few simple tasks for me. First, you shall climb to the top of the Tán Menéth Marrow and delve downward through fire and rock until you find enough silver to mint a thousand and one coins.”

“I can’th — ”

“Next you must bathe the coins in the Cauldron of Ceridwen after you destroy the monster who guards its pearl-rimmed sides.”

Merlin groaned.

“And then you must drag the coins to Loch Obha and put all its many waters back into the well from which they flowed. Finally, you must throw the coins in. And then, and only then, will I heal you.”

Merlin shook his head, flapping his nose. “I won’th do ith, you beasth!”

“You cannot be a hero without being hale. This is the hill of heroes, you know! Make a vow to fulfill the quests, I say . . . and then fulfill your vow!”

Merlin climbed stiffly to his feet and ran. He had to get away from the little monster.

“O my queen!” the imp called, “I need you to kill the interloper! He is not fit for my hall!”

Instantly a giant gray wolf appeared — with a woman astride its back. Covered from boot to shoulder with black armor, even her face was hidden by an iron helm with two yellowed horns protruding from the sides. In her hands she held a black spear as long as a weaver’s rod.

Merlin ran faster, but she was right behind, with her wolf barking and howling.

Grannos’s squeaky voice called from behind, “Destroy him!”

Merlin ran, but didn’t get far before the woman struck him across the head with the haft of her spear, knocking him to the ground,
dizzy. Her wolf sniffed at his torso, and its sharp jaws twitched in anticipation.

There was no escape.

Merlin looked up just as she removed her helm and released her long, luxuriously black hair. She was his sister! Though older, he would recognize her face anywhere.

“Why do you hunt me? I’ve done you no wrong, Ganieda.”

At the sound of her childhood name, she hefted her spear and threw it. “I am Mórgana, now, and you will never forget it,
dear brother
!”

The spear struck and its deadly point gored him through. Merlin shouted and jerked, unable to move away from the torturous pain.

Grannos appeared, then, and sneered at Merlin with wild eyes. “Now you
really
need healing! Hah!”

But a bright light shone down from above as time itself held its breath. An angel appeared within the light and descended. His robes gleamed with a holy brightness. The angel knelt down, compassion on his face, and whispered in Merlin’s ear.

“Merlin! The Lord God has sent this vision so that you may know that your time of peace has ended. The Lord has protected you for many years from your sister, but now you must face her, for she has sworn to destroy you.”

The pain was so intense that Merlin could hardly take a breath. “I’m not ready . . .”

The light of the angel’s face brightened. “You never will be, Merlin. But take courage. Your God is with you!”

Grannos, Mórgana, and the spear faded, along with the pain. Merlin floated upon a sea of songs, dark laments, and lapping dirges. Ages passed, it seemed, and finally he was washed back up to feeling and warmth.

Peredur’s face appeared above him, and firelight flickered on the rock ceiling. The smell of bean and wild carrot soup filled the air.

“Where am I?” Merlin asked. His lips felt dry and his tongue swollen.

“We’re here, still, in the cave o’ Colvarth. Are ya well?”

Merlin sat up and took a sip from his waterskin. “No . . .”

“Is it your shoulder? You fell, and I tried to catch you, but — ”

“The war’s begun.”

Peredur sat still for a moment, then filled a wooden mug with soup and offered it to Merlin. “There’s always been war. Saxenow, Picti . . . even the Scoti.”

Merlin wanted to take the soup, but he began to shake as if the room had suddenly grown chill. “Not those. The war between my half sister, Ganieda, and me. She was the one who told the Picti to make us slaves, and it was she who fought against me at Atle’s temple as well.”

“That was long ago. You’ve mentioned her name before, but I didn’t realize — ”

“I had a vision, she told me her name is now Mórgana . . . ‘Gana the Great.’ She’s the granddaughter of the arch druid, Mórganthu, and if that man is still alive, I know he’s helping her too.”

“So? Yer sister and an old man.” He offerred the mug of soup once more, and Merlin accepted it with trembling hands.

“She has power. Dangerous power. And what can
I
do?”

“Fight.”

Merlin shook his head. “It’s not that simple. Do you remember when Natalenya was sick?”

“You mean when we were slaves? When she had the boils?”

Merlin closed his eyes and nodded. “Mórgana did that. And now God has removed his protection from us, whether all of it, or some of it, I don’t know. But Natalenya may be in danger again.”

Setting his own mug down, Peredur said, “You can’t go back. Arthur needs you, Merlin.”

“I have to warn her, at least. There’s Taliesin and Tinga to think about too.”

“But what about Arthur?”

Merlin tasted some of the soup with a wooden spoon. The beans weren’t cooked all the way through, but the carrots were very good,
and the warmth helped stem the shaking. “Everyone keeps telling me he’s ready. Maybe Arthur’s supposed to go on alone.”

“You can’t mean that. He doesn’t even know he’s Uther’s son.”

“Does it matter? God can — ”

Peredur gripped Merlin’s arm. “I can’t believe ya’d say such a thing. Yes, God can, but God has given the task of advisin’ Arthur to you. Colvarth chose
you
, Merlin, to guide the next High King. I heard the old bard say it with me own ears.”

“I know what I need to do, and I don’t need you telling me.”

Merlin banged his mug down on a rock near the fire, stood stiffly, and walked to the cave entrance. He took some deep breaths of the fresh night air. “It’s just that I’m afraid.”

“Do I need to hit ya over the head? I don’t care how scared ya are, the task is yours.”

Merlin didn’t answer. He had always secretly hoped that, somehow, he only need raise Arthur and the rest would take care of itself. That he could continue to live out his days with Natalenya and the children in their safe valley. That the evil specter of Ganieda . . . Mórgana . . . was nothing more than a bad dream. He had helped to defend the north with the goal of ending the slave-taking by the Picti. Why was more required of him than that?

“Step forth, Merlin!” came a voice from behind him that held within it an authority that surprised Merlin. “And don’t be afraid, for your God is with you.”

Merlin spun, his heart beating. Peredur stood over the bubbling soup, his spoon forgotten in his hand. Had Peredur said those words? Surely not, but then Merlin noticed a light in the man’s eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“I’ve seen the Sangraal meself, you know, and I saw what God did through ya on Atle’s mountaintop. You have to dredge up the memories from that sea of fear.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes it is. Repent . . . an’ believe the good news! Do ya remember last week’s Scripture that Brother Loyt encouraged us to memorize?”

In every battle that thou sufferest,

thou art a mighty victor

through Jesu Christus who loves thee.

For God hath persuaded me that

neither the slain, nor the living,

neither angels, nor demons,

neither what happens now,

nor all thy dreaded futures,

neither impassable mountains,

nor the deepest, blackest valleys,

and surely nothing else created

can sever thee from the love of God

in Jesu Christus our Lord.

Merlin turned and took another long, deep breath. Outside the cave there were countless winking stars blanketing the heavens, the lights that God had made — but it wasn’t enough to take his fear away. He knew deep down that he had to choose the course that meant the most danger for himself and the most risk for Natalenya and the children — and that was the problem.

The next morning, Merlin mounted his horse and followed Peredur out of pure submission to the task set before him. Every part of him yearned to return home to protect his family, but Peredur was right: Arthur was out there, unaware of his calling, oblivious to his danger, and in need of guidance. Could Merlin — chosen to advise and raise the true king — abandon him to Mórgana? Natalenya would be fine, he assured himself, and he gave her and the children into God’s hands.

The valley trail led them on and upward into the mountains: gray, ever drier, and full of stones. After some time, the valley ended and they rode to the top of a ridgeline, where the path divided. The southward route took a gentle slope to the dry brown and hilly land
beyond, while the eastward route was a rough descent toward a small, abandoned village. Broken crennigs and sunken, rotting roofs stared up at them from the valley below.

Peredur started on the southward path, but Merlin called to him.

“Arthur would take this way.” Merlin pointed down the more dangerous path that led them eastward.

Peredur raised an eyebrow, slipped from his horse, and led the way down the track. “You’re right. Arthur would never take the easy way.”

Merlin dismounted as well and followed. “He probably rode down this mountain at top speed.”

“And risked breaking his horse’s leg
and
his own neck?”

They both nodded at the same time.

It took more than an hour to pick their way down. Once they got to the bottom, Peredur found the tracks they were looking for: three horses all headed southward through the hills.

“How long ago?” Merlin asked as he pulled himself up into his saddle.

“Hard to tell. The ground’s too dry. I hope the drought ends soon.”

They followed the trail, occasionally resting their horses. When early evening came, they decided to take an extended stop in the slanted shade of an oak, whose roots supped at the dismal remains of a pond.

After dismounting, Peredur inspected the trail markings once more. “Merlin,” he called, “there’s a fourth track mixed in. Boot prints.”

“Well, someone was walking their horse. That’s natural.”

“Sure, except this person doesn’t walk like you or me. Here’s an example — he mostly runs on the balls of his feet. There’s only one heel mark among the prints.”

“Hmm — ”

“And look at his stride . . . each footprint is six feet from the other, sometimes more.”

Merlin rubbed his chin. “Now that’s odd. I mean, I could jump that far . . .”

“But run like that?”

“No. Do you think he’s running with them, or chasing them?”