Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (15 page)

Artorius looked down. His father wasn’t going to like the decision.

“I’m not going to tell you what to do . . .”

Holding out a fist and shaking it, Artorius asked, “Do I even have a choice? Has God given me a choice?”

Standing up, Merlin began walking around the fire, as if thinking. “Surely — ”

“Even if I didn’t know that I was Arthur, God has made me thus, and I can do no other. We’re going to Glevum.”

The word struck like a blow to Merlin’s gut, and Artorius saw him wince in pain. “Why?” was all he could say.

Artorius wiped his hands over his face; he had hoped for a different response. “I thought you wouldn’t tell me what to do.”

“And I won’t,” Merlin said, continuing his pacing. “But I want to understand. The heart of Glevum is the feasting hall of the most powerful man in Britain — and he’ll do anything to put you on a spit and roast you alive.”

Merlin paused behind Artorius and placed his hands gently on his shoulders. “You look a lot like your father, you know.”

“I . . . didn’t know that.”

“What reason do you have to go there?” Merlin’s voice was soft, but Artorius could detect an undertone of desperation.

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“And fighting the Picti is the wrong thing?”

“No, just the lesser good. If the heart of Britain falls, then Rheged will be smashed between the might of the Saxenow and the guile of the Picti.”

“But Vortigern?”

“I’ve thought this through,” Artorius said. “If we don’t stop the Saxenow — Vortigern or no Vortigern — there won’t be a Britain left to be High King of. When I read the parchment calling for the muster at Glevum, I realized how focused we’ve been on Rheged’s own little problems, and I was proud that Uncle had finally called us to help in the south. I guess I was wrong.”

“We have nothing against the south — ”

Merlin said these words with conviction, but Artorius could feel how empty they were. Action is what matterred now, not good will. “I know that, Tas. But the time has come to lend our aid. The kingship — ”

“Please listen to reason,” Merlin said. “Vortigern is getting old. When he dies, you will have the perfect time to act. Not now.”

Peredur coughed. “Vortipor is his heir and will be High King after him, Merlin. Vortigern’s death won’t change anything. In fact, it might make it harder.”

Artorius stood now, mustering up as much authority as he could scrape together. It felt strange, though, to be speaking against his father, but he had resolved to go south, and he had to speak.

“And all of this is up to God. Isn’t that what the abbot would say? I’ve wanted to help in the south before, but the only news we’ve ever heard is that each year Vortigern retreats and the Saxenow take more and more land away. Well, that time is at an end. I know my purpose now.”

Merlin looked away and then back, making eye contact. Finally, he sighed and sat down. “And which name will you go by?”

“Artorius, still, I suppose. It’s the name I’m used to, and it can serve me a little longer. It’s odd, but I had a dream last night that helped prepare me for this news — a woman with black hair called to me. Only she called me ‘Arthur’, not ‘Artorius’, and she wanted me to come to her. Before you told me the truth, I didn’t understand, but now I do.”

The blood had left Merlin’s cheeks. “A woman . . . with black hair?”

“Yes.”

Merlin said nothing for the space of three heartbeats. “The woman you saw . . . was Mórgana, my sister. I advise you: Do not go to her. She’s worse than Vortigern, and has been trying to kill you and me ever since we fled Kernow.”

Artorius crossed his arms. “I didn’t sense any evil.”

“It doesn’t matter what you sensed — she’s deceiving you. Please trust me.”

“There was nothing to be afraid of,” Artorius said. “I know this.”

Merlin swallowed and looked sternly at him. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Aye,” Peredur said, rising. “We’ve wasted enough daylight. That creature may not have come alone.”

Merlin sucked in his breath at this comment and looked around, studying the woods for a long moment. Only then did he proceed. “There’s one thing to do before we go,” he said. “Long ago, when you were still a child, Artorius, and we were fleeing from Vortigern, Colvarth gave me the job of leading.” Merlin drew his sword and presented his blade to Artorius. “I now give the leadership to you, for I swore an oath long ago to your father, and now I swear it to you:

I beseech thee, High King,

and deign thee to bless with thy right hand —

The fealty of my mouth,

that I may speak well of thee.

The fealty of my heart,

that I may follow thee.

The fealty of my arms,

that I may fight against thine enemies.

And the fealty of my legs,

that I may go where thou commandest.”

Merlin paused, swallowed once, and then finished:

“For all my days will I serve thee and defend thee,

along with thine heir, and all that is right under Christ,

on the Isle of the Mighty.”

Artorius stared, shocked to hear such an oath, not just because it was to him as the High King — something he had never fathomed before this strange night — but also because it was from the man he had always considered his father. He received the sword with
trembling fingers and asked him to rise. “No, you can’t swear this oath,” he said.

Still on one knee, Merlin looked up at him, tears shining in his eyes. “I can, and I have.”

And then Peredur knelt and did the same, followed by the solemn Culann and the smiling Dwin. As each one swore his fealty to Arthur as High King, he blushed. He could hardly stand it. Did his friends really have to do this?

Merlin thought so.

But now that it was done, the weight of it finally hit him. For Artorius, this wasn’t about authority as much as
responsibility
. His decisions could bring about any and all of their deaths. Was he ready to accept that? What if Dwin died? Culann? Peredur? His own father? Could Artorius live with that?

But there was no choice anymore. He had met that demon in his night of indecision and had vanquished him. Whatever happens, he had to do what was right.

Hesitatingly, Artorius spoke. “I . . . accept your fealty. May God bless it.”

Dwin grabbed his sword and stood. “Then we go to Glevum?”

“We go.”

They mounted their horses and rode off. The adventure had begun.

Once the sun had risen high enough for Merlin to see clearly, he remembered the blade he had tucked into his belt — the one from the grotesque half wolf.

Looking at it carefully, his suspicions flared again. The shape was identical to the ones that his father had forged for the soldiers serving Tregeagle in the village of Bosventor. The blade was like that of a Roman gladius, but thinner and with a few design touches that were unique to the Britons.

Turning it over, he looked at the side of the pommel — and gasped.

The mark was there:
OAG
, his father’s initials, Owain An Gof.

How had this half-wolf who had attacked Arthur come into possession of a blade that Merlin’s father had made?

As the truth sank in, Merlin began to tremble.

Mórgana.

Holding forth the orb, Mórgana commanded it to show her the half-tongue. Purple fire flashed from her palm, and the image inside the orb dulled, brightened, and then clarified into an image of him lying in a pool of congealing blood.

“Is he dead?” Mórdred asked, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth.

“If so,” Mórganthu said, “then the fool’s plan has failed.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “but I need to make sure, and also give instructions to my servants. Wait, and watch.”

She commanded the orb to take her to the half-tongue, and it began to grow in her palm. Scales formed on its surface, and soon it was so heavy she had to set it down. Larger and larger it pulsed until its skin ripped open and blade-like teeth appeared. The mouth gaped and Mórgana threw herself inside. Down, down the slimy throat she swam until darkness overtook her soul and she appeared, ghost-like, within a rocky glade. The sky was full of haze, and the air dry as death. Nearby smoked the ruins of a campfire, and before her lay the body of the half-tongue.

Mórgana pushed him with her foot on his chest. His body rolled and fell back into place, his clothing making a crinkling sound.

“What is this?” She reached inside his tunic and pulled forth a rolled parchment, small, but of good quality. Upon it was written a message, which she read.

The fool thought to warn Arthur! Laughing, she tore the message into bits and threw them into the remains of the fire.

And although he was astute enough to guess some portion of her secrets, the traitor’s warning had failed. But even if he’d succeeded,
it would’ve made no difference. That was the beauty of the Voice’s plans — no matter what happens, he
always
wins.

The half-tongued man let out a gurgling groan, and Mórgana stepped back.

“I must do something about that,” she said. Turning to the woods, she called to her servants, who were nearby waiting for her signal. “Approach me, my warriors!”

From the woods came three hulking shapes. Each wore the same kind of cloak as the half-tongue, and they threw their hoods back and howled, for though they possessed the bodies of men, their faces were like wolves with full snouts, fangs, and yellow eyes.

“Greetings, my warriors. You have done well hunting our stray wolf. Kill him now, and then continue following Arthur’s trail. You remember what I require?”

The lead wolf-head nodded, leapt forward, and soon the half-tongue was dead, in a way that only a wolf can kill.

Mórgana curled her lip in a wide sneer. “Good-bye, Dyslan. I swore I would kill you, and now I have. Life is that simple.”