Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (3 page)

M
órgana scowled at King Gorlas’s back as he dug into the grave.

“Accursed shovel!” he yelled to the darkness, slamming the iron edge once more into the ground and flinging the dirt up. Five more times he jabbed at the loamy clay before twisting his wiry neck around and gazing at her savagely. “Are you sure she’s here?”

“Yes.”

Gorlas wagged his wild beard, and a silver torc shone from under its disheveled black fronds. “If not, I’ll have your spleen sliced out — ”

“Tell me again why you want her back.”

“I’ve told you.”

“Tell me again . . . while you dig,” she crooned.

“Igerna ran away.”

“Two months past, it was, remember?” She took a step forward, stooped, and stroked his cheek with one finger.

His eyes lost focus. “That’s right,” he said, digging the shovel in and throwing dirt from the hole. “When the moon was full.”

“Yes, the moon. Go on.”

“And yet you claim she died sixteen years ago.” He dug into the soil again. “But it makes no sense. She’s buried here, you say?”

“Yes,” Mórgana said, looking up at the stars winking down through the trees. “Her body is here. Keep digging.” It didn’t surprise her that he was confused. He’d always been confused. For it wasn’t Igerna who had left him . . . but rather Ewenna, his consort, whom the man fanatically claimed was Igerna. Mórgana grimaced. It had taken many gold coins to convince the woman to leave Gorlas.

“And you’ll bring Igerna back to life?”

“Yes.”

“Not for that tormenting pig, but for me?”

“Uther is dead, and you have nothing to fear from him. Tell me,” she said, making her voice as smooth as honeyed mead, “what is your promise to me?”

He stood up at this question and looked at her with his left hand covering his right eye. “My soul. My very soul. But what is that? What is a soul?”

“A trifle. A little glob. Nothing you will miss. Promise me, and Igerna will rise before you, ever yours, young and in love with you, for ever and ever.”

“And clever. She’s clever, isn’t she? Pretending to love Uther, but really loving me. She didn’t marry that swine, did she?”

“Never.”

“And their brats, they’re dead now, aren’t they?”

“Every one of them. Vortigern saw to that. Eilyne drowned, and Myrgwen is dust. And Arthur — I saw him die with my own eyes, the little wretch.” The whole truth pressed against her lips like bit
ter vomit, but she squeezed them closed and kept it in. She had seen Merlin heal the child, yet she dared not tell Gorlas such news. The very purpose of this ruse was to bring about Arthur’s destruction. And this bearded fool would be the instrument.

Gorlas clapped at the news. “Yes, yes!” he said, but his head shook left and right, as if in disagreement with himself. He began digging again.

“Promise me!”

“I promise.”

“What do you promise?”

“To give you my very soul.”

“And the service of your warriors?”

“Yes, for a year and a day, as we agreed. Now let me dig!”

He was close, so close now. Mórgana cast a glance at his two guards pacing nearby. It was unfortunate that Loth was gone to Lyhonesse building a new fortress from which to rule their future realm — his presence here could have made this task safer. But Gorlas had agreed to this pact more quickly than Mórgana had anticipated, and she had not had time to call her husband and his warriors back to Bosvenna Moor.

The guards could not be allowed to interfere. Certainly the one on the left, old and snoozing as he leaned upon his spear, was of no concern. But the other, he could be a challenge. Dyslan, the king had named him — the son of Tregeagle. No matter what, his sword was sharp, and his hand strayed to the hilt too often for Mórgana’s neck to feel comfortable. He didn’t trust her either — she could see it in his twitching cheeks whenever he turned his gaze her direction. Ah, but he would pay dearly if he intervened. And if the worst happened, she could always call upon the ranks of the druidow, hidden with her grandfather, Mórganthu, in the woods to their left.

As well, her thirteen-year-old son, Mórdred, was hiding on the right, though she didn’t want to chance his precious life so soon.
There were plans for him, and his life must be preserved for the day of victory.

“Dig, Gorlas,” she said, and he did, furiously. Heaps of dirt soon bulged at the edge of his pit, each one threatening to collapse back into the hole.

Then he stopped.

“What’s this?” He picked up something long and gray. “It’s a bone . . . I . . . I . . .”

“Keep digging. You must find them all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dig a little farther . . . trust me.”
It will be released once he finds the skull . . . The Voice has promised.

“I won’t. Not till you explain. My love . . . my love isn’t dead . . . I see my love . . . she stands before me!”

Mórgana glanced up but saw nothing. The fool was delirious.

“She’s warning me.” Gorlas stared at nothing, one hand raised as if to touch someone’s face. All at once he turned a fiery gaze on Mórgana. “Telling me not to trust you. Why should I trust you?”

Mórgana smiled.

He yelped while his eyes wildly searched the air. “She’s gone. She’s g-gone! I can’t see her . . . I must have her. I must find her!” He thrust the shovel back into the earth and began digging deeper and deeper.

Mórgana pushed a wisp of black hair away from her eyes, pouted at his irritating manner, and slipped her hand down to her belt. There she found her special fang hidden in a thin leather sheath. Plucking it out, she wrapped her fingers around its length. Years had passed since she’d found it beneath the Druid Stone, and now it ached to be used for this very special purpose. Her plans were finally coming to fruition, and she almost laughed to think of it. She had waited so long. The Voice, who had given her this fang, had waited also, and he had taught her patience, yes. Patience for such a vast revenge that all the world would be stunned into silence.

And it begins . . . now.

A thrill of power wiggled up the inside of her arm like a worm, ate its way into her chest, and spun there: increasing, pulsing . . . power!

Gorlas dug deeper until his knees could no longer be seen. At the sound of crunching bones, he closed his eyes, snapped his head back and forth, and looked back down. Myriad gray bones lay at his feet. And a skull. But not a human skull.

Gorlas growled; the sound rattled deep from within his throat as he stared at the skull of the creature — her friend — she had buried here all those years ago.

Morgana worked to hold back a laugh at the confusion on the man’s face. But it would not last long. Lifting forth the fang, she felt its green fire curling around her hand. She jabbed its curved spike into the nape of his neck.

He screamed, arched his back, and swore at her. He lifted the shovel, off-balance, and threatened to cleave her head in two.

Behind her, she heard Dyslan draw his sword, but she refused to take her eyes from the delicious scene before her.

Smoke began to pour from the hole in Gorlas’s neck, and blood dribbled onto his finely woven plaid of indigo, white, and teal. His arms began to shake, and his face contorted.

The shovel fell, clanking upon a rock.

Gorlas tipped sideways and dropped into the hole, dead.

Dyslan yelled and ran at her.

She jumped over the hole, leaving Gorlas’s body between her and the guard. Landing in a crouch, she spun to face Dyslan as the ground began to tremble. A muffled roaring sounded from the open grave, and dirt and rocks shot upward in stinging plumes.

Dyslan staggered, his sword limp. The other guard awoke and fell to his knees in terror.

With her free hand, Mórgana reached into her bag once more and pulled forth the orb, another gift from the Voice. Like the fang,
she had found it beneath the Druid Stone. It had many powers, but tonight she would use it differently.

Out from the trembling, roaring hole appeared a translucent image of Gorlas that only Mórgana could see — his soul emerging from his body. Quickly, she held the orb out, and Gorlas’s soul glittered, faded, and then began to sink once more into the pit. The apparition’s face twisted in agony. Oh, but she would save him from this pain. She began to chant:

Soul of earth, soul in dearth, come now to me.

Skin of dust, skin in rust, come and serve me!

Merlin’s end, Merlin’s rend; yes, you shall be.

Arthur’s bane, Arthur’s chain; yes, you must be!

Power of night, Power of fright, come now, my prize.

Flesh astrewn, Flesh of moon; yes, you shall rise!

From the hole came the sound of tearing and ripping. The guard with the spear turned white and collapsed, his eyes rolling upward into his head.

Dyslan took three steps closer and warily leaned toward the pit. His stomach convulsed, and he retched. Clutching his sword to his chest, he turned and fled.

No matter. He wouldn’t get far, and she would deal with him later.

Gorlas’s soul shimmered its last, and then the orb sucked it in like a black liquid swirling down through a funnel. A scream whistled upon the air, and then all was still.

It was done! For inside the orb, surrounded by purple flame, glared the weeping visage of Gorlas.

And in the grave, a hulking shadow rose.

She laughed, weary beyond weary due to her exertions, but she laughed.

Now to set everything in motion.

“Druidow . . . Mórdred . . .” she yelled into the woods. “Attend me now and meet the new king of Kernow!”

E
N ROUTE TO THE VILLAGE OF
D
INAS
C
RAG
R
HEGED, IN NORTHERN
B
RITAIN
S
PRING, IN THE YEAR OF OUR
L
ORD
493

T
he wind whipped past Merlin’s ears as his horse galloped down the barely lit forest path. Too late, he realized he should have heeded the wild cawing of the crows around him: his horse reared up before a dozen wolves, who looked up from their fallen prey. A massive buck, slain and gutted, lay in their midst, and all around the greedy, black-feathered sentinels looked on in anticipation.

His mission had gone from urgent to life or death.

Merlin wheeled his horse to the left and kicked her onward, off the path and between two trees. The mask that Merlin wore to cover his scars shifted upward on his face momentarily, obscuring his vision. He righted it just before a branch lashed him across the face, nearly cutting his lip through the black cloth.

The wolves howled behind him, but Merlin didn’t look back — couldn’t look back. Terror sought to master him, but he pushed it down. He had to direct his horse farther before he could cut back to the path. But the woods were too thick to ride fast, and he’d be caught. Fear, like a cloak of thistles, clung to his legs and back. A wolf could rip his flesh away at any moment.