Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (53 page)

But the creature yanked the arrow out of his bleeding thigh and flung it, still flaming, at Merlin. The tip of the arrow caught in Merlin’s hair, and the burning rag started to flame up.

Natalenya screamed.

Merlin ignored it and dove inward toward the beast. The smell of burnt hair filled his senses as flicks of flame danced at the edges of his vision. He slammed his head into the creature’s stomach, reached around with his left hand to anchor himself — and stabbed the creature in the side with the tip of his dirk.

But the beast’s fur was too thick and its skin too tough for Merlin’s weakened arm, and the point penetrated only part way.

The beast roared and threw Natalenya behind him like a rag doll. Merlin saw her hit the side of the wagon and slump to the ground.

Now with both claws free, the werewolf grabbed Merlin by the scruff of his armor and flung him back toward the shore so that he landed with his head in the water, extinguishing his hair.

Coughing and choking, he thrashed to sit up. When he did so, he was alarmed to see a wolf-head launch itself right over him and out into the water. Flaming arrows shot past, and yet more wolf-heads came running toward the shore.

Merlin turned and saw that Arthur and the others had floated too close, and the enchanted creatures were leaping and landing on the boats, taking the archers down. Roaring and ripping sounds erupted and the warriors began to scream and yell from the boats.

Merlin stood, dizzy. He still had his dirk but had lost his makeshift shield.

The werewolf lunged at him with ferocious speed. Merlin ducked, but a claw raked across his chest, piercing his armor, and he was vaulted into the air.

The shoreline flipped, and Merlin landed headfirst on the ground, making his whole body buzz and colors dance before his eyes.

He tried to move . . . to sit up . . . to lift his head . . . to do anything, but nothing worked. As Merlin’s eyesight cleared, he panicked to see the werewolf’s face hanging over him, grinning with his white teeth and long, slavering tongue. The beast’s nose twitched and his lips pulled away from his fangs as he opened his mouth.

The tingling in Merlin’s limbs began to decrease . . . too late.

The Werewolf picked Merlin up, but then the fearsome face twisted, and the beast howled in pain, throwing Merlin back to the ground.

“Leave my tas alone!” yelled a hoarse, wild voice.

The beast hesitated, confusion in his wolfish eyes. Then he snarled in rage and spun around, thrashing out with his claws.

A smirking, determined face poked around the left leg of the beast and ran to Merlin.

Merlin’s heart pounded in joy and fear at the same time. “Taliesin! How did you — ?”

“Always hide a knife in your breeches!” he said, and then stabbed the beast in the calf.

The creature turned again, roared, and swung downward.

Taliesin ran through the beast’s legs and back toward the wagon, snaking through the wolf-heads who were running forward and launching themselves at the warriors on the boats.

The werewolf set off after Taliesin, and Merlin yelled to warn his son.

More screaming erupted from the boats. Merlin’s heart beat out a rhythm of
Doom
. . .
Dead
. . .
Doom
. . .

He sat up, trembling, and stood. Arthur was still fighting, for he could hear his clear, strong voice calling to the men. He was Merlin’s earthly king, yes, and they would both die together serving
their Sovereign, for disaster was at the door, and the door was being ripped from its hinges.

The time has come for me to die
,
my King. Make me brave! Make my family brave! Take us to Your kingdom!

And then he heard a drum sounding from the east.

Louder now . . . it was a battle drum!

The sound of thundering horses followed, and Merlin looked up to see a mounted army ride over a ridge and attack the wolf-heads, spears raised and swords slashing. And at their head rode three men — one whom he did not know with red and grayish locks and bronze armor — and two whom he did:

Peredur . . . and . . .

Culann!

A cheer rose from Merlin’s raw throat, and the men on the rafts joined him. The wolf-heads attacking them faltered and were thrown into the water.

Arthur raised his voice in a shout and ordered the men to shore.

Dwin yelled, his exuberant voice floating over the battle.

Five hundred or more horsemen rode through the wolf-heads, cutting them down and striking deeply into their ranks.

The werewolf left off chasing Taliesin and, howling in rage, grabbed a warrior off of his horse. Swinging him into three others, he slammed them all to the ground.

Merlin ran, ducking and diving through the chaos, until he reached the wagon where his son had just finished cutting Tinga’s bonds and helping her down. Together the three of them pulled Natalenya underneath where they could hide. Tinga closed her eyes and jumped into Merlin’s arms, sobbing.

“It’s all right, Tinga . . . it’s going to be all right.”

“No, ith not. Make ’em go away!”

The boats landed and Arthur led the warriors in his company up the shore to harry the wolf-heads from that flank. Gogi towered above them all, swinging his iron mace and clouting any wolf-head that came near.

“Culann!” Dwin yelled. “I knew you hadn’t deserted us!”

He ran toward his newly returned friend, but the raging werewolf turned, saw him, and leapt. The beast’s arm swung out in a ferocious strike, and Dwin crumpled.

Arthur screamed as he rushed toward his friend. The werewolf gave an evil, barking laugh as he lifted Dwin by the throat and squeezed. Running past two fallen horsemen, Arthur picked up an ash-wood spear with a sharpened iron tip and charged.

Arthur had known Dwin for as long as he could remember, but as he closed the distance to the werewolf, the time compressed into flashes of memory: climbing trees; taking their first deer on the same day; throwing each other off of an old, fallen tree into Lake Derwent; learning to tame horses together, to ride bareback, to fight; sharing worries they couldn’t voice to anyone else, talking late into the night about girls; getting to know Culann, who had moved to the valley with his family when they were fourteen.

“Let him go!” Arthur shouted.

The beast lifted Dwin up and bit into his side, ripping away a chunk of armor and flesh together. Dwin screamed until his air ran out, and then he kept screaming in silence, his lips writhing in pain — and that was the worst of all for Arthur to see.

Arthur vaulted forward, anger hot in his veins and rage stretching his neck muscles taut until it felt like they would burst. He smashed the spear point into the werewolf’s left hip until he heard a ripping of fur, skin, and muscle.

“Die, you demon!” Arthur yelled, twisting the tip and shoving it in deeper.

The creature bellowed and threw Dwin down upon a large, blood-stained rock, and turned upon Arthur. Clawing outward, he caught Arthur on the shoulder with a glancing blow as Arthur leapt back to dislodge the spear.

The werewolf lunged forward again, but Arthur ducked to the
side, placing himself between the creature and Dwin’s bleeding body. Backing up, his heel bumped the large rock Dwin was laying on.

The werewolf turned, snarled, and leapt.

Arthur planted the butt of the spear between the rock and the ground and angled it up toward the monster.

The creature impaled itself on the spear, the tip sliding in between two muscled ribs on the right side. In a rage it thrashed out and backhanded Arthur across the face.

There was a jolt as his head snapped to the side.

The monster’s leering, gnashing teeth — crimson and white.

The skewed, sharp-tipped moon — dancing in the darkness.

The spurting chest wound of the werewolf — red and black with gore.

The world spun and Arthur fell, his hand sliding down the length of the spear.

The cold and musty gravel of the shore smashed into his face.

Howling. Shuffling feet. Horses neighing. Warriors shouting. The blare of a battle horn.

The spear quivered as Arthur tightened his grip, and then the tip fell free of the beast’s chest and Arthur was alone. He pulled himself up to a sitting position, shook his head and spit out a chip of broken tooth, a molar from the upper left side of his jaw. His face felt numb. But where had the creature gone?

Dwin moaned beside him, and Arthur turned to see his friend reaching out a blood-soaked hand. Arthur took it.

“Kill the werewolf . . .” Dwin rasped. “No one . . . should die this way.”

“You’re
not
dying. Hang on, I’ll wrap you up, you’ll heal, you’ll — ”

“Arthur . . . ?”

“Yes.”

“Take my necklace. My grandfather gave it. Remember me . . .”

“You keep it. You’re going to heal, see?”

“Tell my mother I love her. My tas, tell him — ” But Dwin choked on his words and his body fell limp. He wasn’t breathing, and his eyes . . . his eyes . . .

Arthur shook his friend’s shoulders, but there was no response.

“No!” Arthur yelled, digging his hand into the blood-soaked pebbles and squeezing them in his fists.

“No-o!”

He laid his head on Dwin’s silent chest and wept angry, bitter tears that coursed down his cheeks and into his mouth, wetting his tongue enough to curse the werewolf and all of its bloody kin.

Arthur closed Dwin’s eyes, and the finality of the act squeezed his heart dry. He then slipped the cord off of Dwin’s neck and placed it over his own. It was strung with the teeth of a wildcat killed long ago on the slopes of Dinas Crag. Dwin had prized it along with the stories his grandfather had told about the hunt.

But how could Arthur go on without his friend? The impossibility of it smote him. Using the spear to steady himself, Arthur stood and surveyed the battlefield. Victory was at hand. The main body of the surviving wolf-head army was fleeing north at top speed, while a small group of six wolf-heads ran away eastward.

But the beast wasn’t among either party.

Arthur looked for his men and saw that all those who had come with him on rafts across the marsh had found horses and mounted: Percos, Neb, Mabon, Tethion, and all the others. All except Gogi, who was stumping slowly toward the wagon where Merlin sat.

“Culann!” Arthur called, wiping the tears from his stinging eyes. “Where’s the beast?”

Culann turned in his saddle, a gruesomely spattered blade in his hand and a look of satisfaction on his face. “South,” he said, pointing along the shore between the mountain and the marsh.

Arthur must have appeared confused, for Culann scowled. “Toward the village.”

Arthur finally saw the creature limping urgently away.

“Chase him! We have to kill him!”

“No!” Culann said. “I saw what happened to Dwin . . . I’m sorry, but we’re riding after the main force of the wolf-heads.” He kicked his mount forward and followed all the other horsemen.

Arthur’s face heated up . . . this, on top of Culann running off with the gold, was serious defiance the two would have to settle later. He turned back to see the werewolf disappearing into the darkness. The beast was wailing in pain.

Arthur looked around, and the only man left who could help him was his father — but Merlin was comforting Taliesin and Tinga, and needed to tend Natalenya.

Arthur clenched his teeth and set off after the badly wounded beast.

“Come back!” Merlin called, but Arthur couldn’t stop.

I will finish this beast. Dwin begged me to do it
,
and I will
,
so help me God.