Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (47 page)

That night the stony ground made Merlin’s bones ache, and he slept fitfully. Broken images of a sneering Gorlas flashed through his
dreams, each time with skin more blotchy, and teeth longer. Then the man laughed in Merlin’s face — a long, barking sort of laugh. He drew his sword, challenging Merlin to a duel. Their blades clashed, and Merlin fought him away until Gorlas broke apart into a thousand bats and flew away.

Then Merlin wandered alone in the dark, all the stars smothered by thick clouds so that only the crescent moon slipped through the black void like a jaundiced, winking eye. A wind rose and tore its fingernails at the branches of the dead trees — and yet Merlin was not alone, for a raven, red-legged with a beak red like blood, had followed him. It cawed at him from the ground, and then strangely grew until its wings were eight feet in length. Though he ran and ran, he could not escape the sight of its hungry eyes or the sound of its razor-sharp bill snapping at his back. A mountain appeared before him and he ran upward, panting, lungs burning. He came upon the camp in the darkness, but no warning sounded, as all the men were asleep, including the guards. Though Merlin tried to wake them, he could not. One by one the raven began to slay anyone in its path, with Merlin just steps beyond its reach. He ran to where he thought Arthur had been sleeping, but the king couldn’t be found.

Merlin came across his own bed, tripped, and scrambled back to his feet.

Then the raven laughed, and Merlin turned to face it, his blade ready.

It was Mórgana. With blood on her hands.

Merlin tried to move, but his whole body froze. His legs wouldn’t lift. His hands lost their strength so that his sword fell to the earth. He couldn’t even scream.

Mórgana ignored him, gathered up the weapons of the sleeping warriors one by one, and dutifully dropped each down the well. Spears. Axes. Swords. Bows. Quivers. All went down the throat of the mountain until every man was unarmed.

And all the while, Merlin fought to move, to stop her, to call out, but could not.

Finally, Mórgana strolled over to him.

“Well, brother, it seems you are powerless against me. Just as I like it. And for your sword? I will take it as my very own . . . in memory of our father, whose death
you
caused.”

These last words burned like poison in Merlin’s ears, and he fought to speak — to refute her lies — but stood mutely.

Mórgana picked up Merlin’s sword and twirled the edge near his throat. “Will you give in, then, even now? Will you do my bidding? Before I force you . . . or force Arthur? It will not be pleasant, I assure you.”

She snapped her fingers, and Merlin was able to cough, and his words came out tasting of ice and blood. “I will not . . . do your bidding . . . I will fight you . . . and with God’s grace . . . I will prevail.”

She slapped him sharply across the cheek so that he jerked away and closed his eyes. When he dared open them again she was still gloating over him.

“Just as I expected,” she said. “Well . . . it will at least be fun to watch now, won’t it?”

Then, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, she turned back into a red-legged raven and soared into the night sky, cawing.

Merlin stared after her, and only then did it dawn on him that he wasn’t dreaming. The blood on his tongue was too authentic. The sting on his cheek was genuine.

This is real. She was here!

A wolf howled in the distance . . . and then a multitude of other wolves joined in. All around the mountain it came, sending a violent tremble down Merlin’s legs. For a moment his sight dimmed, and he lurched to the side, dizzy.

Arthur was next to him in an instant. “What’s happened?” he asked, buckling his armor.

The wolves howled again, and then Merlin saw an army of men streaming up toward their camp, but there was something strange about them . . .

“Wolf-heads!”

Arthur blew his horn to wake the men, and within moments they were on their feet, grabbing for their weapons.

Arthur reached for his, but it was missing.

The men began to yell, asking where their weapons were.

“Mórgana . . . she’s taken them — ” Merlin rasped.

Arthur wasted no time. “To the horses! Bring the wounded!”

They ran to the side of the hill where the horses had been picketed, but it was too late, for all their tethers had been cut. The animals had caught the scent of the wolf-heads and were in a frenzy of rearing and thrashing. Some of the men tried to calm them, but it became a dangerous stampede. Two warriors took blows to the ribs as the horses panicked to escape. And when the wolf-heads came within a stone’s throw, the central mass galloped down the hill and away.

Arthur swore. “Get knives, branches . . . anything!” he yelled.

But his words were unnecessary, for every man had already found makeshift arms, ready to fight.

Merlin and most of the others had short dirks, but none of them had their longer, more deadly weapons. They gathered, shoulder to shoulder and back to back on the mountainside.

The wolf-heads came upon them with startling speed. Their muzzles were varied colors of gray, brown, or black, with streaks of white, and their eyes blazed yellow as moonlight and full of wrath. The rest of their bodies were furless and human. None of them had weapons, and they needed none . . . for the sight of their teeth made Merlin’s arms stiffen and his ribs constrict.

A gray wolf-head ran at Merlin, and it leapt through the air and vaulted over him with its teeth directed at his neck.

Merlin ducked and jabbed with his knife, but its fangs slashed his cloak and cut the skin over his collarbone. Merlin winced and whirled around, barely in time to avoid the slavering jaws again. As the wolf-head lunged at his throat, Merlin grabbed onto its tunic and shoved it back.

The wolf-head snarled, straining forward. Its teeth and curling
black lips were so close that the foul smell of its breath clouded the air.

Merlin jabbed his blade toward its throat, but the wolf-head slammed its forearm down onto Merlin’s head.

The pain instantly reverberated down to his hand, and Merlin’s dirk missed. Time slowed, and with perfect clarity he heard screaming, grunts, and the slashing of blades. He fell backward — his head lolling to the side — yet it felt like floating, and he had no sensation of hitting the ground besides seeing the dry plume of dust lifting up and obscuring his vision for a moment. When the dust cleared, he saw the warrior next to him, dead, his throat ripped out and his lifeless eyes staring.

No! It can’t end this way
! The wolf-head lunged at him. Merlin yelled and flailed his dirk out, finally slamming the hilt against the creature’s temple.

The creature shook off the blow, and within moments its form pressed against him, pinning him to the ground. The wolf-head opened wide, and the ridged roof of its maw and curved fangs snapped forward.

Merlin thrust his dirk upward, cutting deeply into the beast’s throat.

The wolf-head screamed, a gurgling, roaring wail that was matched by the chaos around them.

Merlin shoved the dirk deeper — and the beast fell still.

Pushing the dead weight off, Merlin stood to take in the creature, and gasped. The creature had turned back to a man who wore the plaid of Gorlas’s warriors. Yet he was young, not much older than Arthur . . . and Merlin had killed him.

Mórgana, you’ve bewitched them . . . May God judge you!

There were so many wolf-heads and warriors screaming that Merlin wanted to cover his ears. Dead littered the field, and Arthur’s previously injured men had become the first victims.

Mabon came running toward him through the thick of battle, and Merlin grabbed his collar and pulled him close. “Fight with me!”

The man’s lips quivered, and there were blood and scratches on his neck.
“He’s coming . . . he’s coming!”
Mabon yelled, and his gaze was locked on the ground.

“Who?”

Mabon shook his head and wouldn’t answer.

From the east came a piercing howl that made fear gurgle up and fill Merlin’s throat.

Mabon cowered down.

As one, the wolf-heads ceased their killing and ran toward the howling.

Merlin was left speechless as he viewed the carnage left behind . . . over half Arthur’s men lay dead, with less than ten men in Gorlas’s plaid slain. The exposed stones of the mountain had become slick with blood, and Merlin nearly gagged.

But there was no time. The dark shadow of the howling beast now approached with his wolf-head army. Unlike the others, he was covered from head to foot with reddish-brown fur, and even when hunched over he still stood a head taller than Merlin. At his neck lay a silver torc with blood-red tips, besides that he wore no clothing.

This was no wolf-head. This was a
werewolf
.

Merlin’s heart thumped and his skin began to writhe. He ran to find Arthur.

Dear God
,
let him be alive!

And there Arthur was, standing with his back to a pine and his foot on the body of a former wolf-head. He watched the oncoming beast with open-mouthed horror. Peredur and Dwin, both white-faced, stood next to him as guardians.

“Run!” Merlin yelled. “It’s a werewolf! We can’t fight it without weapons!” He dashed westward down the mountain, toward the slice of moon spying at them through the clouds.

I have to get away . . . get away! I can’t face it!

Arthur yelled for the men to follow, and they did so without hesitation.

They ran for more than a league, with the wolf-heads at their heels. Merlin had trouble keeping up with the younger men as his body was weak from fasting, but his fear drove him forward, foot over foot, breath after empty breath, and hill after endless hill . . . until a cramp formed in his side.

He was near the back now, and couldn’t run much farther. He needed to rest. Behind him came the panting wolf-heads, with their white teeth shining in the moonlight — and at their vanguard loped the werewolf. The creature’s claws clicked on the rocks, and its red fur bristled at its neck as it ran.

Onward they ran, though slower. Sometimes the werewolf would run alongside them and try to attack a straggler, who would run quickly into the thick of the group and they would all change direction. Sometimes this happened on their left, and sometimes on their right, for the beast was tireless and determined. Only one man was caught by the werewolf, and his life ended so quickly that Merlin could do nothing but let bitter-tasting tears streak down past his scruffy cheeks. And continue running. Always running.

Overall, their course headed roughly toward the moon, angled sideways in the sky with dagger-like horns stabbing upward toward the stars and inky clouds blowing past.

Their route turned downhill once more, making the ache in Merlin’s side ease up, and he tried to breathe as evenly as he could to alleviate the pain. Unexpectedly, his feet splashed into water . . . they had found a shallow, thin stream in the wilderness. Merlin scooped up the water as he dashed across and gulped it down, bringing some relief to his burning throat.

As he ran up the opposite hillside, a strange thing happened . . . the sound of the wolf-heads’ pursuit stopped. Merlin turned and saw that the werewolf at their lead had halted at the stream and would not enter it. Howling in rage, the beast shook its head and gnashed its teeth as Merlin followed the others away.

“Look!” Merlin called to the others, and they saw too. The word
was passed to the front, and soon the whole group stopped and fell to the dry bracken, their lungs heaving.

The werewolf yowled and led the pack northward.

“They’ll look for a bridge,” a man next to Merlin said, “and when they find it, they’ll — ”

Merlin knew the man’s voice, and he turned to him. “Peredur!”

“I’ve been next to ya the whole run, and ya didn’t notice me?”

“I — ”

Peredur held out some crusty bread. “Here . . . I saved this. Ya need strength.”

Merlin took it and began to eat.

“Up, my men!” Arthur called. “We run or we die!”