Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) by Robert Treskillard Page A

“But how can ya fight wid tha harp in yar handth?”
    “A bard doesn’t fight,” Taliesin said as he spread some butter on his biscuit.
    “But you like fightin’, Tal.”
    “Sure I do, but a bard’s gotta do what a bard’s gotta do, even if it’s not fun.”
    “Fighting isn’t for fun,” Merlin said. “We fight to save mothers, sons, sisters, and babies. To keep our homes from being burned down. To not be made — ”
    Natalenya cleared her throat, and Merlin caught her eye.
    “Anyway, it’s my job to compose a song that commemorates the battle and praises the valor of the men.”
    “So it won’t be forgotten,” Taliesin said, his mouth half full.
    Merlin tweaked his nose. “You remembered!”
    Tinga stuck her thumb into the oatmeal and tasted it. “But what if they ’tack ya? Can ya bonk ’em with tha harp?”
    Merlin shook his head and smiled at her.
    When the meal was ready, Merlin found his place at the hearth between Natalenya and Tingada, across from Taliesin, and once again celebrated his short time with them. When the dish of cabbage and kale was finished off, the biscuits buttered, dipped in honey, and eaten with the savory oatmeal, Merlin sat back and sighed.
    Natalenya took his hand and kissed it. “Don’t leave. Please.”
    “Artorius is going. I need to be there.”
    “I know. I just wish — ”
    He leaned over and hugged her. “No more words. I wish it too.”

    Merlin swung up onto his horse and had a stable hand pass him the leather-wrapped harp. Slinging it onto his back, he nodded to Peredur and they rode off to join the muster. Arthur, Culann, and Dwin had preceded them; their horses were missing from their stalls.
    “It’s a big day, this,” Peredur said. “Sixteen years o’ training, and soon we’ll get to see ’im fight.”
    “If we can keep up with him,” Merlin said, urging his horse northward across the valley to the large gathering of mounted men. Spotting his uncle’s pennant waving in the wind, he weaved through the groups of warriors spread out over the green.
    As Merlin approached, he admired Ector’s highly polished scale armor. It covered him from chest to mid-thigh and was topped with a light-blue cloak thrown over his shoulder and a broad leather belt from which hung his great sword.
    “Don’t tell me you changed your mind,” Ector said, adjusting his helm.
    “About what?”
    “Artorius. Who do you think?”
    “He’s here.”
    “Haven’t seen him, and the scouts haven’t either.”
    “He’s here. His horse isn’t in the stable.”
    “Check for yourself. There’s still time while we wait for the tenders to bring the extra mounts from the far valley.” Ector turned away to address one of his men.
    Merlin looked to Peredur, who raised an eyebrow. They parted, going in opposite directions. As Merlin trotted amongst the men, he saw villagers he knew, hardy men who lived off the land and helped raise the horses — valiant men who were now sallying forth to danger and battle in support of their chieftain and king.
    But no Arthur.
    Merlin rode his horse into the center, where the men were pressed tightest.
    “Has anyone seen Artorius?” he asked, but was met with thoughtful stares and shaking heads.
    Peredur met him on the other side and shook his head as well.
    Merlin began to truly worry.
    “Where could they have gone?”
    Peredur bit his lip. “Let’s talk wi’ the stable hands.”
    And so back they went to the massive stone-and-thatch structure that was the main stable for the valley, situated next to his uncle’s feasting hall. The place was almost deserted, with only a few broodmares eating hay at the far end.
    “Anyone here?” Merlin called.
    A tired-looking boy popped out from a stall with an oaken shovel. “Me’s here, Lord Ambrosius.”
    “Have you seen Artorius anywhere? He — ”
    “Not seen ’im here at all, an’ I been gettin’ the horses saddled since ’afore sunup.”
    “Not at all?”
    “Nah, nah, but tha’