Chapter 23—The Valley of Fallen Kings
Merlin drove the team of horses into the wagon yard, slowing for a stable hand who grabbed the halter of the lead mare. Merlin jumped down and then ran into the dim interior of the barn. He moved down the row of stalls until he found the horse that Arthur had assigned to him. The paint gelding tossed its head, sensing urgency in Merlin’s quick movements. A plaque on the door of the stall announced that the gelding’s name was Skittles. Merlin patted his nose, then brought him out of the stall. Skittles frisked as Merlin tossed a blanket and saddle on his back, giving the cinch an extra tug before he launched himself into the saddle.
Trotting back into the late afternoon sunshine, Merlin set his heels against Skittles’s flanks, but he needed no urging. The deep-chested horse stretched out his nose, breaking into a run, eager to be away. Merlin wound his way through the streets, riding directly into the setting sun. The western gate was just visible over the roofs of the shops that lined the curving streets, allowing Merlin to pick a path that kept him on course. He wasn’t yet familiar with the layout of the city. Once or twice, he had to backtrack but eventually the gates appeared at the end of the street. He trotted over the drawbridge, Skittles’s shoes thudding hollowly on the thick boards. Once clear of the bridge, he gave Skittles his head, and the gelding jumped into a full run. Merlin hugged his withers with his knees. then leaned low over his neck, mane streaming across his face.
As he rode, Merlin recalled every story ever told by drunk (and sober) Edan the peddler, searching for clues that would help him survive this encounter with Simone. He knew that he would find the cave. In fact, he could feel the cave calling to him, something that had started the moment his mother had hung the pendant around his neck. The pendant pulsed with a shivering energy, like a second heart beating close to his. Yet the chest that bore it was far to the west. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the spot, knowing it would take the better part of day to reach the cave. He would have to slow their pace, eventually stopping for the night, but that would not be until the light had faded and the inky blackness of dark made it impossible to ride safely. At that point, he would dismount and walk his horse until even that option failed.
Merlin’s thoughts drifted back to the past, under the steady pounding of Skittles’s hooves. The peddler Edan’s stories had no doubt been highly embellished, and the more ales to pass his lips, the more fanciful they had become. His favourite story had involved the cave by the lake of Avalon. To hear him tell it, the cave itself was protected by a powerful magic, passable only by the keenest whit and nerve. This, of course, had brought on the catcalls and mocking laughs of his audience. Merlin replayed the sharp memory in his mind.
Ten-year-old Merlin hunched in his hiding place under the stairs, listening to the raucous laughter. He pulled the blanket tighter over his head to hide his presence. The old peddler’s face reddened with anger and embarrassment as the villagers mocked him. It was always the same at this juncture of the tale. Edan waved his skinny arms and climbed up onto a table to gain height above the jeering crowd.
“I tell you, the shields will scour the flesh from your bones,” he’d rave.
“And how would you know this, Edan? You are obviously still dancing in your skin,” mocked the local butcher, Karl.
“Why, by the piles of bones stacked up on either side of the entrance. There were bones of every size and shape. Not all were animal bones either, you know.”
“Since when can you tell one bone from another?” the butcher scoffed. “Did you bring any of these bones back, as proof of your adventures? Eh?” Karl spit off to the side. “’Course you didn’t. That be because your stories are taller than you.”
“As a matter of fact, I do have a bone. But I won’t show the likes of you uncultured oafs. No, that bone is a treasured possession, not something to be passed about to you lot. It has magic.”
Laughter rang through the inn. “Magic? You wouldn’t know magic if it jumped up and bit you on your skinny ass. The only magic you possess, old man, is the ability to spin a tall tale. Here, let me buy you another round.” The butcher pushed his way over to the bar, snickering, and disappeared.
Edan watched him go, a scowl on his face. He reached under his shirt and pulled out a medallion, hanging from a leather cord tied around his neck. He pulled it off and held it up to the firelight. Merlin couldn’t see what was on the medallion, but it glinted in the reflected light of the large stone fireplace, that dominated the end of the room.
“This is what allowed me to pass through the barrier. This protected me.” He shook his fist, making sure everyone saw he held something, then slung it back over his neck, tucking it away. The eyes of the men around him followed the medallion as it vanished inside his shirt. “Without it, I would have died. I could not have passed through the powerful magic otherwise. I could feel my flesh melting under the sizzling contact, as I pushed through the barrier. My hair stood on end,” He spread his fingers wide and placed them on either side of his head, “and my eyes cried as the flesh sagged around my eye sockets,” he placed two fingers below each eye and pulled the lower lid down, exposing the red rimmed flesh below, “until I despaired of reaching the interior of the cave.”
“I see no difference,” shouted someone in the crowd, and more laughter filled the inn.
“No difference?” huffed Edan. “I aged ten years on that trip, I swear it’s true. Do you really think I would look this old, otherwise?”
“Now, Edan. Do you really want us to answer that?” said the butcher, who had returned to the crowd, handing up to him a mug of ale filled to overflowing.
Edan took a grateful gulp. “Believe what you want. It is the honest truth. Some day you will all know it. For what I saw in that cave is a horror waiting to be unleashed on Camelot.” He paused dramatically, taking another deep sip of ale, and wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. He waited until the tittering quieted. He waited for the exchange of glances in his audience. He waited and waited for the inevitable question. Merlin could feel the tension ratcheting up inside of him, the anticipation building in his chest. His heartbeat quickened. Into the silence, the question dropped.
“What did you see in the cave?” asked Huddel. Merlin’s head swiveled. His mother’s legs were visible through a crack in the stairs.
Edan stared at her, eyes narrowed. A fission of understanding passed between the two.
“Dragon bones,” he whispered, directly to Huddel. “But it was more than that. There are spirits that inhabit the cave. It’s their final resting place. A graveyard for dragons.”
“A graveyard for dragons. You are mental, my friend,” scoffed the butcher. “But good entertainment, for all that. I want to hear the one about the mermaids in the well. Tell us that story now.” The others took up the call to move on to the mermaids, calling out their favourite parts. Huddel and Edan’s eyes held each other for a few more seconds and then the moment was broken.
Edan hopped down from the table and clapped the butcher on the shoulder, leading him over to the chairs placed around the fireplace. “Ah yes, that is a fine tale. It all began with a cracked bucket that I bought for two silver shillings. Way too expensive a price to pay for a cracked bucket you’d say, and you would be right. But you see, the mermaids were…” Edan’s voice faded away as Merlin’s attention was drawn to his mother, who had placed a hand on his bony shoulder. “Come on, Merlin. Its time you were in bed.”
Merlin fingered the medallion through his shirt, the same one that had flashed in the hand of the peddler so many years ago. A graveyard for dragons would be the perfect place to find a host, should you wish to manifest yourself as a dragon, he thought. The sun dipped below the edge of the trees, a burst bubble of flame spreading across the horizon. The tops of the trees blazed for a moment, just long enough for him to find the faint path he had been searching for. Marked by a tree that had been split by a lightning strike, the sun’s setting rays fanned across a rutted path, strewn with leaves. He pulled hard on the reins, slowing Skittles and turning the gelding onto the path. Shadows followed him as he moved down the murky trail. In places, it was all but obscured under dead fall, but then it would rise to reveal two faint lines of ancient stone paving, interspersed with tall stalks of grass.
His eyes scanned for a good place to stop for the night as he dismounted, leading Skittles into the thickening gloom. The faint light faded away until he could barely see his hand in front of his face. Off to the right side, he spied a small clearing of crushed grass beside a small stream. Skittles’s nostrils flared, the scent of the water drawing his attention. Merlin guided him off the cart path and made for the spot. By the pattern of flattened grasses, four or five deer had recently used the secluded meadow to bed down for a night. Merlin hobbled Skittles’s legs then removed the saddle, giving him a quick rubdown before he slid the halter from Skittles’s face, freeing him to munch on the tender shoots underfoot. Skittles headed straight for the stream to noisily slurp on the cool waters.
Merlin retrieved a blanket and the food parcel from his saddle bag plus a dented tin cup. After a quick trip to the stream to retrieve some water, he settled down to a dinner of bread, sliced pork, and a hard, sharp cheese. As he ate, he reviewed the map he had seen hanging in Arthur’s chambers, through his mind’s eye. It had shown the approximate location of the cave to be a ride of about a day and a half, but he fully intended to reach the cave before dark. By the time he finished eating, dark had fully descended. Skittles’s head drooped in sleep. Merlin rolled himself into his blankets and five minutes later he was fast asleep.
An hour before dawn, he woke, ate a quick breakfast, then saddled Skittles and packed up. The shadows of night were lightening as he led the big gelding back up to the trail and led him down the dark path. Half an hour later the shadowed trail lightened enough that Merlin felt safe climbing into the saddle. The sleepy twitter of birds, disturbed from their evening roost, followed him as he urged Skittles to a faster pace. Thus, it was, that the sun had just breeched the crest of the hills, as Merlin left the dense forest. The trees simply stopped and a broad valley rolled away in front of him, hemmed by gigantic cliffs of pink granite. The cart path wound between the rock formations scattered across the valley, like a long-abandoned game of bowls and skittles.
Merlin patted Skittles’s nose in appreciation, grinning. “Well, look at that, Skittles! A valley to name after you.” He chuckled then with a soft tap of his boot on Skittles’s side, urged the gelding into a ground eating loping gait.
They had reached the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Merlin studied the valley as he rode. The trail was easier to see now. The stones underfoot were more weathered, but their tight arrangement had allowed for less native vegetation to creep between their slabs. The road wound around vast outcroppings that dwarfed him. As they skirted around the huge rocks, deep grooves chiseled by hand graced the stones. The weathered faces of ancient monarchs, now long forgotten were scattered across the glen, remembered only by the generations of animals that called the bowl home. A herd of deer raised their heads as Merlin trotted by, their ears twitching at the sound of Skittles’s hooves on stone. With a flick of a tail, they bounded away, hidden by another boulder, this one with chipped curling hair. Half of a stone tiara rested in the curls.
A sensation of being watched swept over him and he glanced around, uneasy. A shadow passed over them as a shrill cry shattered the silence. He looked up to see an eagle circling overhead. The eagle circled once more then soared away on warming currents of air toward the west. Merlin watched him go. Eagles were a good omen. Had it been a vulture, he would have been more worried.
At the far end of the valley a pair of massive statues rose from the lip of the crater, carved out of stone. They were indistinct in the early morning haze but mammoth in size, all the same. The pair stood on the shadowy edge of a cleft cut into the valley face which formed a dark chasm below. Merlin recalled that on Arthur’s map, the canyon opening was marked as Defender’s Blade. It was also his destination, for at the end of the narrow canyon was the cave he sought.
The day passed in coordinated increments as he alternatively ran, trotted and walked Skittles, conserving the horse’s strength. At noon, they stopped to rest, Merlin munching on some cheese washed down with lukewarm water from his canteen, and Skittles munching on some sweet clover growing in a patch of shade beside the road. Half an hour later, they were back in the saddle, and a couple hours later, they reached the end of the valley.
The guardians rose in naked splendor above him. Up close, the statues resolved into a carving of a knight and a helmed maiden. Their only nod to modesty was a discretely wound ribbon that draped around their forms in bands of liquid stone. Their feet were encased in sandals and on each of their heads, a helm was carved, set with the face of an eagle. Stern faced, they crossed swords across the chasm, in never-ending challenge.
Merlin and Skittles entered the cool shade cast by cleft of rock, trotting along at as safe of a clip as they could. The feeling of eyes on the back of his neck vanished. Stone slid out from under Skittles’s hooves, the leading edge of slides of shale that mounded at the base of the chasm walls. Two riders could have ridden side by side in the narrow opening, or one wagon with a team of horses, but two would not have been able to pass each other. A snake slithered across the ground, startled by the noise and rumbling of their hooves. The sound echoed down the passage, bouncing back to them. Skittles’s ears flickered forward then backward, trying to sort the sounds. He snorted, side-stepping with a nervous shuffle. Merlin patted his neck, calming him.
Merlin rubbed the back of his neck, remembering the sensation of being watched. Something had been watching him, he was sure of it. He was also sure that the eyes would return on the other end of the Defender’s Blade. He sighed. He really had meant to be there for Arthur’s naming day. It was expected of him, as the abbot’s stand in, but he couldn’t delay this confrontation with Simone. The lives of the people of Camelot were at stake.