In his dreams he saw Darrowfield and his sons, bound to the altar stone at Stonehenge, screaming for their lives, a faceless villain cutting them, blood streaming from their throats.
All these deaths were connected somehow, but how? The murdering dragons laughed at him.
There were sounds in the night, muffled, agonized screams.
More dreams came.
And again he would dream of the plague ravishing the English countryside. Fevers raged, red-black spots erupted, populations expired. Then came gentle snows and the plague stopped. He stood in a snowbound landscape wondering again and again, Where are the winds that will save Arthur’s sons?
Merlin awoke to an agonized scream. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. As it had every time he had wakened through the night, it took him a moment to remember where he was. The fire in the hearth was nearly gone; a few wisps of low, dying flame danced there and embers glowed, but their light was not much help against the night. The great room was growing cold and his arthritic hip was aching. “Peter! Robert!”
In the night there was nothing but the sound of the turning stones. Slowly he stood and strained his eyes trying to see what was happening in the room. “Robert! We want light!”
Slowly he regained his bearings. The sound of the millstones reminded him where he was, and why.
“George?”
Nothing. No sound but the stones.
More loudly he called, “George!”
A soft groan came from the direction of the millstones.
“George?”
The door opened and Peter entered, carrying a lamp. “You called, Merlin?”
“Get more lights in here. Something is wrong.”
“You should never have used a room this large for your infirmary. It’s so cold in here.” He looked around. “Let me put more logs on the fire.”
“Do it quickly. Then get lamps.”
From the shadows near the millstones came another groan.
“George?”
No answer.
To Peter, Merlin said, “Get your lamp close to the stones. Something is wrong. I feel it.”
Peter finished arranging the logs in the hearth and took his lamp to the stones.
And there was George. He was between the stones, and they were turning inexorably. The entire left side of his body was crushed and bleeding. The stones moved on in their circular path. George was barely conscious. He turned his head feebly, looked to Merlin and moaned again. Softly, almost inaudibly, he mouthed the words, Help me.
“In the name of everything human!” Merlin jumped to his feet and rushed to the boy. “George, how did this happen? Who did this?” He took George’s good hand.
“Help me, sir. Please.” It was not much more than a whisper.
“Lift him out, Peter. Quickly!”
Peter handed the lamp to Merlin and slid his arms carefully under the boy’s crushed body. George cried, “No! It hurts!”
“Pull him out, Peter. We can’t leave him there. Quick, before the stones come around again.”
Peter pulled George out from the stones’ path. George screamed quite horribly.
Robert appeared in the doorway, carrying two more lamps.
George’s cries had wakened the other patients, all but Accolon, who was still seemingly asleep. Merlin took a few steps toward them and had to steady himself against a table. From behind him, from George’s side, Peter said, “This boy is dead.”
Merlin closed his eyes. It was as if he was still dreaming, still in that nameless, featureless place ruled by monsters. Still feeling off balance, he gripped the edge of a table and told Peter, “Leave him there, then, and check the others.”
Peter took his lamp to the patients and inspected them one by one. The pupils of their eyes were dilated, and they said they were feeling vertigo. But they seemed to be all right otherwise, wounds still healing, no new complaints.
“My head is spinning also.” Merlin tried to take a few more steps but had to stop and steady himself once more.
Peter moved to the side of the pallet where Accolon lay. After a quick examination he turned to Merlin. “This man was another of the king’s sons?”
Merlin nodded. “So it has always been whispered.”
“Merlin, he is dead.”
Merlin put a hand on the wall to steady himself. He closed his eyes. “No. That cannot be.”
“Come see for yourself.”
He took a step toward Peter. The room spun around him and he fell to the floor. Peter rushed to his side. “Are you all right?”
Groggily he replied, “Yes.”
“No bones broken?”
“No.”
“No other damage?”
“Peter, just help me to my feet, will you? If the room would stop whirling about me, I would be perfectly fine.”
Peter helped him up. Merlin leaned on him quite heavily. “Let me get you back to your bed, Merlin. You need more rest.”
“With all this death around me? You think I could sleep?”
“You are unsteady. It shows. Just exactly how much did you drink last night?”
“This is not the result of too much wine. I have not felt the aftereffects of too much drink since I was a boy. Help me to Accolon’s pallet. I want to examine him.”
Slowly they made their way to the dead knight’s side. Merlin bent down and examined the body, and it was like the corpses of all the other plague victims.
“Are you satisfied?” Peter took his arm to help him up again. “It is the plague that took him.”
“And was it the plague the killed young George, there? In the name of all that is human, Peter, cover up his body. It is quite indecent to leave him like that.”
After he had Merlin securely back at his own pallet, Peter found a large drop cloth and covered George’s mangled corpse with it. When he returned to Merlin’s side he said, “The boy was drinking last night, like all of us. He must have stumbled and fallen between the stones. A terrible accident, but an accident nonetheless.”
Merlin gaped at him. “I heard him cry out, Peter. He was begging for help. I thought it was a dream.” He glanced at the cloth covering the boy. “Someone did this to him. It was no accident.”
“Of course it was. A boy that age, drinking wine. He could never have handled it.”
Again Merlin closed his eyes. “I cannot seem to wake up.”
“Sleep, then, Merlin. I’ll see to it that the bodies are disposed of properly.”
Groggily Merlin told him, “We have been drugged. All of us in this room. That wine last night…”
“Nonsense. You’ve just let these events overwhelm you, that’s all. Get some sleep. Have you been outside yet?”
“Of course not.” He yawned.
“It’s snowing. The world has turned magically white overnight.”
Merlin’s drowsiness overcame him completely. Again he fell into sleep.
And woke to Peter shaking him. “Merlin, get up. The king is here.”
Slowly he opened his eyes. An enormous yawn overtook him. “What did you say?”
“King Arthur is approaching. With a band of knights.”
Another yawn. “Where is Geo-Never mind. My head is aching quite ferociously.”
“So is mine. So is everyone’s.”
“Our surviving patients, too?”
Peter nodded.
For a moment Merlin fell silent, obviously lost in thought. Then he looked at Peter, filled with sudden resolve. “Help me to my feet. We must go and greet the king.”
“Do you want to check on the other wounded men?”
“Later. They are all doing well enough.” He clasped his hands to his head and glanced at his patients. They were all asleep. “I hope their heads are not ringing the way mine is. Sleep is merciful.” For a third time he yawned, much more widely than before. “The world would be a much finer place if we would all sleep all the time. There would be no crimes then.”