Enchanter Redeemed. Sharon Ashwood
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href="#litres_trial_promo"> Chapter 22
Merlin had destroyed the world as he knew it. The question was what to do next.
As with many disasters, the beginning had been innocent enough. He’d lived in the kingdom of Camelot as the enchanter to King Arthur. Those were eventful years—someone was always trying to murder the king, antagonize a dragon or start a war. Often it was his rival in magic, Morgan LaFaye, who wanted Arthur’s crown for herself. In nearly every case, the first person Arthur called was Merlin, whether for magic, for advice or even just to complain. In that brief, wonderful time, the solitary enchanter had been part of a community. He’d had friends and drinking partners. He’d even kept pets.
Not that things were perfect. In those days demons roamed the mortal realms, causing untold suffering to everyone in their path. The witches, fae and human lords formed an alliance under Camelot’s banner to cast the demons out. Thousands of soldiers massed to do battle, but it was Merlin’s magic they counted on for victory. Merlin delivered and they won, but at a terrible cost. As a side effect of his final spell, the fae suffered irreparable damage and fled to nurse their wounds. In a parting shot, the fae swore to return and wreak vengeance on King Arthur and all of humankind.
No one knew when this attack would come. So, once again, Camelot turned to Merlin for answers. With a heavy heart, he summoned all the knights of Camelot to the Church of the Holy Well and put them into an enchanted sleep. For centuries they lay upon their tombs as stone statues, set to awaken when it was time to fight once more.
Centuries rolled by, and Merlin wandered many enchanted lands in search of a cure for the fae. Meanwhile, the Medievaland theme park bought the Church of the Holy Well and the stone knights and shipped them all to Carlyle, Washington, as a tourist attraction. In the process, many of Arthur’s knights were sold as museum pieces and curiosities.
When Merlin returned to the mortal realms, no one knew where the knights of the famous Round Table had gone. Camelot was in ruins. The fae—who had chosen Morgan LaFaye as their new and wicked queen—picked this moment to return, seeking vengeance. And, just in case his day wasn’t bad enough, the demons were back—including his ex.
Sorcerer, enchanter, wizard, witch, warlock—they were all job descriptions that were synonymous with “idiot.” A person could be born of witch stock and blessed or cursed with natural talents, but it was lunacy to make magic a profession.
This raised the question of precisely why Merlin Ambrosius had been a professional enchanter for over two thousand years and had earned the laughable title of Merlin the Wise. By most standards, he was the most powerful magic user in the land, but that wasn’t always an advantage. While Regular Joe Enchanter might have a bad day and blow up his cauldron, Merlin had ripped the souls out of the entire fae race. Merlin the Wise? Not so much.
And now here he was, about to peer through a portal torn through time and space to spy on the scariest creepy-crawlies to ever sprout horns.
His workshop was on the top level of an old warehouse, while the bottom floor was occupied by an automotive repair shop. It was a good arrangement, since Merlin preferred to work at night when the employees had gone home and wouldn’t be tempted to ask about funny smells, indoor hailstorms or a flock of flying toads. Today, though, the shop was shut and he had the place to himself. This was a definite bonus, even if it meant getting up before noon. Superstar wizard or not, stalking demons on a sunny afternoon was slightly less terrifying than on a dark and stormy night.
The ritual circle was drawn in chalk in the middle of the floor and the scant furniture pushed aside. The curtains were pulled, softening the light. Empty space yawned up to the rafters, the shadows untouched by the dozen sweet-scented candles flickering in the draft. A hush blanketed the room. Merlin sat cross-legged in the middle of the circle, his comfortable jeans and faded T-shirt at odds with the solemnity of the magic. The truth was, ritual robes didn’t matter. Only strength of will and focus would help with this kind of work—which was, in effect, eavesdropping.
Merlin needed information. Specifically, he needed to know what Camelot’s enemies had been doing in recent months, because rumors were flying on the magical grapevine, blog sites and social media accounts—not to mention Camelot’s spy network. On one hand, there were the fae. They had been far too quiet since the autumn—no attacks, no gratuitous death threats, no random monsters unleashed to trample a city—and the silence was making everyone nervous.
On the other hand, the demon courts were stirring. Arthur, with Merlin’s help, had thrown the hellspawn back into the Abyss during Camelot’s glory days. But no banishment lasted forever and sooner or later the demons would try to return. Was that what was going on?
He cupped his scrying stone in the palms of his hands, willing answers to flow his way. The stone was cool, smooth and heavy and he concentrated until it was the only object filling his senses. Popular culture loved the image of a wizard with a crystal ball, but to tune into Radio Demon, dark red agate was best. The good stuff was rare, and Merlin had searched for centuries for a flawless globe the size of a small pumpkin. When he’d finally found what he wanted, it had cost enough gold to purchase a small country, but it had been one of his go-to tools ever since.
He spoke a word, and the solid rock dissolved into a cloud of dark gray streaked like a bloody sunset. He still held a hard sphere, but it was like a bubble now. Inside was a window into a complex web of realities that included Faery, the Forest Sauvage, the Crystal Mountains and many more separate but connected realms. He nudged the vision until he was staring into the demon territory called the Abyss.
The mist parted and Merlin had a view of two figures. It wasn’t the best angle—he was somewhere above and to the left—but that was an advantage. Spy holes were unpredictable and he had no desire to get caught. Grumpy demons had sent the last unlucky eavesdropper home in a soup bowl.
At first he could only see two figures talking, but a quick shake of the ball fixed the audio.
“What do you mean, you were summoned?” asked the taller of the two in a scholarly accent. He was dressed in a well-tailored suit, his head bald and his black beard neatly clipped. He would have looked at home in any metropolitan city except for the claws, pointy teeth and yellow eyes slitted like a goat’s. Merlin knew this demon’s name was Tenebrius. They’d had uneasy dealings before.
“I know,” replied the other demon, who called himself Gorm. He was small, about the size of a large cat or a smallish monkey, and his leathery skin reminded Merlin of an old shoe. “In these days of computers