Mammoth Books presents Merlin's Gun Read Free

how I understand you.” With his free hand he tapped the side of his helmet. “I’ve a database of languages running half way back to the Flourishing.”
    â€œBully for you. Who are you, by the way?”
    â€œAh. Of course. Introductions.” He reached out the free hand, this time in something approximating welcome. “Merlin.”
    It was impossible; it cut against all common sense, but she knew who he was.
    It was not that they had ever met. But everyone knew of Merlin: there was no word for him other than legend. Seven, or more properly ten thousand years ago, it was Merlin who had stolen something from the Cohort, vanishing into the Galaxy on a quest for what could only be described as a weapon too dreadful to use. He had never been seen again – until, apparently, now.
    â€œThanks for rescuing me,” Sora said, when he had shown her to the bridge of the ship he called
Tyrant
; a spherical chamber outfitted with huge black control seats, facing a window of flawless metasapphire overlooking cometary ice.
    â€œDon’t overdo the gratitude,” the familiar said.
    Merlin shrugged. “You’re welcome.”
    â€œAnd sorry if I acted a little edgy.”
    â€œForget it. As you say, comes with the territory. Actually, I’m rather glad I found you. You wouldn’t believe how scarce human company is these days.”
    â€œNobody ever said it was a friendly Galaxy.”
    â€œLess so now, believe me. Now the Cohort’s started losing whole star-systems. I’ve seen world after world shattered by the Huskers; whole strings of orbiting habitats gutted by nuclear fire. The war’s in its terminal stages, and the Cohort isn’t in anything resembling a winning position.” Merlin leaned closer to her, sudden enthusiasm burning in his eyes. “But I’ve found something that can make a difference, Sora. Or at least, I have rather a good idea where one might find it.”
    She nodded slowly.
    â€œLet’s see. That wouldn’t be Merlin’s fabulous gun, by any chance?”
    â€œYou’re still not entirely sure I’m who I say I am, are you?”
    â€œI’ve one or two nagging doubts.”
    â€œYou’re right, of course.” He sighed theatrically and gestured around the bridge. In the areas not reserved for control readouts, the walls were adorned with treasure: trinkets, finery, and jewels of staggering artistry and beauty, glinting with the hues of the rarest alloys, inset with precious stones, shaped by the finest lapidary skill of a thousand worlds. There were chips of subtly colored ceramic, or tiny white-light holograms of great brilliance. There were daggers and brooches, ornate ceremonial lasers and bracelets, terrible swords and grotesque, carnelian-eyed carnival masques.
    â€œI thought,” Merlin said, “that this would be enough to convince you.”
    He had sloughed the outer layer of his suit, revealing himself to be what she had on some level feared: a handsome, broad-shouldered man who in every way conformed to the legend she had in mind. Merlin dressed luxuriously, encrusted in jewelry which was, nonetheless, at the dour end of the spectrum compared to what was displayed on the walls. His beard was carefully trimmed and his long auburn hair hung loose, evoking leonine strength. He radiated magnificence.
    â€œOh, it’s pretty impressive,” Sora said. “Even if a good fraction of it must have been looted. And maybe I am half convinced. But you have to admit, it’s quite a story.”
    â€œNot from my perspective.” He was fiddling with an intricate ring on one forefinger. “Since I left on my quest” – he spoke the word with exquisite distaste – ‘I’ve lived rather less than eleven years of subjective time. I was as horrified as anyone when I found my little hunt had been magnified into something so . . . epic.”
    â€œBet you