Orion and King Arthur Read online

  And then Anya’s voice called low, “Orion.”

  Swiftly I turned and she was there standing within arm’s reach, as beautiful as only a goddess can be, wearing a simple, supple robe of purest white silk that flowed to the ground. Her midnight-dark hair was bound up with coils of silver thread; links of silver adorned her throat and wrists.

  We embraced and I kissed her with all the fervor of a thousand centuries of separation. For long moments neither of us said a word, we scarcely breathed, so happy to be in each other’s arms again.

  But at last Anya moved slightly away. Her hands still on my shoulders, she looked up into my face. Her silver-gray eyes were solemn, sorrowful.

  “I can only remain a few moments, my love,” she said in a near whisper, as if afraid someone would overhear us. “I’ve come to warn you.”

  “Against Aten?”

  She shook her head slightly. “Not merely him. Several of the other Creators are working with him to help the Saxons and other invaders to conquer Arthur’s Celts and make themselves masters of this entire island.”

  “But why?” I asked. “What purpose does it serve to tear down what little is left of civilization here?”

  “It involves forces that reach across the entire galaxy, Orion. This point in spacetime is a nexus, a crucial focal point in the continuum.”

  Remembering the words Aten had spoken to me weeks earlier, I said to Anya, “He wants to build an empire of the barbarians that will reach from the steppes of Asia to these British Isles—all under his domination.”

  She hesitated a moment, then said, “It may be necessary, Orion. Aten’s plan may be the only way to keep the continuum from shattering.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  She smiled, sadly. “You mean you don’t want to believe it.”

  “It means that Arthur must be killed.”

  She nodded solemnly.

  “No,” I said. “I won’t let that happen.”

  “You can’t oppose Aten’s will! He’ll obliterate you!”

  Anger was seething within me. “If I do what Aten wants, can we be together? Can we return to Paradise and live there in peace?”

  Her lovely face became tragic. “I want to, my love. But it will be impossible.”

  “Because he’ll keep us apart,” I snapped.

  “Because the work of saving the continuum, the task of keeping this worldline from collapsing and destroying everything we know, requires all my strength, all my energy.”

  “Forever?”

  “For as long as it takes,” she said. “My darling, I want to be with you for all the eternities. But how can we be together if the entire universe implodes? Everything will be gone, wiped away as if it never existed.”

  For many long, silent moments I stared into her beautiful eyes. I saw sorrow there, a melancholy that spanned centuries of yearning.

  At last I found my voice. “And to save the universe, Arthur must be killed.”

  “That is Aten’s plan. The barbarians are uniting among themselves now. There is no need for Arthur in this timeline anymore.”

  “Tell Aten to make another plan,” I said. “As long as I live I will protect Arthur and help him to drive the barbarians out of Britain.”

  If I had thought half a second about my words, I would have expected Anya to be surprised, shocked perhaps, even angry.

  Instead she smiled. “You would defy Aten, even at the risk of final death?”

  I smiled back at her, grimly. “He promised me an especially painful final death.”

  Her smile faded. “He means to keep that promise.”

  “And I mean to stand by Arthur until my final breath.”

  “I won’t be able to help you,” Anya warned. “I have other tasks to do, far off among the star clouds.”

  I nodded, accepting that. “Tell Aten he’ll have to save this timeline with Arthur in it. Let him build an empire of the Celts from this island to farthest reaches of Asia.”

  “You run great risks, Orion.”

  “What of it? If we can’t be together, what good is living to me?”

  She kissed me again, lightly this time, on the lips. “Protect Arthur, then. Help him all you can. But be warned: Aten is not alone in this. Others of the Creators will be working against Arthur.”

  “Thanks for the good news,” I said.

  “Farewell, my love,” said Anya. “I will return to you as soon as I possibly can.”

  I wanted to say several million other things to her but she vanished, simply disappeared before my eyes, like a dream abruptly ending. I love you, Anya, I called silently. I’ll find you again wherever and whenever you are, no matter if I have to cross the entire universe of spacetime. I’ll find you and we’ll be together for eternity.

  But when I awoke I was back on my pallet in the dung-smelling stable, with the results of my ironwork lying on the straw beside me.

  7

  I washed as usual at the horse trough and took the usual jeering banter from the squires and churls. But once I sat on the bare dirt and started tying my crudely made spurs to my ankles, they howled with laugher.

  “Are you going to a cockfight, Orion?”

  “Maybe he’ll put on wings next and fly out of the fort!”

  They rolled on the ground, laughing.

  Without a word to them, I went back into the stable and took one of the horses out into the courtyard. When I began to attach my lopsided, ill-formed stirrups to his saddle, they crowded around, curious and grinning.

  “What are you doing, Orion?” one of them asked.

  Instead of answering, I worked my sandaled foot into one of the stirrups and hoisted myself up into the saddle, careful not to touch the spurs to the horse’s flank. Not yet.

  “It’s like a little step!”

  “Orion, can’t you swing up on a horse the regular way? Are you so weak from washing every morning that you need a step to help you up?”

  They roared with laughter, slapping their thighs and pounding each other’s backs. Wordlessly, I nudged my mount through them and cantered around the courtyard several times. The stirrups felt a little loose. I dismounted and tightened the thongs that held them to the saddle.

  By now some of the knights had come out into the courtyard to see what was making the other men laugh so hard.

  “What’s that you’ve hooked your feet into?” Gawain called to me. He was several years older than Arthur, built more slightly, his dark hair curled into ringlets that fell past his shoulders.

  “It’s an old Sarmatian device,” I answered, walking my horse to him. Better to tell them it’s an old and well-tested idea; new ideas are always suspect. Besides, it was the truth.

  Two more young knights joined Gawain, each of them looking just as puzzled as he.

  “Why did the Sarmatians need help getting into their saddles?” Gawain asked.

  I smiled tightly. “These are not for help in getting into the saddle,” I replied. “Their purpose is to keep you in the saddle.”

  Gawain and the others were plainly baffled. Looking up, I saw Merlin peering over the edge of his tower at me. Arthur stood beside him.

  Time for a demonstration. I trotted over to the corner of the courtyard where the spears stood stacked like sheaves of wheat, leaned over, and drew one from the stack. Turning my mount around, I centered my gaze upon one of the stout timbers that held the thatched roof over the blacksmith’s open forge. The smith and his young apprentices were just starting up their fire, off to one side of their work area.

  I spurred the horse and he took off as if a swarm of hornets were stinging him. I crouched forward in the saddle, my weight on the stirrups, leveled the spear as I galloped straight for that rough-hewn timber. Men and boys scattered out of the way as I raced forward with my spear jutting out ahead. The smith stood transfixed, staring with eyes so wide I could see white all around his pupils. His boys ran, wailing.

  I rammed the spear into the timber. The spear shattered from the
force of the impact but its point buried itself in the wood almost to the haft. I wheeled my mount around and trotted back to the center of the courtyard.

  “I understand now,” said Gawain, with a smirk on his handsome face. “That’s the Sarmatian way of breaking a perfectly good spear.”

  Clod! I thought. But I had to remember that I was only a squire and had to be respectful to a knight.

  “Not so, sir. With these stirrups I can drive a spear through an enemy at full gallop without being knocked out of my saddle.”

  “And what good is that if you break the spear?” Gawain sniffed. He turned and walked away; the two younger knights went with him.

  “Wait!” I called. When they turned back toward me I directed the young boys standing off by the woodpile to bring me the thickest, hardest log they could find.

  It took two of the lads to carry the massive log to the center of the courtyard, their legs tottering under the load. As I directed them to stand it on end, I saw Sir Bors came up beside Gawain, a skeptical scowl on his scarred face.

  I trotted my horse back to the main gate, then spurred him into an all-out charge, drawing my sword as the steed galloped madly across the packed dirt.

  With one swing I split the log in half.

  Gawain and the other knights seemed impressed—but only a little.

  “You’d make a good woodcutter,” Gawain joked as I got down from the horse.

  “Don’t you understand?” I said. “With the stirrups to hold you in the saddle you could charge into the enemy at full speed and hit with all the power of a thunderbolt.”

  “We’ve never used stirrups before,” said Bors. “Don’t see why we need ’em now.”

  “Because they can multiply the force of your attack!” I insisted, almost pleading with him to open his mind.

  But Bors raised his thick-muscled right arm, crisscrossed with scars, and said, “This is all the force I need in battle. I’ve killed hundreds of Saxons, Jutes, Danes, Angles—all with this strong right arm. I don’t need fancy contraptions to help keep me in my saddle.”

  “But—”

  Gawain laughed gently. “Use your stirrups if you want to, Orion. If that’s the Sarmatian way, then go right ahead. But we don’t need such tricks.”

  I felt crushed. They didn’t understand what I was offering them. I looked up toward Merlin’s aerie, but neither the wizard nor Arthur was still watching me. I trotted the horse back to the stables and alit.

  I handed the horse to a grinning stableboy, wondering what I could do to convince these men that stirrups would allow them to hit their enemies with the full force of a charging steed, instead of milling into battle slowly and hoping they could stay mounted by gripping the horse with their legs—while their enemies had plenty of time to fight back.

  Out in the courtyard I saw Arthur standing by the blacksmith, talking. I went to him. The blacksmith shied away from me, anger and fear plain to see on his heavily bearded face.

  Arthur was fingering the spear point still embedded deep in the timber.

  “I thought you were going to kill yourself,” he said to me, “racing across the courtyard like that.”

  I made myself grin ruefully. “I’m sure the smith thought I was going to kill him.”

  Arthur laughed lightly. “He did look petrified, didn’t he?”

  “My lord, what I’m trying to show—”

  “I understand, Orion,” said Arthur. “Those little things on your feet allowed you to stay in the saddle even when you hit hard enough to shatter your spear.”

  He was no fool, this young knight.

  I replied, “It could turn your knights into a powerful battle force, my lord.”

  “If only they would listen to reason,” he said.

  “You are their appointed leader. Can’t you make them accept this new idea?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I am their leader, true: appointed by the High King to direct the defense of this fort. But I can’t force them to do anything.”

  “But—”

  “This isn’t Rome, my friend,” Arthur said quietly, sadly. “These knights are freeborn Celts. They don’t bend to authority. They follow a leader only as long as they wish to. It’s the curse of the Celts: they treasure freedom even in the face of disaster.”

  “Freedom is hardly a curse, my lord,” I said.

  “Yes, perhaps. But discipline is something that we sadly lack.”

  “If only one or two of them would try the stirrups,” I said. “That would show the others what an advantage they are.”

  Arthur smiled at me, the warmth of true friendship in his eyes. “I will try them with you, friend Orion. We will sally out against the Saxons together and show them all what we can do.”

  8

  “Absolutely not!” Bors thundered. “Your uncle would have my guts for his garters if I permitted it!”

  “Then I’ll go alone,” Arthur said, “with no one beside me but my lowly squire.” He nodded in my direction.

  “You’ll get yourself killed!”

  We were standing in Arthur’s chamber, nothing more than a small room made of rude logs at the bottom of the fort’s lone tower. Its floor was packed earth, its ceiling of roughly planed timbers a bare few inches above my head.

  Arthur did not argue with the surly Bors. He merely smiled his boyish smile and said gently, “But if you came with us, then you’d probably be killed along with me and you wouldn’t have to face Ambrosius.”

  Bors went so red in the face that the scar along his cheek stood out like a white line. He was speechless.

  “You will come with me,” Arthur prodded, “won’t you?”

  With a great fuming gasp of exasperation, Bors growled, “You’re determined to do this, are you?”

  “Yes,” said Arthur. “I am.”

  “Then I have no choice, do I?”

  Arthur’s face lit up with delight. “You’ll come?”

  Nodding sourly, Bors said, “I’ll come with you.”

  “Fine!” Arthur exclaimed. “Now let’s see how many of the others will come.”

  I worked all that night, going without sleep to make seven sets of stirrups and spurs. By the time the sun had climbed almost to its noontime high, Arthur gathered his knights around him in the courtyard and told them what he proposed to do.

  Most of the men shook their heads warily, not trusting these Sarmatian innovations to be of any real use against the teeming hordes of barbarians outside the fort’s walls.

  “We sallied out against the Saxons three nights ago and it did little good,” said Sir Peredur, his arm still wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage from that fight.

  “But this will be different,” Arthur urged. “We will strike them like avenging angels.”

  “I prefer to meet the barbarians from behind these stout walls,” Sir Kay said, in his booming, bombastic voice. “Let them come to us.”

  The gathered knights nodded to one another and muttered their agreement.

  Arthur turned to Gawain. “Sir knight, will you let Sir Bors and I ride into the Saxon midst alone?”

  Gawain grinned like a man who knew he was being outwitted. “By God, never! Where you lead, Arthur, Gawain will follow. Right into the mouth of hell, if needs be!”

  Arthur clasped his shoulder thankfully.

  In the end, only five of the knights agreed to join Arthur’s sally. I handed out six pairs of spurs and rigged seven horses with stirrups, plus my own, hoping we could find a seventh to join us.

  One by one I led the horses out into the courtyard. One by one the knights mounted—some of them obviously with great reluctance. The seventh horse remained without a rider. I held the seventh pair of spurs in my hands, waiting.

  “Is there no one here who will join us?” Arthur called out.

  The knights and squires standing in the courtyard shuffled uneasily, guiltily, but none moved toward us.

  Until one of the squires, a slightly built youth, pushed through the crowd and said
, “I will go with you, sir, if you will have me.”

  Arthur smiled down at him. At first I thought Arthur would turn the lad away because he was so young, but then I realized that Arthur himself was barely more than a stripling.

  Turning to Sir Kay, who still stood stubbornly off to one side, Arthur commanded, “Kay, find this squire chain mail, shield, and helmet.” Then he leaned toward me and said, “Give him the last set of spurs.”

  In a few minutes the lad was mounted on the seventh horse, armed with coat of mail, a helmet that wobbled on his narrow shoulders, a dented, patched shield, a sword that seemed too big for his delicate hands, and a long spear.

  I could no longer see Arthur’s face, hidden by his helmet, but his voice rang out clearly: “Follow me, men, and we will drive the invaders back into the sea!”

  9

  The fort’s gates creaked open, and the eight of us pricked our mounts into a thundering charge. For a brief instant I wondered what the Golden One was thinking. Was I playing into his hands and sending Arthur out to his death?

  Not while I breathe, I swore to myself. I’ll die before I’ll let Arthur be killed.

  As always in battle, the world around me seemed to slow down into a lethargic dreamy languor. My senses raced into overdrive, adrenaline flooding my arteries, everything around me seen in microscopically crisp detail.

  The barbarian host had hurriedly formed a battle line as soon as they heard the fort’s gates begin to creak. They were standing waiting for us as we charged down the hill, hard-muscled men bare to the waist gripping their swords and axes, round wooden shields on their arms, long blond braids running down their powerful chests.

  I saw spittle form and drip in slow motion from the foaming mouth of Arthur’s mount, at my left side. He was crouched forward in his saddle, spear leveled, weight on his stirrups. I picked out one of the Saxon warriors and aimed my spear at his chest.

  The barbarian tactic for dealing with a cavalry charge was to absorb the impact with as many men as possible and then, once the horsemen had slowed down, to bring in more men from the flanks to swarm the riders under.