The Wolf and the Crown (The Perilous Order of Camelot Book 3) Read online

  The Perilous Order of Camelot

  Volume Three:

  The Wolf and the Crown

  A. A. Attanasio

  The Wolf and the Crown

  published by Firelords Press

  Ignite your imagination!

  http://www.aaattanasio.com

  Second Edition

  Copyright © 2013 A. A. Attanasio

  ISBN: 9780983608448

  First edition published by HarperCollins, New York: 1998

  The Perilous Order of Camelot; bk. 3.

  Library of Congress classification: PS3551.T74 W65 1998

  Cover Art:

  Yannick Pugibet Ramiro

  Interior Illustrations:

  Jeff Bigman

  www.bigmanart.com

  Forsaken by our dreams, naked but for our stories, with only the stars for food, the four directions for shelter, and the spirit of all that we love our only companion, we live as warriors of a perilous order—champions of kindness.

  Table of Contents

  Part One: A Spiral Castle in the Dolorous Wood

  Part Two: Secret House of the Wind

  Part Three: The Life of Death

  Part Four: Warriors of the Round Table

  Characters

  What Has Gone Before

  By the end of the fifth century Anno Domini, Britain, the furthermost frontier of the Roman Empire, had become almost wholly isolated from the few centers of commerce that remained in Europe. The collapse of Rome in AD 410 left Britain without a central government, and the island quickly fragmented into scores of miniature kingdoms ruled by local warlords.

  With the magical assistance of Merlin, Ygrane, queen of the Celts, allied her chieftains with the British army of Uther Pendragon. They unified the many combative domains of Britain and repelled the brutal marauders and foreign tribes invading the island kingdom.

  The fateful alliance of Celts and Britons endured only briefly. The arrangement of love and war brokered by Merlin required the blood sacrifice of the king, as prescribed by ancient law. In return for Uther Pendragon's soul, the Celtic gods released their most fierce warrior, Cuchulain, destined to live again through Ygrane as Uther's son, Aquila Regalis Thor—Arthor.

  The Eagle and the Sword, volume two of The Perilous Order of Camelot, followed fifteen-year-old Arthor on his journey from White Thorn, where he grew up in the remote hills of Cymru, to Camelot. Believing himself a rape-child sired by a Saxon invader on an anonymous peasant woman, Arthor allowed Kyner, a Christian chieftain, to train him as a warrior of unalloyed ferocity. Arthor lived with the certainty that his destiny was death, for his enemies in battle and ultimately for himself in defense of his masters.

  Rankling at his subservient position, the young warrior planned to avoid Camelot and further servitude by seeking a new and personal destiny for himself. The intervention of Merlin diverted the youth into the hollow hills—the magical domain of the Daoine Sid, the Celtic gods. There, Arthor learned humility and largeness of heart and proved himself worthy of returning to Camelot and drawing the sword-in-the-stone.

  Part One: Summer

  A Spiral Castle in the Dolorous Wood

  Arthor Draws the Sword

  The sword came away so easily from the stone that the boy could only stand there startled. The gold hilt trembled in his hand, and the silver blade flashed with sunlight. Immediately, he tried to return it to the black rock in whose cleft it had stood undisturbed and immovable for so long. But the rock would not hold the blade any longer. The sword slid from his grip and would have clattered across the anvil-shaped stone had he not quickly seized it again.

  The hilt of gold felt shaped to his palm and fingers. The blade swung lightly through the air, a natural extension of his arm.

  From farther down the hill, on the slopes of Mons Caliburnus, a small crowd uttered cries and shouts to see the sword drawn so readily from the stone. These swordsmiths and their patrons, merchants and warriors, had come to Camelot for the third of the fifth-year festivals to commemorate the setting of this sword in the stone by the wizard Merlin.

  Just days ago, on his journey to Camelot, the boy had trespassed the hollow hills, the realm of the pale people of Celtic lore known as the Daoine Sid. Those Celtic gods thrived! Far more than mere lore, they moved through the world. He knew that now—and that knowing sorely troubled his Christian mind.

  In the hollow hills, he had seen marvels that challenged the very foundations of his faith: Faeries had deceived him and vampyrical lamia had nearly torn him to pieces. Bright Night, prince of the elves, had conversed with him. And, worst of all, he had confronted the vehement god that the north tribes called the Furor and had stared terrified into his one mad eye.

  The Furor would have slain him on the spot but for Merlin, who appeared to wield this very sword and fend off the enraged god. Thus, the boy had escaped with his life intact—and his wits nearly shattered.

  This was that sword, he realized. The truth staggered him, and he leaned back against the black stone. Was it a dream? he queried his frightened soul. Is—this—a dream?

  The loud voices now clamoring from below assured him he was awake. And sunlight raying off the clear blade hurt his eyes and etched his brain with the precise shape of the sword that he remembered from his visit to the underworld. How can this be?

  From below, warriors came running, yelling at him, "Boy! Put that sword down! Boy! "

  He moved quickly to obey.

  Again, the stone would not receive the sword. He turned and lifted the blade in a hapless shrug to show that he had tried and failed.

  Merlin and Arthor

  The scowling crowd edged closer, then stopped their shouting all at once. The young warrior thought for an instant that the beauty of the sword had silenced them.

  A dark voice opened from behind, and the big oaf jumped and nearly dropped the blade. "The sword is drawn!"

  Merlin strode from the cliffside of Mons Caliburnus as if stepping down from the sky. His midnight robes furled in the river breeze, and his conical hat cast a dark shadow over his long face.

  "The sword is drawn! Bend your knees before your king!"

  "He is a boy!" one of the warriors shouted, even as most in the small crowd genuflected reflexively before the imposing presence of the wizard.

  "This is no mere boy." Merlin bowed before the rawboned lad whose short hair stuck out stiff as a hedgehog's. "Here is Aquila Regalis Thor—high king of all Britain."

  The certitude in the wizard's voice brought everyone to their knees. The boy, startled speechless, gawked. This close, he could see the subtle crimson stitching in the blue fabric of Merlin's robes. And within the shadow cast by the wide-brimmed hat, the youth beheld a strong, aged profile, pocked as if carved from stone.

  "Sire, say nothing," the wizard whispered to him. "Hold the sword high and march downhill to your palfrey. Slowly. Remember—you are king."

  The youth complied, though his heart stammered and his mind blurred with questions and doubts. All eyes trained on him with wonder and befuddlement. None dared speak, except for one swordsmith's apprentice. A boy from the far hills of Cymru, no older than the king himself, who knew the young warrior's name from local battle exploits, cried out meekly, "Long live King Arthor!"

  The sound of his common name married to the royal title cramped the young king's heart tighter and nearly squeezed all the breath out of him. If he could have, he would have blessed that smith's apprentice.

  Merlin led the way down the hillside to the king's palfrey, which still held the youth's dented shield on its saddle peg. The warped
image of the Blessed Virgin gazed sadly at the boy as he marched stiffly forward, sword held high. The sight of the Holy Mother reminded the precocious warrior of the many battles he had fought for his stepfather Kyner, chieftain of the Christian Celts, and he lowered the dazzling sword.

  "What manner of ruse is this?" he asked, feeling suddenly foolish. He moved to hand the weapon to the wizard. "I am Kyner's iron hammer. I am not king."

  Merlin took the horse by the bridle and led the gray charger past mulberry trees and lime shrubs. "You have drawn the sword Excalibur from the stone, your majesty. From this bright moment forth, you are the rightful king of all Britain."

  The strapping lad shook his head. "Hardly so. I am Lord Kyner's servant. I'm a half-breed—a rape-child, sired by a Saxon plunderer on some nameless peasant woman of Cymru."

  Merlin leveled his cold eyes on the trembling youth and said quietly, "No, sire. You are no half-breed, nor offspring of violent rape. You are the one and only child of Uther Pendragon and Ygrane, queen of the Celts."

  Camelot

  Above the verdant gorge of the River Amnis, on a high plateau, the city-fortress of Camelot stood unfinished, surrounded by fields of stonecutters' blocks. The incomplete curtain walls, ramparts, and skeletal towers overlooked slopes of carnival tents and colorful pavilions, as the third of the fifth-year festivals blustered noisily. Jugglers and musicians entertained throngs of Roman Britons and Celts who had gathered on the emerald hillsides to celebrate their union against the tribes of pagan invaders.

  A swift rider charged across the playing fields, where contestants tested their skills at archery, javelin throwing, and swordsmanship. Yells of protest assailed the rider until the crowd heard what he shouted: "The sword is drawn! Excalibur is drawn from the stone!"

  Then, the pipers, fiddlers and acrobatic tumblers fell still and silent, and excited murmurs ran through the revelers among the feast tables and colorful gaming tents. All activity—pig runs, tugs-of-war, round dances, target shoots and equestrian races—came to a halt. Under proud spires and tiers of scaffolds and half-built vallations, a hushed excitement rippled through the festive crowd.

  "Is it true?" Severus Syrax asked when the rider slid from his steed and bowed before him at the entryway to the commanders' pavilion. The magister militum's Persian features, outlined by precise lines of dark beard and elegantly coiffed black curls, shook with surprise. "Who drew the sword?"

  "A boy, my lord magister," the rider huffed. "A boy with a doughty name—Aquila Regalis Thor ... "

  "Arthor!" Kyner shouted with amazement, emerging from the pavilion and looming behind the viperous Severus Syrax. "My ward—Arthor?"

  Severus Syrax shoved aside the panting rider and pointed a beringed finger across the summer pastures to where the lanky, dark-robed figure of Merlin approached. The wizard led a palfrey by its bridle. And upon its back, holding the famous sword—a bristle-haired lad rugged as a farmhand.

  "Holy Mother of God!" Kyner shouted in disbelief. "It is my iron hammer!"

  Obeisance and Defiance

  Merlin led the young rider past silently watching wagonloads of revelers and across the crowded tournament grounds. Combatants stood stunned at the sight of the uncouth lad holding Excalibur high in both hands. They moved slowly as if in a royal procession, and only the stern presence of the wizard kept the wide crowds from hooting derision at the youth in his hempen sackcloth.

  "This is your king!" Merlin announced loudly when they had attained the range before the citadel's main gate. They stopped at the grand pavilion of yellow tent canvas and purple pennants where warlords and chieftains stood arrayed in mute astonishment. "This is he who drew Excalibur from the stone. On your knees before your lord—the high king of Britain—the one son of Uther Pendragon and Ygrane, queen of the Celts—Aquila Regalis Thor!"

  Merlin's mighty voice reached across the countryside and echoed from the empty fortress behind him. Immediately, the gathering fell to their knees. Only the warlords and chieftains before the grand pavilion remained standing until Merlin glared at them and Kyner dropped hesitantly to one knee.

  "Get up, you fool!" Severus Syrax cajoled. "Can't you see this is a wizard's trick? It's just your boy, Arthor."

  Kyner did not budge. All at once, a thousand innocent details ignored over the past fifteen years fell together, fitting the prodigious realization that this boy, whom he had assumed a churlish offspring of pagan and peasant, bore noble blood. Even Kyner's true son, Cei, the thick-jawed bully who had berated his stepbrother over the years, understood at once that Merlin spoke the truth, for he had fallen to his knees before all others.

  Urien, the bare-chested, salt-blond Celt of the Coast, spoke strongly: "If this manchild is in truth the son of our former queen, Ygrane, I will swear to him my lifelong allegiance. But I will hear the truth of this from my queen—and not from a wizard."

  Old Lot of the North, bare-shouldered in the Celtic tradition, great mustache fluttering with harsh breaths of amazement, stood behind Urien and said nothing. His redhaired witch-wife Morgeu the Fey was nowhere to be seen.

  "And I speak for the British warlords," Severus Syrax piped up again. "It will take more than a wizard to elevate this boy to the throne. Even if he is the son of Pendragon and Ygrane, he is but a child! Are we so desperate as to entrust ourselves to a youngster?"

  Stout and with a neckless head like a block of masonry, Bors Bona beat a fist against his leather cuirass and shouted, "We want a man of deeds for our high king!"

  Marcus Dumnoni, the blond commander of the West, said nothing, and when the others turned to depart, he followed. Within moments of Merlin's introduction of King Arthor, the fields began to empty. Chieftains and warlords gathered their people and headed to their homes in the diverse corners of the troubled island kingdom.

  Kyner and Cei

  Kyner and Cei approached the king, who sat upon his palfrey, and they knelt before him, heads bowed. "My Lord!" the gruff chieftain's voice cracked with hurt. "Can you forgive us for treating you as a vassal these many years?"

  "Father!" Arthor moved to dismount, and Merlin dissuaded him with a reproving look. The boy ignored the wizard and leaped from the horse. "Get up, father. You need never bow to me."

  Kyner refused to stir and kept his face lowered to the ground. "I bend my knee before my king. Will you forgive me?"

  "There is nothing to forgive, father."

  "I am not your father—" Kyner spoke in a small voice. "Uther Pendragon sired you. I merely sheltered you, a menial in my household—and used you, a weapon in battle. I am ashamed I had no more charity for you than that."

  "Ashamed?" Arthor handed Excalibur to Merlin, who accepted it reluctantly and took the boy's elbow with the sword. Arthor twisted free and approached the kneeling chieftain. "You taught me the teachings of our Lord. You obliged me to learn to read and write Latin and Greek. You took me with you on all your diplomatic missions to Gaul and introduced me to the royal courts of the wide world. All this, despite my surliness, despite my ingratitude. You trusted me with your very life and gave me an honored place at your side in the field of battle. You treated me as well as you treated your own firstborn, Cei."

  Cei moaned. "My lord—have mercy on me!"

  "Cei—you are my brother!"

  Cei's large body shivered. "Do not mock me, my lord."

  "Mock you?" Arthor knelt before them. "You two alone of all the warlords and chieftains accept me as king. By this, you have shown that you are truly my father and my brother. For however long I may reign, I will never consider you less."

  Merlin put one hand under Arthor's shoulder and physically lifted him to his feet. "You are king. You bow to no one but God."

  "Then stand—father, brother." Arthor pulled himself free of Merlin with an annoyed look. "Stand before me that I may see your faces again. We have a kingdom to serve."

  Kyner and Cei obeyed. Tears filmed the chieftain's wolf eyes as they gazed proudly from under his jutting browbone. Cei's
broad, thick, and beardless face looked pale and frightened.

  "You must help me," Arthor told them, looking urgently from one to the other. "I did not expect this—this great responsibility. I—I have no inkling how to serve a kingdom! Help me. You who know me best of all men. If I am truly king, as Merlin says I am, then you are the king's best men. Do not leave me alone with this fateful charge. You must help me fulfill the mission God has set upon me."

  Merlin's Counsel

  Merlin took Arthor by the elbow and led him away from the Celtic chieftain and his son, saying, "I need to speak with the king in private counsel."

  Arthor strove to twist his arm free, but the wizard's grip could not be broken. "Whatever you have to say to me, Merlin, say before these good men, my family."

  "In private, my lord." The stern look in Merlin's deep-set eyes brooked no protest.

  Arthor shrugged apologetically to Kyner and Cei and allowed Merlin to lead him past the mammoth pylons of the open gateway to the crowded interior of Camelot. Beyond a clutter of benches and stools, the wizard brought the young man to the central court. They crossed an enormous chamber filled with the canvas awnings and thatched canopies of masons' work sheds.

  "From here, you will rule your kingdom," Merlin said, gesturing grandly with Excalibur at the soaring architecture. "If you can unite Britain." He noticed the sword in his hand and passed it to the lad. "Here, take this. It's yours—and you will need it."

  Arthor accepted the sword with both hands. In the mirror flat of the blade, he saw his blond face too young for whiskers. The hackles of his badger hair stuck out in unruly spikes. "I am king?" He looked to Merlin with this question sincerely fixed in his amber eyes. "Why?"