The Perilous Order Page 2

  warped image of the Blessed Virgin gazed tristfully at Arthor

  as he marched stiffly forward, sword held high. The sight of

  the Holy Mother reminded the youthful 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?' Arthor asked and moved to

  hand the weapon to the wizard.

  'This is no ruse, Arthor,' Merlin replied as he took the horse

  by the bridle and led the gray charger around a bend of mulberry

  trees and lime shrubs. 'You have drawn the sword Excalibur

  from the stone. As of this moment, you are the rightful king

  of all Britain.'

  'IT Arthor shook his head. 'Hardly so. I am but 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, silver eyes on the trembling lad and

  said quietly, ' N o , Arthor. Y o u are no half-breed, no offspring of

  violent rape. Y o u are the one and only child of Uther Pendragon

  and Ygrane, queen of the Celts.'

  Camelot

  Above the verdant gorge of the Paver 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 five-year festivals

  blustered noisily. Jugglers and musicians entertained the throngs

  of Roman Britons and Celts who had gathered on the wide,

  emerald champaigns to celebrate their union against the tribes

  of pagan invaders.

  A swift rider charged across the playing fields, where con-

  testants tested their skills at archery, javelin throwing, and

  swordsmanship. Yells of protest assailed the rider until the

  crowd heard what he was shouting: '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 - the pig

  runs, tugs-of-war, round dances, target shoots and equestrian

  races — came to a sudden halt. Under the proud spires and

  tiers of scaffolded parapets and half-built vallations, a hushed

  excitement rippled through the festive throngs.

  'Is it true?' Severus Syrax asked as the rider slid from his

  steed and bowed before the pavilion of commanders, whose

  tent walls displayed both Christian symbols and ornately knotted

  Celtic emblems. The swarthy magister militum from the great city

  of Londinium was the first to burst forth from the pavilion at

  the cries of the rider. His Persian features, outlined by precise

  lines of dark beard and elegandy coiffed black curls, shook with

  surprise. 'Who drew the sword?'

  'A boy, my lord magister,' the rider huffed. 'A boy with a

  lengthy name — Aquila Regalis Thor . . .'

  'Arthor!' Kyner shouted with amazement. The large Celtic

  chieftain, wearing a white tunic emblazoned with a scarlet cross,

  emerged from the pavilion and loomed behind the viperous

  Severus Syrax. The Celt's arctic blue eyes grew wider as

  he saw that the messenger spoke earnestly, and the war-

  rior's gruff hand rose to his mouth and covered his ponder-

  ous mustache as if holding back a startled cry. 'My son —

  Arthor?'

  Severus Syrax shoved aside the panting rider and pointed

  with a beringed finger across the summer pastures to where

  the lanky, dark-robed figure of Merlin approached, leading a

  palfrey by its bridle. And upon its back - young Arthor, sword

  upraised.

  'Holy Mother of God!' Kyner cried out as if stabbed. 'It is

  Arthor!'

  Obeisance and Defiance

  Merlin led the mounted swordsman past the silendy watch-

  ing wagonloads of revelers and across the grassy tournament

  grounds, where 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

  before the grand pavilion of yellow tent canvas and purple

  pennants where the 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 rolled across the countryside and

  boomed in echoes from the empty fortress behind him.

  Immediately, the throng fell to their knees. Only the warlords

  and chieftains gathered 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. Suddenly, a thousand innocent details

  ignored over the past fifteen years fell together for him into the

  prodigious realization that this boy, whom he had assumed was a

  cast-off, a churlish offspring of a pagan and a peasant, was indeed

  noble-born. Even Kyner's true son, Cei, the thick-jawed bully

  who had berated his stepbrother over the years, admonishing

  the half-breed to keep his place among the servants, 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 the mouth of the woman who

  was my queen — and not from a wizard.'

  Old Lot of the North, bare-shouldered in the Celtic tra-

  dition, his great mustache fluttering with his harsh breathing,

  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 child?'

  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 Dumnonii, the blond commander of the West, said

  nothing, but when the others turned to depart, he followed.

  Within moments of Merlin's introduction of King Arthor, the

  fields had begun to empty as the 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 mounted on his palfrey and

  knelt before him, heads bowed. 'My Lord!' the gruff chieftain's

  voice cracked with hurt. 'Can you forgive us for having treated

  you as a servant all your life?'

  '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. Y o u 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 for-

  give 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 servant

  in my household. I am ashamed I had no more charity for you

  than that.'

  'Ashamed?' Arthor handed Excalibur to Merlin, who accepted

  it reluctandy 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. Y o u obliged me to learn to read

  and write both Latin and Greek. Y o u took me with you on all

  your diplomatic missions to Gaul and showed me the royal

  courts of the wide world. And, despite my surliness, despite

  my ingratitude, you gave me an honored place at your side on

  the field of battle. Y o u treated me as weD 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 me 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. Y o u bow to no one

  but God.'

  'Then stand — father, brother,' Arthor said and pulled himself

  free of Merlin with an annoyed look. 'Stand before me that I

  may see your faces again.'

  Kyner and Cei obeyed. Tears filmed the chieftain's arctic-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 urgendy

  from one to the other. 'I did not expect this — this great

  responsibility. I — I don't know what to do! Please, help me.

  Y o u know me best of all men. If I am truly a king, as Merlin

  says I am, then you are the king's best men. Please, do not leave

  me alone with this fate. You must help me to fulfill now the

  mission that God has set before 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.'

  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 father and brother.'

  '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. Past a

  clutter of benches and stools, the wizard brought the young man

  to the central court. The enormous chamber was 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 suddenly noticed the sword in

  his hand and passed it to the lad. 'Here, take this. It's yours -

  and you'll need it.'

  Arthor accepted the sword with both hands. In the mirror-

  blue flat of the blade, he saw his blond face too young for

  whiskers, the hackles of his badger hair sticking out in unruly

  spikes. 'I am king?' He looked to Merlin with this question

  sincerely held in his amber eyes. 'Why?'

  'You are the son, the only child, of Uther Pendragon and

  Ygrane, when she was queen of the Celts.' Merlin removed his

  hat and revealed a horrid visage - a long, sallow skull and eyes

  of shattered glass in bonepits deep as dragon sockets. 'I hid you

  at White Thorn with Kyner so that you would be safe from

  your enemies — especially your half-sister, Morgeu the Fey, who

  would have killed you.'

  Arthor's stomach winced at the mention of the enchant-

  ress Morgeu. 'She came to me . . .' His voice sounded far

  away to him.

  'Yes, I know.' Merlin took the boy's shoulders in his

  spidery hands and sat him down on a carpenter's bench. 'She

  has told me.'

  'She seduced me, Merlin.' The boy's already pale face had

  drained to corpse-white. 'I did not know . . . I thought she was

  someone else . . . I . . . I coupled with her in the night . . . it

  was dark . . .'

  'Listen to me, my lord.' Merlin bent close and his haggard

  face filled Arthor's sight. 'What you did, you did unknowingly.

  Yet the deed is done. Morgeu the Fey carries your child.'

  'No!' The sword would have fallen from Arthor's grasp had

  not Merlin caught it and pressed it back into the boy's hands.

  'Be strong, my king. Be strong!' Merlin felt tempted to use

  his magic on the youth, but he knew that would not avail for

  long. 'This is the pain that goes with the truth of your destiny

  as high king of Britain. The salvation of our people comes at

  a price.'

  'Why?' Tears brimmed in Arthor's eyes. 'Why has she

  done this? Does she not realize that she has damned us both

  to hell?'

  'Oh, she realizes that perfectly well, my lord.' Merlin held

  the boy's quavering stare with an icy gaze. 'And now you must

  understand, young king, that whosoever would serve heaven

  must first conquer hell.'

  King Arthor's Retinue

  Proceeding at a stately pace, two elephants, garishly painted

  and oudandishly feathered, marched down the cobbled road,

  leaving in their wake a modey procession of horn-blowers,

  drummers, tumblers, jugglers, clowns, jesters, fire-eaters and

  sword-swallowers. The noisy parade approached Camelot along

  the old Roman highway that led from the Amnis, where they

  had disembarked a gilded barge decorated with gorgon heads

  and tinsel-scaled serpents. As they passed through the river

  hamlet of Cold Kitchen flying their fairy-winged kites and

  rainbow windsocks, they encountered the cortege of Severus

  Syrax as he departed for Londinium. The revelers swept up his

  followers in their jubilant march and carried them all back to

  Camelot.

  That had been Merlin's plan when he had first sent notice

  to the courts of war-torn Gaul that Britain would crown a

  monarch this summer. He had invited all accomplished court br />
  performers who wished the protection of the new king to

  assemble at Camelot and display their prowess. The spectacle of

  the trumpeting elephants and the performers garbed in flagrant

  silks and sequins amused even the batde-hardened troops of

  Bors Bona, and the warlord signaled for his army to return to

  the camp-grounds of Camelot.

  Severus Syrax himself sat astonished atop his black Arabian

  stallion. Fabulously vulgar and antic as the procession appeared

  at first — with bears dancing at the roadside and jugglers tossing

  hatchets and torches — he recognized the glory that flowed

  past him toward Camelot - and toward the king. These were

  denizens of the eternal carnival, the celebration of power that

  had once belonged to Rome and that now gave themselves

  freely to the boy-king. Syrax dared not turn his back on this

  gala. The best hope of discrediting Arthor lay with these

  merrymakers, whose edge of insanity might well cut through

  the illusion of nobility Merlin strove to weave about the child

  he had chosen as monarch.

  Begrudgingly, Severus Syrax pulled his steed around and

  signed for his followers to return to the camp-grounds.

  Even the denizens of Cold Kitchen, who had become inured

  to the coming and going of noble personages at Camelot during

  the fifteen years of its continuing construction, stood beside

  the highway marveling at the accomplished stilt-walkers and

  serpent charmers whose every limb crawled with vipers. The

  hamlet quickly emptied as its residents followed the parade of

  merrymakers to the playing fields of Camelot.

  Merlin stood with Arthor atop a wooden scaffold on the

  colossal stone wall overlooking the broad campestral where the

  two parading elephants had come to a halt and had knelt before

  him. The boy gaped at the colorful throng of entertainers who

  bowed in silent respect before their new lord.

  'What manner of amusement is this, Merlin?' Arthor asked

  through a look of widening wonder, taking in the harlequin

  crowd of mummers, buffoons, contortionists, rope-dancers, and

  gleemen among a boisterous slew of trained dogs, bears, and

  bright-plumed birds.

  Merlin feigned surprise at the lad's query, 'Why, my lord,

  this is your retinue — a pageantry worthy of a king.'

  Jokers, Ribalds, Vagabonds

  King Arthor, with Merlin standing at his side, sat on a ponderous

  throne of cedarwood set upon a platform beneath a purple