The Perilous Order Read online

  awning. Shaded from the afternoon sun that basked the range

  before the citadel's main gate, he reviewed the entertainers who

  had traveled from Gaul to serve at his court. He wore a crimson

  mande trimmed with ermine that Merlin had provided and, atop

  his scalp of brisdy brown hair, a chaplet of laurel leaves fashioned

  from gold. Held loosely in one hand and resting across his chest,

  the sword Excalibur enhanced his regal appearance, though to

  all who beheld him, despite his regalia, the king appeared for

  what he was — a coarse youth of fifteen summers.

  After passing before the king, the painted and feathered

  elephants, the dancing bears, the troupe of wise dogs, and the

  numerous skilled performers moved on to the playing fields,

  where they caroused in the milling crowds with the other

  celebrants and the Celtic and British soldiers. Already, torches

  had been lit and kindling gathered for the grand bonfires that

  would provide illumination for a night-long festival. Cooking

  pits smoked from under the curtain wall, and feast tables piled

  high with racks of roasted meats, baskets of bread, platters

  of vegetables and amphorae of fruit wine rested upon kegs

  of mead.

  Merlin was proud to see that each of the warlords and

  chieftains who had threatened to depart had lingered. Their

  pennants and banners flurried in a balmy breeze above their

  campsites, and music and laughter seethed beneath clouds of

  summer casdes.

  Last of the entourage to present themselves to the king were

  the jokers and ribalds and, hidden in their midst, the vagabonds

  of no trade or skill. Merlin was quick to identify the vagrants

  and signaled for Kyner's men, who served as the king's guard,

  to intercept them. Each was given a loaf of bread and a bladder

  of wine and placed in a wagon that carried them back to the

  barge that waited on the banks of the Amnis.

  None of the vagabonds protested except for one dwarf,

  an imp with red curls and a black-furred, silver-faced mon-

  key on his humped shoulders. He ran between the legs of

  the soldiers who attempted to seize him and darted onto

  the platform where Arthor sat. Merlin reached for his staff,

  intent on swatting the little man and his beast away from

  the king.

  'Do not thtrike me,' the dwarf warned through a lisp, wag-

  ging a stubby finger, 'or I will do what our Lord admonitheth

  and turn the other cheek!' He spun about and presented his

  backside to the wizard.

  With a guffaw, Arthor stayed Merlin's hand. 'What is your

  name, dwarf?'

  'My lord!' Merlin objected harshly. 'This is a crackbrain,

  not worthy of your regal presence. Have him removed.'

  The dwarf jumped about and replied at once, 'I am Dagonet.

  Thith ith Lord Monkey. And you are obviouthly a king who

  would be a boy! How dwoll! You're lucky we're here to

  thtraighten you out.'

  Bedevere

  King Arthor liked the look of Dagonet. The dwarf had a large,

  beardless face splattered with freckles, the visage of a boy. His

  ready smile and candid blue eyes allowed for no guile, and the

  king summoned him to his side. 'Tell me, Dagonet, how came

  you into the company of Lord Monkey?'

  'I needed a worthy mathter . . .'

  Merlin would hear no more. He glowered at the dwarf,

  took his stave, and left the platform. Arthor was pleased to be

  left alone with someone he enjoyed talking to, and he offered

  no objection to the wizard's departure.

  Among the arrivals from Gaul, Merlin had spied a one-

  armed, man impeccably dressed in brown cord breeks, red

  leather riding boots, and a saffron ays, a short-sleeved tunic,

  with one sleeve pinned to the shoulder by an eagle's talon

  cast in black silver. At his hip, he wore a gladius, the short,

  razor-sharp sword favored by the old Romans. His bearing

  and the rub-marks on the side of his balding head caused from

  wearing a helmet told the wizard that this man had lost his right

  arm not by accident but in batde.

  Merlin observed the stranger long enough to see that he ate

  and drank moderately, responded appreciatively to the talented

  pipers and fiddlers, avoided raucous fools, and keenly watched

  all that transpired about him. As soon as the man noticed he

  was being followed, Merlin approached him. Ever cautious,

  the one-armed soldier turned so that his back was protected

  by a heap of unhewn mason's blocks and bowed with curt

  deference. 'My lord Merlin.'

  'I notice you are an unattached soldier.' The wizard leaned

  on his staff and tilted his head so that the stranger could see

  clearly the demon traits of his aspect — and if the soldier felt

  fear at this aspect, he did not show it. 'Why have you come

  to Camelot?'

  'To serve the new king,' he answered at once in a crisp

  voice of lucid Latin. 'I am Bedevere of the fallen kingdom of

  the Odovacar. I have in my riding bag letters of introduction

  from my former masters - our holy father, Pope Gelasius, his

  servant, Theodoric, king of the Ostrogoths, and Theodoric's

  brother-in-law, Clovis, the Merovingian king.'

  ' Y o u have served three great leaders, Bedevere,' Merlin said,

  allowing suspicion to taint his voice. Were you not capable of

  fidelity to one?'

  Not a hint of offense disturbed Bedevere's placid coun-

  tenance. 'I am faithful to the need of those I serve. I gave

  my right arm defending our holy father against the Huns and

  served him till death parted us and my ancestral kingdom of

  Odovacar fell to the Vandals. Then I took up the cause of the

  Salian Franks, whose warband consists wholly of free peasants

  with no nobility and no cavalry. I served their brave leaders,

  Theodoric and Clovis, until they had avenged all I had lost

  to the pagans. N o w they are secure in their alliance with

  the Burgundians in Aquitaine, and my services to them had

  become more diplomatic than martial. I have come here to the

  frontier of Christianity to offer my sword to a king who faces

  certain doom, for it is my destiny before God to champion the

  hopeless.'

  The King's Gala

  Through the night, the festivities at Camelot continued undi-

  minished. Song, dance, and laughter filled the flame-lit slopes

  and fields of the fortress plateau, and the tall, serrate battlements

  of the unfinished citadel blazed with torches and lanterns. King

  Arthor himself came down from his platform at the insistence

  of his new friend, the dwarf Dagonet, and danced from one

  campsite to the next, mingling freely among both Celts and

  Britons, and showing favor to all.

  'Look at him,' Severus Syrax groused from under his pavil-

  ion, where he sipped wine with the British warlords Marcus

  Dumnonii and Bors Bona. 'He's giddy. A giddy boy. Is that

  our king? Bah!'

  'It is good a king can laugh as well as fight,' Marcus

  Dumnonii offered. 'Arthor has proven himself on the field

  against th
e invaders. Kyner used to call him his Iron Hammer.'

  'Does he strike harder than you or Bors Bona?' Severus

  Syrax plucked unhappily at the tines of his black beard. 'I say

  not. He is king only because he is Merlin's puppet. And we all

  know the wizard is an unholy demon.'

  'True, Syrax, I am a demon.' Merlin's voice coughed

  like the wind, and all three warlords leaped to their feet,

  goblets clattering, wine splashing. The guards posted around

  the commanders' pavilion spun about, startled that the tall

  wizard could have passed them unseen.

  'Merlin!' Syrax shouted irately, wiping wine from his silken

  blouse.

  'You call me a demon, Syrax, and I am here to answer

  for that.' Merlin's silver eyes shone like pieces of the moon.

  'It's true. I was wholly a demon once, an incubus that forced

  myself upon my dear mother, Saint Optima. But she did not

  spurn me for the loathsome creature I was. N o . She loved me

  as Our Lord taught us to love all of God's creation — even our

  enemies. And so I am redeemed by her love and given this

  human form to serve the Prince of Peace and to protect the

  meek from the mighty. That also is Arthor's charge, and that

  is why I serve him.'

  As he spoke, memories smoked and burned slowly in his

  mind, smoldering with time - so that time itself pulsed like

  hot coals, dark with the heat of passions that had possessed

  him when he was Lailoken, a demon inflamed with hatred

  for all life. Like every demon who had been flung through

  the cold void with the angels when heaven spilled its light

  into darkness at the moment of creation, he had raged. He

  had destroyed worlds, ravaged every attempt of the angels to

  create a sanctuary for life in this dark universe. He had hated the

  angels, who called themselves Fire Lords. He had believed then,

  as the other demons believed, that the Fire Lords were insane to

  sanction life in a cosmos of vacuum, where the light of origin

  dimmed toward nothingness. And he would have continued

  raging against all life had he not learned love from the woman

  he once tried to rape — Optima, the saint whose womb had

  received his demon energy and who, with the help of the

  angels, had woven him his mortal body of uncertain age . . .

  Time jarred once more into its natural rhythm as Syrax

  hissed: 'Why are you sneaking about like an assassin?'

  'Sneaking?' Merlin's smile revealed jagged teeth orange as

  embers, and he gestured with his staff to the bustling dancers and

  acrobats hurtling through the summer night. 'I walked direcdy

  here to speak for our king.'

  'Your king, wizard,' Severus Syrax snapped. 'Not ours.'

  'I understand that you have an alliance with the Foederatus,

  Syrax.' Merlin spoke in a cold voice, referring to the pagan

  confederacy of Jutish, Pictish, Anglish and Saxon armies who

  controlled the lowlands east and south of Londinium. 'So

  perhaps Arthor is not your king. Perhaps you would rather

  pay obeisance to King Wesc, commander of the Foederatus.'

  'I have a trade agreement with the Foederatus,' Syrax replied

  haughtily. 'But I am a Christian. I would never bend my knee to

  a pagan.'

  'Good. Y o u will have your chance to bend your knee to

  your Christian king, then.' Merlin passed a slow gaze among

  the three warlords. 'I understand your reluctance to accept

  Arthor as your king, for he is young. And though he has

  been tried in battle, his leadership remains untested. So, I

  say this to you three British lords as I will say again to your

  Celtic counterparts: Arthor's leadership will be tested, and he

  will not be found wanting.'

  'So you say, Merlin.' Severus Syrax glanced at the others for

  support and saw that they watched the wizard with awestruck

  solemnity, and he held his tongue.

  'In the coming days,' Merlin continued, 'our king leaves for

  the north to secure the most vulnerable border of our kingdom,

  the territory between the Antonine and Hadrian walls. After

  establishing his authority there, he will tour his entire domain

  and seek pledges from every warlord and chieftain in the land.

  Those who swear allegiance to him will earn a place in his court.

  And those who do not—' Merlin's eyes narrowed. 'They will

  be destroyed.'

  King Arthor's Hangover

  The music and laughter continued into the morning, but the

  bright sunshine that lanced through the ranks of Irish yews

  on the eastern slopes hurt King Arthor's eyes and inspired a

  throbbing headache. He retreated into the citadel, seeking a

  dark alcove among the workers' trestles and dangling loops of

  hempen cables. Sword in hand, he curled into a damp corner

  and pressed the cool blade against his aching brow.

  Nausea swept through him in waves, and he chewed the

  ermine fringe of his mande in physical anguish. 'Too much

  wine,' he moaned to himself. 'Never, never again . . .'

  Dizzy images of Merlin's scowling visage spun before him,

  silently admonishing him for his foolish excess and then loudly

  warning him that he must prove his worthiness to be king.

  'You can not rule unless you first serve! Seek the pledges

  of your warlords and chieftains by serving their needs. Tour

  your kingdom - but not as a drunk! Use this first year wisely

  or stand aside.'

  The wizard's challenge whirled in him, echoing dimmer,

  then louder. Out of that vortex rose the figure of a tall woman

  with muscular shoulders, flame-wild hair, and small, tight, black

  eyes in a moon face. 'Morgeu the Fey!' he gasped and shook his

  head until the vision of the big-boned enchantress smeared into

  the shadows.

  'Ho! My lord!' Dagonet the dwarf called from among the

  crowded workbenches. 'Where have you gone? Y o u are twithe

  my thize and mutht dwink twithe what I have dwunk!'

  Lord Monkey swung out of the dark on a cable and leaped

  squawking onto Arthor's shoulder. With a fanged grin, the beast

  thrust a rind of ripe cheese under the young king's nose.

  Arthor swatted the monkey away, and it bounded into

  the dark with an angry shriek. 'Leave me alone,' the king

  groaned.

  'Ah, but I have here a bladder of muthty Iberian vintage with

  a peppery afterbite that will pinth your thinutheth!' The dwarf

  strode from under a mason's scaffold with a wobbly pig's bladder

  in his hand. 'Come, dwink! Today you are king! Tomorrow

  - God help uth, tomorrow ith already upon uth! And you're

  thtill king! Dwink!'

  Arthor waved him away. 'Leave me, Dagonet. I am sick.'

  'Thick? Not at all!' The dwarf swaggered closer. 'You are

  king!' He unstoppered the bladder and wafted it under the king's

  pallid face. 'Drink, thire, and give Lord Bacchuth example of

  how a king revelth!'

  The dwarf's leering face and the acrid stink of soured wine

  disgusted Arthor, and he waved his sword threateningly. 'Be

  gone, dwarf, or I swear . . .'

  'Thwear by our Thavior'th toenailth if you mutht!' Sloshing
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  wine, Dagonet backed off. 'I thee clearly now, thire - Lord

  Bacchuth' reign ith thafe from the callow liketh of you. I pway

  for all of uth that you hold your thepter more firmly than your

  wine. Lord Monkey and I depart. We will weturn anon, when

  your head ith no longer too big for your cwown.'

  Arthor groaned. He had never before imbibed so much

  wine or danced so strenuously. He had been vehement in his

  carousing, as if enough wine and merriment could counter the

  abiding shame and oppressive doubts that squatted in his heart.

  Incest! The word ached in him, too ugly to voice aloud and

  more painful than his besotted headache. I have engendered an

  incest-child! And I dare believe I could be king? The dwarf is right.

  No crown belongs on my head.

  He groped for his gold chaplet, found it missing, and

  groaned for the justice of that. A wave of nausea swelled in

  him, and he gnashed his teeth, trying to suppress the gorge

  rising in his throat. With a gurgled cry, he vomited.

  The King's Steward

  Twisted with nausea, King Arthor lay in his vomit. His head

  pulsed with pain, and his heart clopped desultorily in his chest,

  heavy with despair.

  'Get up.' A sharp voice struck him like a slap. 'We deserve

  better for our king.'

  Arthor felt a strong, gruff hand under his shoulder, lifting

  him from the stench of his spew. When he rolled about, he

  gazed up at a refined face, a visage with a high, balding brow,

  long, thin nose with disdainfully arched nostrils, and a narrow,

  hard mouth, almost lipless, above a dim, beardless chin. 'Who

  — who are you?'

  'I am the king's steward. Bedevere.' He produced a black

  knuckle of dessicated woodmeat. 'Chew this. It's Saint Martin's

  Wort. It will settle your stomach and clear your head.'

  Before Arthor could object, Bedevere pushed the wort into

  the boy's mouth, and it was then Arthor noticed that the man

  had no right arm.

  'Yes, a Hun has taken one of my arms.' Bedevere sat Arthor

  upright and with a wet cloth began to clean the youth's face.

  ' N o w I must work twice as hard at everything. And my efforts

  return twice the satisfaction.'

  'Leave me, Bedevere.'

  'Be quiet and chew. Chew vigorously. The wort needs

  a good grinding. It's old. I carried it from the Holy Land

  some years ago and am happy to say I've had no need of it

  — till now.'