Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  He stopped at the door to his hut and looked back at Merlin, who was still standing where Arthur had left him, watching him with a twinkle in his bright eyes. Merlin saw the young man looking at him, and he smiled broadly. In disgust, Arthur turned his back again.

  When he went inside his hut, he wished he had a door that he could close. Instead, he untied the laces and rolled down the leather curtain that served the same purpose, but in a much less sturdy fashion. The price of privacy was darkness, but enough light filtered in around the curtain that he could still see.

  Arthur sat on his bed and busied himself with caring for his armor and his weapon, oiling the metal and checking for any links that needed to be repaired. While his hands worked, his mind wandered, and he let it roam.

  He was embarrassed now about his reaction to the faery princess Guinevere. She was beautiful, yes, astonishingly so, but he had been gawping like a fish out of water. No doubt she had noticed him because he looked like the village idiot, mouth open and catching flies. He frowned in irritation. It was good that he would never see her again, because he’d probably still play the fool if he did.

  He wondered what Amren would say, and if he had betrayed him by feeling such a sudden and profound attraction to Guinevere. He reasoned that his response had been purely physical and therefore just an accident of anatomy. He would not betray Amren until someone else took up residence in his heart. He doubted that would ever be the case.

  Someone tapped against the outside of his hut, and he looked up. “Come in.”

  Merlin pushed the leather flap out of the way and peered inside. “May I enter?”

  Arthur nodded, “Yes. Come in. I said so already.”

  “I need to be specifically invited in,” the druid said with a shrug.

  “You’re invited,” Arthur said, his voice flat.

  “Thank you,” Merlin said, stepping into the hut and dropping the leather curtain closed behind him once again. “I wanted to be certain that you’re willing to talk to me.”

  He put his chain shirt aside and picked up his breastplate. “That depends. Are you going to insult me again?”

  “Probably not.” The druid smiled and sat on a low stool that Arthur had built. “Do you know why I’ve been insulting you?”

  “Because it amuses you?”

  “Well… that’s part of it, I will admit.” Arthur snorted, and Merlin continued. “But that’s not the only reason. Have you sussed it out?”

  “You’re teaching me a lesson,” he ventured.

  “About what?”

  “I’m still trying to decide.”

  Merlin nodded. “Men in positions of power will have all manner of unflattering things said about them, usually behind their backs but sometimes to their faces. If every verbal insult is taken as an invitation to fight, then there will be nothing but bloodshed from now until your very premature death. You must decide when anger is appropriate, and when it should be contained or cast aside.”

  Arthur looked at him, then back to his work. “It’s about self-control.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I had thought of that already, and I’ve tried it. I’m just not very good at it.”

  Merlin’s smile was kind for once instead of mocking, and he said, “You are very young, and you come from a fiery bloodline on both sides. If you didn’t have difficulty mastering your wrath, I would be surprised. There is a time for all things, though, and wrath and pride can cause the downfall of a good man before enemies or time.”

  He put the breastplate down and faced his teacher. “King Rions doesn’t control his greed. That was part of the lesson there. He lacks self-control in that respect.”

  “Correct.”

  “And what does Leodegrance fail to control?”

  Merlin said, “We were not in his kingdom long enough for you to see it, but he fails to control his generosity. His keep is patched and in need of repair, and his table is spare because he chooses not to take what is his by right. He gives from his coffers to his people, and they are happy, but he is close to bankrupt.” He met Arthur’s eyes. “You will be much like him, if you do not learn this lesson now. Generosity is good, but you must see to your own needs first. As the head of a household, you will need to ensure that your wife, your children, and your retainers are all provided for, but you must still see to it that your people keep enough to survive. It’s a difficult balance to achieve.”

  Arthur nodded. He understood. “Is there a balance with anger, too?”

  “There is a balance with all things. Anger can be a powerful motivator to achieve great ends, especially when the anger is righteous, or on behalf of an injured party other than yourself. Anger born of pride is always dangerous.” He looked into Arthur’s eyes and said seriously, “There will be a time to let your anger guide you into action, and the time will come when rage should drive your sword. This is not that time, and if you allow yourself to become angered over every slight, real or imagined, you will destroy yourself.”

  “You’ve said this already.”

  “I repeat myself because I need you to learn. You know I do not repeat myself often.”

  The youth took a breath. “Thank you, Master. I will think of this lesson.”

  “Good.” He rose. “But don’t think too long, or too seriously. Don’t miss the bonfire.”

  “It will be difficult to miss, considering that it will be in the center of the grove where we live,” Arthur observed.

  “Cheeky.”

  “Is that something that needs to be controlled, too?”

  Merlin smiled. “Only in certain circumstances. I happen to enjoy it and think it suits you. But know the right times and places for such things.”

  “I’ll endeavor to learn.”

  The druid nodded as he walked away. “Yes, you will.”

  Bonfires burned that night all across Britannia, as well as in Little Britain, the portion of Gaul called Armorica. There were two neighboring kingdoms there ruled by two brothers, and on this night of celebration, they gathered in the ghost of a fully harvested grain field overlapping their shared border. The bonfire they kindled was large enough for both royal families, who were there with special celebrations in mind.

  The oldest brother, King Ban of Benoic, had just seen his wife bear their first son, and the younger, King Bors of Gaunnes, was seeing the harvest fire with his new bride for the first time. Both kings were in glowing good humor, and their queens, too, were smiling and happy. Queen Helene, King Ban’s wife, sat with her back to the fire, warming herself while she nursed her infant son. Queen Evaine, her sister and King Bors’ wife, sat close beside her.

  “He’s a beautiful child,” she congratulated her sister. “Has he been christened?”

  “Not yet. Ban is not concerned with such things, and he has mixed emotions about the Roman faith.” She looked over at her husband and smiled lovingly. “He is so proud.”

  “As well he should be.” She caught her own husband’s eye and smiled, too. The brothers sat together with their chief knights, carousing a quarter of the way around the fire from where the queens and their ladies celebrated in a somewhat more genteel manner. “Someday little Galahad will have a cousin or two to play with, God willing.”

  “May it be so, sister.”

  A hush fell over the crowd, and the queens noticed it first. A shiver of uncertainty rippled through the people who had come to celebrate as a tall woman approached wearing a black cloak with a black dress beneath it. Her hair was as red as flame, falling past her waist in a thick plait studded with black gems. She had a casket in her hands, made of gold and studded with pearls and precious jewels. They recognized the sorceress Annowre as she approached. She stood before Queen Helene with a smile on her face.

  “Queen Helene of Benoic,” she greeted. “I bring a gift for your new son.”

  King Ban nearly ran to reach his wife’s side, disapproval and distrust in his dark eyes. “What do you want here, witch?”

  Annowr
e looked at him coolly. “This is woman talk, King Ban.” Her voice took on a strange timber, both deeper and thicker, and she said, “Go back to your men.” The king blinked once, then turned on his heel and obeyed. Annowre looked at King Bors and the knights, and she spoke in that same voice, filled with enchantment. “All of you, as you were. Pay no attention to what happens here.”

  The men resumed their revelry as if they were unaware of Annowre’s existence. Helene gripped her baby closer and looked up at the unwelcome guest.

  “What did you do to the king?”

  “Nothing lasting,” she sniffed. She smiled at the queen again. “I would like to present this to you, my lady.”

  Queen Evaine said, “She doesn’t want your -”

  “I thank you, Lady Annowre,” Helene said quickly, cutting her sister off before she could anger this powerful creature. Everyone feared Annowre, especially when she came clad in black. “You may give it to Arla, my lady in waiting.”

  “This casket can only be put into your hands, Queen Helene, and the gift inside is only for little Galahad here.”

  Helene blanched. “We did not tell you his name.”

  “You didn’t need to.” She arched an eyebrow. “Well? Are you going to accept this gift, or will I be going away insulted?”

  She hesitated a moment longer, then detached the child from her teat. He accepted the removal without crying and went placidly into the arms of Queen Evaine. His mother closed her dress and said, “I thank you, my lady Annowre. I will accept the gift now.”

  Annowre gave a closed-mouth smile. “Good.”

  The casket was cold when Helene touched it, and an unpleasant feeling came over her when she took it in her hands. She shuddered and looked up at Annowre. The sorceress was smiling, but her unnatural yellow eyes looked hard. Helene swallowed a lump in her throat and opened the box.

  Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, was a tiny phial filled with red liquid. It looked so much like blood that Helene nearly slammed the lid shut again, but instead, too afraid to resist, she asked, “What is this?”

  “It is a potion that will make your son the strongest warrior in the world.”

  “It looks like blood.”

  Annowre smiled. “Should a warrior not be blood-thirsty?” She looked at Evaine and commanded, “Give me the child.”

  The sorceress’s voice and the magic that moved through it left no room for discussion. Evaine handed the baby over immediately. Annowre took him and unwrapped his swaddling, exposing his tiny body to the chill night air. The queen’s ladies in waiting gathered around in dismay and distress, watching.

  “He is a well-made infant, as human infants go,” she said. She took the phial from the casket and flicked it open with her thumb. She dropped the liquid onto the child’s limbs, a thick and viscous splash for each arm and each leg. Annowre rubbed it in, and the baby kicked. She held him tighter. “You will be the strongest and most famous knight to ever live. You will be loved by many, but not one will you love. Women will do anything to have you. Men will want to be you. But you will love no mortal woman, and anyone who loves you will come to madness and ruin. You are born to be a king, but you will never rule. You will never have a home.” She pushed the child’s jaw open and poured three drops into his tiny mouth. “One drop for sorrow, which you will cause. One drop for chaos, which you will reap. One drop for war, which will haunt you until you die. You will know no peace and you will never be known by your true name. You will die in agony and uselessness in the center of a storm and you will be blamed for it all.”

  Helene rose, tears streaming down her face. The casket tumbled to the ground. “This is no gift. This is a curse.”

  Annowre looked at her. “Yes. It is.”

  She vanished into thin air, dropping the child and the phial as she went. Helene managed to catch her son, and the phial fell to the ground. One of her ladies, Evienne, bent and collected the potion from the grass, catching the spilled drops in her hands.

  The queen rubbed the potion from her child’s body, sobbing over him. Queen Evaine looked at Evienne and said, “What are you doing with that? You will be cursed, too.”

  “No.” The lady took a step away from the fire and sighed, and in that instant, her face changed. Her blonde hair took on a greenish hue, and her eyes grew larger and more prominent. Webbing appeared between her fingers, and on her neck, tiny fins and a set of fluttering gills appeared. She took a harsh breath, and the gills strained in the dry heat. She turned to Queen Helene. “Know that I am of the faery. I am one of the nine Ladies of the Lake, and though I cannot remove the curse that Annowre has placed upon your boy, I can add some magic of my own to mitigate it as well as I can.”

  Helene nodded vigorously, sobbing. “Yes! Whatever you can do! Help my child!”

  Evienne took the baby and cradled him in her left arm, while in her right hand she held the remnants of the potion. She spat into her hand and let her saliva and the red liquid mix. It turned black, and she closed her fingers so it dripped out through her palm. She dropped it on the child’s forehead as if she were baptizing him.

  “She said that you will love not one, but I say that you will love two. She said that you will love no mortal woman, but you will love one of the fey, and she will love you, too. You will search for the one man who can defeat you in battle, and when you find him, you will be loyal to him unto death. You will be spoken of and remembered forever as the flower of knighthood, and you will never be killed by any enemy. You may lose the name you carry now, but you will find it again.”

  She kissed his little forehead, smudging the black drops that she had placed there. The baby kicked and complained, whining in displeasure. She smiled down at him.

  “You will be strong. You will be brave. But most of all, you will be good.”

  Evienne handed the baby back to Queen Helene, who clutched him tight. The Lady of the Lake stepped further from the fire and bowed to her former mistress.

  “I must leave, but know that if your son is ever in danger, I will protect him.”

  She backed away into the darkness beyond the fire’s glow and was gone, leaving Helene sobbing and the men by the fire completely unaware that anything was amiss.

  In her tower, Vivienne sat before her scrying mirror, a leather bag in her hands. She shook the bag, jumbling the bones inside, hearing them mix and rumble. Words of magic tumbled from her lips, and the bones trembled in response. She finished her incantation and upended the bag above the mirror.

  Hawk bones, polished river stones scored with the marks of sorcery, and the bones of a fox scattered across the polished surface, rolling against one another until they came to rest in the telltale signs that told her the future. This form of divination had never been wrong, and it was how she had found the men whose power she had subsumed: Dedi, scribe of Sneferu, from whom she had gained enchantment; Omiyoshi, the ancient onmyoji she had found in Honshu, who had given her the power of prediction; and Acladius, gullible Acladius, who had given her the most power of them all with his evocatory and alchemical skills. Each man had been a stepping stone along her path, and there would be more.

  She had gained other gifts from the men she had known and consumed. There had been Vergetorix of Gaul, who had increased her martial instincts, and Aashomedes, the self-proclaimed son of Hermes, who had given her the first taste of divine essence, and who had set her on this path. Vivienne had a hunger for power and for knowledge, and every step she took was designed to increase the abilities that she could command. In time, with careful planning, she would be the most powerful being in the world, both on earth and in Hell. She was a succubus, and the ability to consume souls during coitus gave her the ability to absorb knowledge and power, and each of the men she had killed had added his gifts to her store.

  She found her “teachers” through this divination, and it was these stones that had led her to Arthur. Always before when she had cast her divination to find her next teacher, they had led her to adults who were r
eady for her particular brand of learning. This time was different. When she had first located him, his position pointed out by the stones and bones, it had been before he was even born. She had seen a vision of him as a tiny child in the loving arms of his foster mother. It had taken several rounds of divination to realize that Arthur was her target and not the one-armed man who was raising him. She spent many hours meditating on him and his destiny, and she realized that if he were properly guided, he would become the most powerful temporal ruler the world had ever seen, greater than any of the Caesars - some of whom she had devoured in due course - and greater even than Alexander. He would change the world, and his efforts would flavor his soul with his particular brand of power. He would be her last meal, and then she would be ready to take...what she intended to take. It was best not to contemplate that ultimate goal too openly, not where her enemies might catch the scent. In all of her immortal existence, she had never been so close.

  Arthur had to be carefully taught. He had to be guided, controlled, and manipulated to be with the right people and in the right places to come to the full fruition of his capability. Vivienne had already taken several important steps in that direction. With her demon-born ability to change her appearance, she had already been in his life several times, taking direct action when he needed to be nudged. His foster mother’s death had been no accident. Motherless boys were always desperate for love, and would always reach out to those who showed them kindness. Arthur would have a need for emotional support and approval in his adult life, something that he would always seek to make up for the loss of a mother’s nurturing presence. The trick for Vivienne was to ensure that he would encounter the right sort of replacement at the right time. It wouldn’t do for him to grow too secure too quickly; after all, bulls needed the pain of having their noses pierced with a ring before they could be properly led.

  She knew that she was not the only one of her sisters who had noticed Arthur’s potential. Other succubi on the surface of the earth, running from their lowly place in Hell, were gathering power just the way she was. They simply hadn’t started as early, and they hadn’t been as successful as she had been. Vivienne knew that they were out there, though, watching and waiting, circling around the vulnerable youth like lionesses around an injured antelope. If she was to gain everything he could give her, she had to keep him alive and protected.