The Eagle and the Sword (The Perilous Order of Camelot Book 2)

by A. A. Attanasio

  Pressing his brow against the upright staff, Merlin remembers his mother, the good saint Optima, in whose womb this grand vision began. The love he knew then persists as an ember of hope far back in his soul, the memory of his mother's love.

  I cannot be wrong about that, he thinks, recalling how Optima's pure and abiding faith in the goodness of God had countered aeons of torment that he had lived as a demon.

  The sun-shower pelts harder through the unfinished roof, golden drops drumming against scaffolds, worktables, and the brim of Merlin's hat. For an instant, the angel draws closer to the wizard and stands in the place beside him that no one sees. And for that one fleeting moment, the hinge of Merlin's heart swivels the door of his mind open on the invisible world.

  Merlin sees far off his mother in red raiment rising among columnar sunlight toward the blazing throne of heaven. He blinks, and what he thought was Optima flying in scarlet robes is merely a bloody scrap of vermin hoisted among rays of sun in the beak of a voracious raven.

  "Bah!" He dismisses the illusion with a scowl and pulls himself upright by his staff. The glimpse of his mother in a scrap of offal is enough to remind him of his destinal work. He turns his thoughts away from the fearful questions of purpose that Morgeu's wraith had inspired and returns with renewed determination to the chores at hand.

  Satisfied that Merlin's grace has been restored, the angel drifts away on nectar breezes and becomes again summer rain that falls over Camelot like cool news from heaven.

  BOOK ONE

  Eagle of Thor

  Chapter 1: Storm Raiders

  Dune grass flattens under the wind, and fishermen of the cove village of Mousehole turn over their boats on the curving strand. Purple fists of storm clouds rise in the south above a choppy sea, and lightning casts its nets across the flat horizon. The fishermen hurry to secure their seines under their boats. The day's catch writhes in wooden tubs, a silver mass of cod, sea bass, and eels tangled in amber kelp and broken rainbows.

  In pairs, the men slowly haul the tubs up the beach, their wood-soled shoes crunching periwinkles, black mussels, and starfish. The sandy path through the salt grass climbs toward a shale ledge, where a priest waits to bless their day's catch. His brown cassock pulls tight against his scrawny body in the press of the wind, and the wide sleeves of his outstretched arms flutter like wings.

  Beyond the priest, the tidal plain rises gradually toward a sandstone bluff cluttered with thatch-roofed cottages. For three centuries, this seacoast town served a Roman villa situated on the headlands among wind-thrown oaks and elder woods.

  The vine-tangled walls of the villa still offer shelter on the terraced bluffs above the cove, though the Romans abandoned it a hundred years before. Over time, its fine water gardens of reflecting pools and fountains have grown clogged with silt, and the oil presses, bakery, and stables long since burned by looters.

  A humble monastery established twenty years ago by Saint Piran now occupies the villa's roofless colonnade. Improvised walls of wattle and daub presently house a collapsed millstone that serves as a crude Christian altar. The priest has come down from there to preside before a stone Celtic cross erected on the shale ledge above the strand.

  The fishermen stop and place their half-filled tubs of fish on the ground. They kneel perfunctorily, eager for their blessing so they can hurry back to their families before the storm strikes. Impatiently, they gaze up at the priest, but he does not move. His gaze has locked on the horizon of bruised clouds, and a tremor of fear twitches his beardless face.

  "Raiders!" the priest cries out, and crosses himself hastily. "Storm raiders!"

  Low as driftwood in the high seas, a score of shallow boats emerge from spindrift and windy spume. The fishermen and the priest can just make out the bristly shape of lances as the boats dip and rise on the turbulent sea. Human bodies take shape riding the thunder swells, scrawls of lightning in the air above them like fiery signatures of an enraged celestial authority.

  Panic-stricken, the men abandon their fish tubs. Storm raiders have recently sacked other hamlets along the coast, reducing Neptune's Sandal, Landsfall, and Bluerock to charred scars on the beach. The denizens of those fishing towns had all been murdered, women and children alike, their scalps woven into cloaks, their very flesh flayed to fashion drum-skins.

  The throb of those horrid drums looms closer on the thunder itself. The fishermen bolt toward their homes. By the time they reach their cottages and alert their families, the first curtains of rain drape the beach, and the raiders, propelled by the incoming tide and the squall, sail atop the breakers.

  Flight is impossible. The cove holds the village as if in a giant's hand. Villagers scramble up footpaths toward the elder woods. From prayer huts around the villa, monks gather to bear up a massive wooden cross, relying on their faith to drive off the barbarian warriors or lead them to proud martyrdom.

  The scows of the storm raiders shoot out of the combers. The shallow-draft boats slide onto the beach, sizzling across the sand like lightning. War cries flap in the blustery wind, and raiders, brandishing long swords and spears, jump to shore.

  Desperate to buy time for their families, many of the fishermen halt in their flight. They wield staves and flensing knives and stand fast on the steep paths, at least long enough for the women and children to reach the monastery and the open fields beyond. But when they see the frenzied raiders charging up the beach, the village men realize their resistance is as grass to the scythe.

  Through the driving rain, the terrible visages of the storm raiders come into view. Most of the bearded, screaming men attack naked. All display garish tattoos on their burly bodies—dragon-eyes and fang-faces. Some wear helmets of human skulls and jawbones lashed together with scalp hair. Others brandish femur clubs and beat drums that dangle shriveled faces of human leather.

  The savage storm raiders fly up the beach clothed in rainsmoke. They shriek and howl with maniacal enthusiasm, well aware that their victims reckon them a company of devils loosed from the Christian hell.

  Before this gruesome horde, the priest and monks plant their great cross and fall to their knees in fervid supplication of the Almighty. Horrified, the fishermen dart gibbering up the footpaths, not far behind their fleeing women and children.

  A clarion peal sounds thinly above the din of pernicious drums, above the thunder and the screaming. The monks do not waver in their fervid prayers, but the fishermen hesitate, gripped by desolate hope. They gawk into the slashing rain to seek the source of the silver tantara that sounds again, louder, closer.

  Terror, once boiling to sobs inside them, explodes to astonished cries at the sight of misty shadows looming through the elder woods above.

  "Salvation!" one keen-eyed fisherman bawls. "Christ's soldiers! We are saved!"

  From out the misty woods, a small troop of mounted warriors take form under a white pennant emblazoned with a scarlet cross. They gather atop the bluff-—a steady line of lancers and archers bedecked in bronze face masks and plumed rawhide helmets. Christian emblems of the fish, the lamb, the chi-rho emboss their Roman breastplates.

  The sight of the troop's chain-mail armor and powerful warhorses causes first disbelief, then screams of frightened joy among the villagers, who fall to their knees in amazement.

  A clattering drove of arrows flies over the heads of the surprised villagers and totters the furious assault of the storm raiders. The horn blasts again, an aggressive blare that lifts a mighty cry from the gathered cavalry and sends horsemen plunging downslope at full gallop.

  As the warriors fly past, astonished villagers gape and throw their hands up in praise.

  "Lord Kyner!" one of the monks cries out, recognizing the curved Bulgar saber of the warband's leader. Swiftly, word spreads among the huddled folk that ferocious Kyner, a famed Christian chief among the Celts, has come to their rescue.

  The storm raiders do not flinch. Mad with blood rage, they charge over the bodies of their fallen comrades toward the s
tone cross, emblem of all they hate. The Christian horsemen ride hard upon them with axes and swords flailing.

  Through veils of rain smoking across the strand, more barbarian scows slide out of the storm-driven swells, and soon the beach is crowded with war-fevered men clashing against headlong steeds.

  Jubilant hurrahs from the village folk choke in their throats at the terrible sight of horses collapsing and nightmarish Saxons spearing and clubbing unhorsed soldiers. Whirlwinds of rain seem to carry the barbarians slathered in gore among the mounts, and the pounding attack falters and staggers to a halt.

  Milling in brutal confusion, the war parties hack at each other, and screaming horses shrill under booming thunder and drums and the incessant cries of human battle fury.

  The monks stand, uplifted by their fervent prayers. Chanting in unison, they watch horrified as Kyner's horsemen whirl and lunge, encircled by seething pagans. Kyner and his huge son, Cei, fight back to back. Even in the driving rain, their red-plumed helmets stand out and draw upon themselves the hottest fury of the battle.

  The clashing enemies lurch higher up the beach, and stunned villagers begin to back away, once again moaning with despair. Too many of the horsemen have fallen. The ferocity of the storm raiders draws strength from out of the black air, and they fight more fiercely standing atop corpses and felled beasts.

  None among the fisherfolk can bear to witness the glory deaths of renowned Kyner and his proud son—and many turn away. Aghast, the monks drop again to their knees.

  As if in answer, an apparition appears down the beach, emerging through smoking sheets of torrential rainfall. A lone cavalryman on a gray and blood-slaked palfrey bounds among frantic pagans, his sword a blur of blood-arcs and strewn flesh. Peering through torrent and battle frenzy, the monks discern on his shield an improbable likeness in blue robes, golden halo, and the serene features of the Virgin Mother.

  Mary's unknown champion rides like a winged warrior. His steed dances across the shale with an eerie, fluid grace, lunging then rearing and prancing backward on hind legs while its rider chops and stabs. Among the monks are men who have seen battles before and some who themselves have fought and found their faith on the killing plains, clashing with Picts and Jutes. But none has ever seen such a display of lethal horsemanship.

  Again, the monks are on their feet, the better to behold Blessed Mary's warrior cutting a swath through the barbarians. Nimble as a ferret among snakes, the bronze-masked rider drives his mount as though the beast were a weapon itself. It curvets directly into the thickest knot of the melee, striking with both front and rear hooves even as the relentless blade cleaves bone and flesh. Abruptly, the horse volts around the fallen raiders and pierces deeper into the fray.

  The holy shield twists to deflect a spear, and the palfrey tramples the lancer and hurtles among the crowd that is eager to kill Kyner and his son. Drawing the battle to himself, Mary's champion spins a deadly circle, exposing himself on every side to the enemy's blows yet deftly parrying spear thrusts and spinning axes with his battered shield. Leaning down with his masked face against the horse's shoulder, he barges toward his chief and opens a path for Kyner and Cei to escape the slaughterous throng.

  Together, the three horsemen drive the barbarians back from the Celtic cross and down onto the flat strand. The monks follow, and the villagers behind them, emboldened by the abrupt turn in the battle. Rain sweeps over the beach of sprawled dead like folds of drapery, and onlookers stare in amazement as the raiders hurry toward the sea like play-actors retreating behind drawn curtains.

  Kyner and Cei withdraw, and the surviving cavalrymen run down the isolated clusters of barbarians, who still stand defiant among maimed and slain comrades. The Blessed Virgin's champion flies remorselessly among the enemy, throwing himself into the struggle as if eager to cast his own life away. Time and again, his sacred shield protects him and his palfrey from ax blows and sword thrusts, and his blade unerringly pierces the naked warriors with rapid, expert violence, leaving a wake of carcasses on the misty beach.

  "Who is that warrior?" the amazed and incredulous priest asks as Kyner and Cei wearily dismount among the monks.

  The two men remove their helmets and shake loose long hair lanky with sweat. Kyner's timberwolf eyes regard the holy men with the indifference of a powerful beast. Ice-blue in torchlight, they gaze out from an inflamed mass of jutting bones—brow, cheek, and jaw—flushed with battle rage.

  The younger man glows ghostly pale from their frightful entrapment in the homicidal crowd. His thick and beardless face gasps for air more out of contained fear than exhaustion. The younger version of his father, he lacks the elder's heavy, drooping mustache.

  "Who is Mary's warrior?" the priest must know.

  "He is my father's ward," Cei manages with a hint of disdain, and accepts a flagon from a grateful villager. "Aquila Regalis Thor."

  "The Royal Eagle of Thor," the priest translates. "A Roman Saxon?" He stares even more intently at the brutish warrior in the distance, still charging hellishly up and down the beach, slaying the last desperate storm raiders.

  "Saxon blood sanctified by the Holy Spirit," Kyner huffs, and lifts his leathery face to the cool rain, grateful to be alive. "A rape-child redeemed by Christ. We call him Arthor."

  Cei blinks into the downpour, and says grouchily, "We've wounded men on the beach. Get your monks down there, priest."

  The dazed monks hurry to comply, and the priest looks to the old chieftain. "Lord Kyner, Mousehole is remote from any of your strongholds. How did you know of our plight?"

  "My son spoke clearly, Father. There are good Christian souls down there desperate for their last rites and others to be saved by timely care. Make haste and prove yourself worthy of their great sacrifice."

  When the priest has departed, Kyner fixes a tight stare on his son, and speaks slowly to contain his anger, "You should have held the left flank." And, silently, to himself he says, Seventeen years old and the man is yet a boy! How have I been remiss with him?

  Cei squints with incredulity. "You were in danger. I broke flank to save you."

  "And nearly killed us both! Good men died this night, because you cared more for me than our company. This is not how I trained you." He meshes his teeth and directs his anger through his jaws into one hurtfully cramped thought in his brain, When will he learn? There is no compassion before the sword! "You should have held the flank."

  "And have you overrun?" Cei swipes rain from his eyes and stares with shrill anguish. "You are my father—and our chief."

  Kyner puffs out his hollow cheeks with a heavy sigh. "I am an old man, Cei. I shouldn't be here at all. Arthor is right. I belong in White Thorn with the women."

  Cei’s face tightens like a fist. "Arthor is an arrogant bastard."

  "Who saved our lives yet again this night." Kyner nods to his son. "Show him more love, Cei."

  "Is that an order, Father?"

  "Must I so order?" Kyner sadly shakes his drenched head. "Respect your brother."

  "That foulmouthed ingrate?" Cei shakes the rain from his face with an irate jerk. "I don't understand. Why do you hold him to your heart and call him my brother? He scorns you as much as me. He is bad blood."

  "Yet look at him, Cei." Kyner gazes with blatant admiration at the strand where Arthor has backed the last of the raiders into the waves. In the violet, falling light, he and his horse move like elusive shadows before the glowing breakers, charging at the howling barbarians and leaving their corpses adrift in the foaming water. "While we stand here in the rain amazed to be alive, when by all rights the blood of our lives should be running in the sand with the others who fell this gruesome night, still he fights. Look at him! By God, look at him. Our own avenging angel."

  Cei gnaws his lower lip. "Is that why you love him more than your son?"

  "Not that foolishness again!" Kyner replies with swift rebuke. "Love. You speak of it as if love were some kind of currency to be doled out at whim. You are my son. I care f
or you beyond love. And though he is a great warrior, you will be chief, not him. You would be chief this very night had you not broken flank."

  "I don't want to be chief, Father."

  "Not chief?" Kyner casts a dire look at his son. "Then why are you here on this malignant beach? In the name of God, son, what do you want?"

  "I want you to look at me the way you look at him."

  "Fah!" Kyner turns away in disgust. "I look at him with the admiration I would have for a marvelous hunting dog. Is that what you want, Cei? Then get down there and fight with all his brutal cunning."

  Cei remains silent, struggling with himself. I am a good warrior. I know it. I have been tried in battle and not found wanting. Yet beside that blood-crazed Arthor, I seem a blundering fool. He loves killing. He is the very devil himself when it comes to killing. How can I compare?

  "Get out of the rain, Father," Cei says, mounting his horse. "It's bad for your bones."

  "Where are you going?"

  "I'll see to our men. Take shelter. Arthor did not save us from the Saxon to lose you to the ague." He pulls his steed abruptly away and trots toward the beach, where night smothers the dead, and the living stir like detached pieces of darkness.

  Kyner watches after him briefly, then turns about and trudges up the path toward the winking hearth-fires of the hamlet. Old age has set its claws in him years ago, and now they flex, as they always do lately after any strenuous effort. He should have died this night, he knows. He should be among the corpses on the beach, his soul flown from this sour flesh and gone to its place in Purgatory to await Judgment. Instead, Arthor has preserved him—and Cei.

  The chieftain bows his head humbly under the pelting rain. Cei is a good warrior but not bold. And that is as it should be, for though he is strong, he is not clever. Yet, he is my son—he is my only son.

  Chapter 2: Aquila Regalis Thor