The Sorcer part 2: Metamorphosis cc-6

by Jack Whyte

  "So," he began immediately, "the statue that your uncle made sat unused for years before you thought of turning it into swords. What prompted you to try that?"

  "Hmm?"

  "What made you think, so suddenly and after such a long time, that this statue—this Lady of the Lake—might be induced to yield fine swords?" One corner of his mouth was twitching in a smile that his neatly trimmed beard did not quite conceal. "And bear in mind, if you please, that I am a bishop, consecrated to God's truth."

  "I... Forgive me, Bishop, I don't follow you."

  "Oh yes you do, you know exactly what I mean. There was another sword, wasn't there? Varrus made a sword from the statue. That is the only tiling that would explain the difference in weight you spoke of at one point, and the pattern of this sword, which is unique, while you, who supposedly designed it, are no armourer. There are holes in your tale, Master Merlyn, although you do conceal them very well. I suspect you have a secret of some kind, but if it is indeed a secret, then say so and I'll ask no more questions."

  I raised my horn cup to him in a wry salute. "To perspicacity," I said. "You miss but little, Bishop Germanus, and I salute you. I appreciate now why it should be you who was selected and appointed to come here and debate theological imponderables. You're right, of course. There is another sword, Excalibur, and you are the first person ever to have guessed at its existence."

  He leaned forward, his eyes alive with interest. "There is another? Still extant? I had thought there was, once, but supposed it had been lost or stolen."

  "No, it has lain hidden now for years. I am its guardian. It is the King's Sword."

  "What king?"

  "The High King of Britain. The Riothamus—Arthur Pendragon, I believe."

  "Arthur? The boy who is your charge? Tell me of this, Merlyn. I smell a story here. What is so wonderful about this sword, this... what did you call it?"

  "Excalibur. Its hilt was poured and cast in a mould, as was this one I have here. A solid mould." I saw his blank expression and a thought occurred to me, bringing me to my feet. "I've something in my tent that will show you what I mean. I'll be right back."

  When I returned, I handed him the small white cube of ; fired clay that I used as a weight to anchor the small pile of! documents and notes that my desk attracted daily. "Here. Break it apart," I told him. "It's made in two pieces." He did so, after only a moment of examination, and the brass apple ! it contained dropped into his hand. "It's solid brass. My Uncle Varrus made it, years ago, and I've carried it with me since his death, as a memento of his skills. Each half of the mould is a perfect replica of half the apple, as you can see now that it's open. He packed the mould with wax, then bound the halves together with strong wire, so that no air could enter. Then he poured molten metal, slowly, through that small hole at the top. The metal melted the wax, which escaped slowly through a series of tiny holes in the mould— slowly enough to ensure that the metal settled evenly and perfectly within the mould, leaving no air bubbles, since no air was present when the metal was poured. The result is a perfect, solid brass apple.

  "The hilts of these swords were made the same way, but with the mould for the hilt constructed around the tang of the blade and the skeletal side bars of the guard. When the pour was complete, the molten metal had bonded perfectly to the sword's tang and guard and the entire hilt was flawless, one solid piece. That's where the name Excalibur came from: it means 'out of the mould.'"

  Germanus sat silent for long moments, rubbing the surface of the apple with his thumb, then reached out again to take the sword and gaze at its hilt, fingering it in the same way. Finally he looked up at me. "I've never seen a finer sword, Merlyn, nor one so large and long. How much finer is Excalibur, that you must keep it hidden?"

  I grimaced and shrugged my shoulders. "Excalibur makes this sword here look worthless, dull and lustreless.

  Excalibur's blade is so pure, it seems made of shining, burnished silver, dazzling to behold, and its very fabric contains lines of layered metal so fine that they form a pattern that shimmers like water, when held up to light. Its edge will cut a hair, yet is so strong that it will slice through other, lesser swords. This one will, too, but this lacks the spectacle Excalibur imparts to every swing. And where this guard is plain, Excalibur's is intricately wrought with Celtic scrollwork, and its hilt is bound in the rough belly skin of a great shark, then tightly woven with both gold and silver wires, never to shift in the wielder's grip. Its pommel is a golden cockleshell, perfectly wrought in every detail to the size and shape of a real cockleshell found by Publius himself. The artist who created it, a priest called Andros, had a heavenly gift for artifice. Where this sword here is plainly fine, Excalibur is ornately dressed perfection. "

  "Hmm. And what does young Arthur think of this sword he will some day wield?"

  "He doesn't know of its existence. I have not shown it to him. "

  I knew I had surprised him again, but he concealed it well, merely resting his right elbow on his left wrist while he raised his hand to twirl the hairs of his moustache reflectively. At length he sniffed and reached again for his cup, sipping a tiny amount of mead and rolling it around in his mouth, all the while deeply immersed in his thoughts.

  'Tell me about the boy, " he said, at length.

  "What would you like to know?"

  "Everything, but first about his right to be a king. Excalibur is the King's Sword, you said, Arthur's sword. Not a king's sword. Explain your thinking to me, and believe me when I say I do not ask this lightly. "

  I launched myself again into talk, explaining Arthur's lineage in full and relating every aspect of it to my own grandfather's vision of the future, the great dream he had shared with Publius Varrus and the other founders of our Colony. And once again Germanus listened intently, making no attempt to interrupt me.

  When I finally fell silent, he leaned forward again. "So he has claims through both sides of his parentage to Cambria, to Eire, to Cornwall and to Camulod itself. That equates to all that remains of Roman Britain, save for the regions now occupied by your invaders. It is a huge territory, and if your anticipation of his destiny is accurate, it will be a terrifying responsibility. I know him, from his letters to me— and from the correspondence you and I have had concerning him—to be a serious young man, and dedicated to the tasks you have defined for him, but he is yet very young. So young, in fact, that I have to ask you again, face to face, is he capable of shouldering such a weight of responsibility? And do you think him worthy of such enormous trust?"

  I nodded. "I believe he is, completely capable and completely worthy. He is an amazing young man. His entire „way of life, his thinking and his behaviour, all reflect the integrity of his beliefs. Besides, he has been much exposed to Ambrose, and greatly influenced thereby. And Ambrose, as you know, does not flaunt his piety, he merely lives it...; to such an extent that I believe he might have become one of your own bishops by now, had his destiny not brought him to Camulod and me. Enos certainly thinks that is so."

  The old bishop nodded. "I know, he has told me so himself. And the boy thinks highly of Ambrose?"

  "As of a god. Mind you, he thinks the same of me, and God knows I am neither devout nor pious. But his morality—his Christianity and his living of it—owes far more to the example set by Ambrose than to any tuition of mine."

  I spoke for a time then about the boy's education and training, and the role that each of us in Camulod had played therein. Germanus listened attentively, even though little of what I said was new to him. But then I went on to speak of Arthur's own emerging philosophy—as if any boy of his young age could be said to have a philosophy. I talked about the lad's ideas on justice and on human dignity, citing his anger by the side of Lucanus's grave when he considered that the grave might be defiled by strangers in the years to come, with no one there to speak for Luke or to defend his resting place. This time, when I had finished speaking, Germanus stood up.

  "Walk with me, " he said. "We still ha
ve much to say on this, and it is late. Some cool night air will blow the cobwebs from our minds. "

  We made a circuit of the encampment together, and he did all the talking as we walked. He was greatly concerned, he told me, by the escalating ravages of the invading Saxons. The Anglians were becoming Christians at a pleasing rate and were, for the most part, willing settlers and strong providers for their families. The Saxons, on the other hand, were a different matter altogether, and they had declared war on God's Church and its missionaries. Increasingly frequent reports were reaching him, through his fellow bishops, of appalling and inhuman atrocities committed against Christian clerics: decapitations, mutilations and fiendish torture, prolonging agony for as long as possible before death intervened. Bishops and priests woe being flayed alive, he said, the skin ripped and peeled from their bleeding flesh to expose their entire body's living muscle to the air. Some were then left that way, hanging by the wrists to die in excruciating torment, while others had been roasted alive over slow burning fires. The people who could do such things were not God's children, he maintained, but animated creatures of evil, sent from the Pit by Lucifer himself to torment mankind. Even the apostate bishop Agricola, the man whom he had come to Britain to denounce, had written to warn him of the dangers of travelling by Britain's eastern coast.

  As we walked the perimeter of the camp, acknowledging each guard in passing, I found myself becoming more and more depressed and despondent at the litany of unsuspected ills my friend was pouring into my ears. I had known Britain was being ravaged, but I had not suspected half the evils that he had described, and I found myself wondering if we in Camulod were blessed or cursed by our isolation in the west. By the time we returned to the central area of dimly lighted tents, we were both walking in silence.

  Inside the tent again, Germanus shrugged off his cloak, and I sat in my chair observing him.

  "You paint a bleak picture, my old friend," I said.

  He pursed his lips, looking me in the eye, then nodded, sharply. "Aye, it's bleak, but I have begun to think it is not entirely hopeless. This lad of yours, young Arthur Pendragon, might well be the salvation of us all."

  At first I thought he was being facetious, but then I saw immediately that he was not. "You believe Arthur might be the salvation of us all today? That is ridiculous. How could you even think a thing like that? He's but a boy, barely sixteen!"

  "He is a king, you said. The King. You named him as the possible Riothamus."

  "Some day, perhaps, but not for years to come."

  "No, next year. He'll be seventeen. Flavius Stilicho was. seventeen when Theodosius sent him on embassies to foreign kings. At twenty-one, he ruled the armies of the whole Empire. He was my Imperator and your father's."

  "But that was Stilicho, the greatest military mind since Alexander—greater than Gaius Marius, greater even than Julius Caesar! And he was favourite of the emperor, with all the patronage a man could ever want. Arthur Pendragon is a boy, unknown, and no one's favourite save mine. He'll be of age next year, and he will have his own command in Camulod, but he must learn to exercise command. Until he does, no warrior of note would follow him, a stripling boy. The very thought is ludicrous"

  "Is it? And would it still be ludicrous if he were crowned by me, or by the highest bishops in this land, and named Protector of our Holy Mother Church? I swear to you, my Mend, such patronage is worth more than an emperor's favour nowadays, when Rome's own emperors have vanished from the earth. " I sat gaping at him, robbed of the ability to speak, and he smiled down at me. "I mean it, Merlyn. I am not speaking lightly. "

  "But how... why, in God's name, would you suggest such a thing?"

  "Precisely for that reason: in God's Holy Name. You have answered your own question. God needs a champion today, Merlyn, to defend His people and His faith right here in Britain, and you have described that champion to me this night, in Arthur Pendragon. He will lead Camulod, by your own admission, and you could, if you so wished, arrange it so that he comes into power sooner, rather than later. Wait you! Hold your rejections. Think about all I have said tonight before you refuse to hear me.

  "Britain is falling into darkness rapidly, in danger of being overrun by devils. The bishops who present the word of God to all His faithful are being slaughtered wherever they are found by these marauders. They know safety only in the northeast, where Vortigern holds power, in the southeast, where people such as Cuthric still rule, and in the west, in Camulod. Vortigern has problems with his Danish friends, but between diem, they hold the Saxons to the south. And< recently, you say, the Danes have moved into the Weald. If it is God's wish, they may combine with Cuthric to have the' same effect. But in the west, where Camulod holds sway, there is no danger for our people or our Faith. And Camulod—Camulod's armies—are invincible. Nothing like them exists in Britain or elsewhere. Who rules those armies could, and should, rule Britain, providing that he be a man of simple faith and Godliness, of dignity and inborn nobility., Arthur Pendragon will be that man, I believe, for we will place him high upon a throne that all the land will see, and under his leadership and guidance all the folk of Britain will combine to throw these Saxons out and make this land once more a place where Christian folk may worship without fear."

  Still I sat shaking my head, wordless and incapable of framing any of my thoughts. He turned away from me, crossing again to where my sword leaned against the wall. He came back and sat again across from me, holding it by its sheath.

  "Do you recall my mention of a new order?"

  "Aye," I responded, blinking. "Knights, an order of horsemen. I've been thinking about that."

  "And what have you decided?"

  "Nothing." I shook my head, wondering at this sudden change of topic. "It would need something... some means of achieving status, and I have no idea what that might be. Simple possession of a horse is not enough. Every one of our troopers has a horse."

  Germanus whipped the sword out of its sheath with a rasping sound and jammed the point of it hard into the ground, leaving it to sway gently back and forth. "There's your status!"

  "How? What do you mean?"

  "Look at it, man! Look at its shadow there, on the wall. " He picked up a candelabrum so that its light threw the shadow of the sword onto the wall of the tent. "It's a cross! The symbol of our faith. We talked of symbolism once before, do you remember?"

  "Aye, I do. " The shadow of the sword, with its straight cross guard, did look like a cross. "You said that every great popular movement required a recognizable symbol to stir the people. "

  "Good man, you do remember! Well, every order requires a symbol, too, and what could be a better symbol for a Christian fellowship than the Christ's own Cross? Let it be known that Arthur's most deserving followers may become Knights once they have earned the right to enter the new order. That earning must involve commitment, and a sacred oath to safeguard Mother Church and all her flock, from the most exalted to the humblest. Your Knights must become defenders of the Christian Faith itself, and when they do, they will have the blessing of the Church and the sworn right to wear the symbol of the Cross upon their armour. Can you see that now? Can you visualize it?"

  "Aye, I can, " I whispered, feeling my heart begin to hammer in my chest and recalling clearly my dream of several nights before. "The Cross, in red, upon their breasts. "

  "In red? Why not? The symbol of the Redeemer and the colour of the sacred blood He shed. On a field of white, for purity of soul and spiritual humility. " Germanus seemed to have grown taller as he spoke, and his eyes were glowing with a huge excitement. "Do you think that concept might appeal to your young King?"

  I nodded, feeling a slow grin widen on my face. "It would, it would indeed. It is an idea made for his beliefs... I need a drink."

  I rose and filled my cup, looking at Germanus to see if he wished me to pour for him, too, but he was deep in thought. He was tossing the apple mould from hand to hand, relishing the weight of it each time it thumped solidly into hi
s grasp. Then, as I sat down again, he looked across at me.

  "A coronation," he whispered, almost to himself. "We must have a coronation." Again he fell silent, and I wondered what was going on within his mind. Moments later he was on his feet, pacing about the tent briskly enough to set the candle flames flickering.

  "That would be perfect, Merlyn, think of it. A coronation, just as in the days of ancient Rome, when the greatest champions were honoured with the placing of a crown upon their brows, an honour that set them high above all other warriors. Arthur will be our crowned warrior, the Church's champion, Defender of the Holy Christian Faith, and all his men—his Knights—will be God's warriors, protecting Arthur's people and his lands. But the appointment must be public, and widely heralded, presented with great ceremony and high import in some distinguished place... in Verulamium, in the great theatre there! It holds full seven thousand people, seated.

  "Visualize the scene, Merlyn. All the bishops of Britain will be assembled, to concelebrate a great, triumphal Mass. Arthur will enter there, escorted by his Knights, while his armies are spread around the town, protecting the proceedings. And after the consecration of the sacred Host, before the congregation is dismissed, I, or some other senior bishop, will place a golden circlet on his brows, the champion's corona, and proclaim him King, in the name of the Church. Think of the effect, Merlyn! None could dispute his kingship. "

  I grunted. "Vortigern might, for one. "

  Germanus threw me a look of pure disdain. "Vortigern has no cavalry, and no long swords like these. Besides, he has been less than zealous in his work on our behalf. Agricola and his heretical fellows thrive under his patronage. No, I believe Vortigern will accept the Pope's decree, if he has hopes of his immortal soul's salvation. "