Orion and King Arthur

by Ben Bova

  Older than you can understand, I replied silently.

  We rode that day through one of the gates in the wall built by the Romans nearly four centuries earlier. Even though Arthur’s knights numbered scarcely two hundred, it took all day for them and their squires and the footmen and churls and camp followers to get through that single unguarded gate.

  On the far side of the Wall the land stretched out before us in rolling green hills that led to misty blue mountains in the distance. We rode slowly along a broad dale covered with clover, with the footmen trudging behind us. Thick forest climbed up the hillsides on either side of us.

  Sir Bors rode up to Arthur’s side, a rare smile on his doughty, battle-scarred face.

  “North of the Wall,” he said proudly. “No civilized troops have been on this side of the Wall since the legions left.”

  Arthur smiled back at him, but said, “Detail some of the knights to ride ahead and along our flanks. Those woods could hide an army of ambushers easily.”

  Bors nodded. Thick forests were poor territory for mounted knights. We dealt best with our enemies in open ground, where we could charge them.

  Young Lancelot, who always rode within earshot of Arthur, eagerly volunteered for the picket duty. Bors distrusted Lancelot’s ardent quest for glory; he thought the young knight’s fearless courage was little short of foolhardy. But on this day even tough old Bors nodded laughingly and sent Lancelot on his way.

  It must be the good weather, I thought.

  Then Bors turned back to Arthur. “We’ll be in the enchantress’ domain soon.”

  Arthur nodded and muttered, “Morganna.”

  He had been truly enchanted by Morganna, back at Cadbury castle a year earlier. Aphrodite had besotted him, and then tried to assassinate him. Only Anya’s interference had saved Arthur’s life.

  “My uncle Ambrosius wants an alliance with Bernicia. It could be an effective buffer against the Scots and Picts.”

  “An alliance with the witch?” Bors grumbled.

  Arthur smiled at the older knight, but it was cheerless, bitter. “The High King wants it.”

  That ended Bors’ smiles for the rest of the day.

  3

  The next morning we reached castle Bernicia. It was an impressive citadel, standing high on a crag by the relentless sea, three of its sides protected by the sheer cliff. The only way to approach it was by the winding uphill path we rode. Unlike most of the fortresses I had seen, which were little more than grimy stockades with wooden palisades around them, Bernicia was protected by stone walls with turrets at each corner. A steep ditch ran in front of the main gate. Its drawbridge was pulled up.

  Sir Gawain, freshly washed and his long dark locks shining with oil, whistled with appreciation as he looked over the battlements.

  “No wonder the barbarians have never been able to take this castle,” he said.

  “What are you so prettied up for?” Bors jibed at him.

  Gawain flashed his bright smile. “Where there’s a castle there are wenches.” He turned to Arthur. “You may have the princess, my lord, but you can’t have all the women.”

  We stopped before the ditch and leather-lunged Bors hailed the castle.

  “Who goes there?” came the time-honored challenge from the battlements above the main gate.

  “Sir Arthur, Dux Bellorum of Ambrosius Aurelianus, High King of all the Celts, has come to see the princess Morganna.”

  Morganna’s father had died some years ago, we knew, and she ruled Bernicia. By witchcraft, according to the fearful tales told of her. By the powers of the Creators, I knew. It amounted to almost the same thing.

  “Queen Morganna will decide if she wishes to receive you,” the sentinel responded.

  “She styles herself a queen now,” Bors said to Arthur.

  “Perhaps she’s married,” Gawain suggested.

  Arthur looked relieved at that thought. Then he wondered, “If she has married, it must be to a king. Who could it be?”

  “Who would have her?” Bors muttered.

  At length, the drawbridge came clattering down and we rode over it into the courtyard, our horses’ hooves booming on the stout timbers, the footmen following close behind. The courtyard was a large square of packed dirt; all the exits out of it were firmly shut with spiked iron gates. Men-at-arms stood up on the rooftops all around us. I felt uneasy. We could be slaughtered here, penned like cattle.

  Then one of the gates screeched open and Morganna stepped into the sunlight to greet Arthur. She was truly Aphrodite, the most incredibly beautiful woman on earth: hair as dark and lustrous as polished ebony, skin as white as alabaster. Her richly embroidered gown clung to every curve of her body. I glanced at Gawain; his eyes were popping. We all stared at her. I myself felt the desire she raised in every man: powerful, alluring.

  At her side stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with long white hair falling past his shoulders. His beard was white also, and his face was lined and spiderwebbed with age, yet he stood straight as a forest pine, unbent by his years.

  At Arthur’s command we dismounted from our steeds. He walked slowly toward Morganna and her husband. The rest of us stood stock-still. I saw Bors, beside me, nervously eying the rooftops and the men posted there.

  “Arthur,” said Morganna, smiling. “How good to see you again.”

  “Queen Morganna,” Arthur replied, bowing somewhat stiffly. “I bring you greetings from Ambrosius Aurelianus.”

  Still smiling, she turned slightly and said, “This is my husband, King Ogier.”

  “Ogier the Dane,” Bors whispered, shocked. “She’s sold out to the barbarians.”

  4

  Arthur accompanied Morganna and her husband, while the rest of us were led to the quarters she had allotted to us. The knights were taken to one of the towers, while we squires were sent to the stables, of course. The footmen and churls were told to find corners of the courtyard where they could spread their blankets.

  I didn’t see Arthur again until dinner, in the castle’s main hall. It wasn’t big enough to hold all of Arthur’s knights; only a picked dozen were invited to sit at the long feasting table by the huge fireplace. Their squires sat on mean planks down on the packed-earth floor.

  The dinner was pleasant enough, although very little laughter issued from the head table. Afterward, Arthur motioned for me to accompany him to his quarters in the tower.

  When I stepped into his room, I saw that Bors and Gawain were already there, looking very gloomy indeed. Lancelot slipped in behind me, before I could shut the heavy oaken door. Bors frowned at the young knight, but Arthur merely smiled and waved him to one of the beautifully carved chairs by the bedstead.

  “Ogier the Dane,” Bors said bitterly. “She’s sold her kingdom to a barbarian king.”

  Arthur spoke more softly. “It must be very difficult for a woman to rule a kingdom. Especially here in the northlands, with the wild tribes constantly raiding.”

  “It’s said she rules through witchcraft,” Gawain offered. “Why then would she need a barbarian warrior to be her husband?”

  I saw the expression on Arthur’s face. He had witnessed Morganna’s witchcraft with his own eyes. He had been seduced by her charms, and then nearly murdered by her.

  “She bears you no goodwill,” Bors said. “That much is clear, despite her royal reception.”

  “We are as much her prisoners here as her guests,” Lancelot said. “I fear that we have stepped into a trap.”

  Bors looked surprised and impressed with Lancelot’s sound sense.

  “Why has she married the Dane?” Arthur wondered aloud. “Does Ogier intend to bring his people across the sea to settle here? Must we add the Danes to our list of enemies?”

  I decided to find out for myself.

  5

  Late that night, long after our meeting in Arthur’s quarters had broken up in just as much puzzlement and uncertainty as it had begun, I got up from my pallet of straw in the stables. The oth
er squires were asleep, snoring and muttering in their dreams. We had posted two guards, and they stood dutifully—if drowsily—by the stable doors.

  I told them I couldn’t sleep, and walked past them out into the courtyard before they could ask me to take the guard duty and let them rest. It was a cold, clear night. The stars were hard, sharp pinpoints glittering in the black moonless sky. I saw a meteor streak across, silently hurrying as if it had an appointment to keep in the heavens.

  Dressed only in my thin linen tunic, wearing no sword nor any weapon except the dagger that Odysseos had given me, strapped to my thigh, I walked along the shadow of the wall, stepping carefully over the sleeping bodies of Arthur’s footmen and camp workers.

  Morganna and her husband slept high in the castle’s keep, a solid tower that rose at the rear of the courtyard, next to the wall that overlooked the sea. I knew the guards would not grant me entrance; I had no intention of asking them to let me pass.

  Keeping to the deep shadow of the wall, I climbed the rough stones of the tower, maneuvering slowly to the seaward side once I got up above the level of the castle wall. There were no guards patrolling the wall on this side, with nothing below except the rocky crag and the restless, heaving sea far below. The wind tugged at me and my fingers grew numb with cold despite my conscious efforts to control my body’s internal heat. Still I climbed.

  Just below the timbers of the tower’s roof was a single window. Not a skinny arrow slit, as would be on the other towers facing potential enemy approaches, but a square window open to the beautiful view of the sea. I hauled myself across its ledge, pushing aside the thick drapes that covered it.

  My eyes had long since adapted to the moonless night, but the interior of the room was even darker. I crouched by the window, peering into the shadows. This seemed to be a sitting room, well furnished but empty of people. Rich tapestries hung on its cold stone walls. Its fireplace, across the straw-covered floor, stood empty and dark.

  A door led to a bedroom. I pushed it open slowly, slowly, so that it would not creak. The sullen red embers of a dying fire glowed in the fireplace. I could make out a bulky white-headed body asleep in the bed, one sizable foot sticking out from the blankets: Ogier, alone. Morganna was nowhere in sight.

  I concentrated all my willpower on Ogier’s sleeping form, praying silently for Anya to help me. Whether she heard me or whether I did it for myself I could not know, but I felt a flash of infinite cold and suddenly I was standing on a grassy hillside in bright warm sunshine, the golden city of the Creators standing beneath its protective bubble of energy down where the hill melted into the sandy beach that fringed the wide, placid, glittering sea.

  Ogier was lying on the grass, looking slightly ridiculous in a nightshirt that had ridden up on his rump, exposing his skinny, bony shanks. He sat up abruptly, wide awake, eyes staring with shock and fright.

  “Where am I?” he shouted. “Who are you? What has happened to me?”

  “No need to fear, my lord,” I said calmly. “You are perfectly safe.”

  He scrambled to his feet, towering over me. “Witchcraft!” he squealed, his voice high with terror.

  “You are no stranger to witchcraft,” I replied. “You married an enchantress.”

  Ogier stared at me, his chest heaving. He spun around, then fixed his gaze on me again. Seeing that I was apparently unarmed, he seemed to calm himself somewhat.

  “Who are you? What have you done?”

  “I want to know why a Danish king has married a British sorceress,” I said.

  “You’re going to break the spell?”

  “What spell?”

  “She…” He hesitated, eyes darting back and forth as if he expected to see someone nearby.

  “Morganna?” I prompted.

  Suddenly he leaped at me, hands reaching for my throat. He was a big man, and quite strong despite his years. Yet I was stronger. I had been built for violence, designed not merely to fight but to take joy in fighting. A surge of malevolent pleasure raced through me as I ripped his hands from my throat and twisted his arms until he was forced to kneel.

  “The witch can’t protect you from me,” I said sharply. “Now tell me why you have come to Bernicia.”

  He collapsed, sobbing, onto the grass. I waited for him to gain control of himself.

  At last he said, haltingly, “I am old … older than you know. I saw the face of death. He warned me that he would come for me soon. Then Morganna came to me … she told me she would give me the gift of life … she said I could live forever.”

  “So do the Christians say,” I told him.

  He grimaced. “Nay, they offer eternity after death, in another world. I mistrust those who say you can live forever, but only after you die.”

  He was a man who believed only what he could see with his own eyes.

  “Morganna told me I could live forever, here, on Earth. And I could be become master of all Britain.”

  That perked up my ears.

  “What did she ask of you in return?” I demanded.

  “That I marry her and come to Bernicia. That I bring my Danes with me and conquer this island.”

  “And what of Arthur?”

  He looked embarrassed and turned away from me. Staring at the ground, he mumbled, “She said that Arthur would come to castle Bernicia, but he would not leave it. Not alive.”

  “You dare to interfere, Orion?”

  I turned at the sound of her voice. It was Aphrodite, no longer pretending to be a mortal, dressed in a softly draped robe so sheer that she might as well have been naked. She was magnificent, physically perfect, utterly desirable. Even though I yearned for Anya, the presence of Aphrodite was enough to make me forget my lost love, almost.

  Ogier got slowly to his feet, gaping at her. “Morganna, he forced me to tell—”

  Aphrodite raised one hand and pointed a finger at him. He fell into silence, frozen like a statue, his mouth still open to form words that could not issue from his throat.

  “He won’t bother us now,” she said, a cruel smile twisting her perfect lips. “And neither will you, anymore.”

  “You used Hades to frighten him, didn’t you?” I accused.

  Her smile widened slightly. “Hades put the fear of death into the old man. I offered him the gift of life. He took it willingly.”

  “Eternal life? For a mortal?”

  Now she actually laughed. “Hardly eternal, Orion. He’ll live long enough to conquer Britain. That’s enough.”

  “I’ll stop you,” I said.

  “You? Pitiful little creature, stop me? Remember that Aten is on my side in this.”

  “I’ll stop you both.”

  Suddenly a star seemed to blaze out of the clear blue sky. Brighter and brighter it shone, turning the whole sky into molten copper, hotter and hotter until its glare forced me to throw my arms over my eyes and sink to my knees in agony.

  “That’s the proper attitude for my creature,” said a voice I knew only too well. “You may look upon me, Orion.”

  I looked up, my eyes watering painfully. There stood Aten, in a splendid gold uniform, his thick mane of golden hair shining like a halo, his tawny eyes gazing down at me in amusement.

  “You believe that you can stop me, Orion. Me, who created you? Who built you from atoms of dust and molecules of slime? Every bit of knowledge in your brain was put there by me. Every breath you take is taken only because I allow it.”

  Slowly I got to my feet, hatred burning deep within me at his sneering, haughty demeanor.

  “Yet I fight against you,” I said.

  He smirked at me. “Not very well, I’m afraid. You’ve stepped into this trap easily enough.”

  “Trap?”

  “Of course. How else do you think you were able to transport yourself and this mortal here? I brought you here, into the trap I’ve prepared for you.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You’ll find out that I’m telling the truth. And once I’ve put you ou
t of the way, I’ll get the other Creators to join me in eliminating Arthur.”

  “Hades has agreed to stand aside and be neutral,” I said hotly. “Anya and others of the Creators oppose you.”

  “Your precious Anya is far from here,” Aten replied. “As for Hades, I don’t need him for the moment. He’ll return to my side soon enough.”

  “Destroy this one,” Aphrodite hissed. “Eliminate him for all time.”

  Aten nodded. “I’m afraid she’s right, Orion. You’ve become too difficult to control. It’s sad to destroy the work of one’s own hands, but…” He sighed. “Good-bye, Orion.”

  I was plunged into darkness, falling, falling in a black pit of doom, hurtling through a void where not even starlight could appear. I felt the cold of interstellar space seeping into my body, pain so deep it was like a thousand sharp blades flaying the flesh from my bones, a cryogenic cold freezing my limbs, my mind. My body was being twisted horribly, torn beyond the limits of pain, stretched into agony as if I were on a torturer’s rack.

  This is the end, I thought, my mind spinning. This is the final oblivion. A black hole is pulling me apart.

  My last thought was of Anya. I would never see her, never again hold her. Death did not matter. Pain was meaningless. But being without her, not even able to say a final farewell, that was the ultimate torture.

  My body died. The pain overwhelmed me. My bones were snapping, crumbling to dust. The last spark of my being flickered as it was engulfed by the darkness.

  Yet I lived. Like an out-of-body experience, I somehow looked back and saw the poor suffering entity that was me being torn into bloody gobbets of flesh, crushed between invisible hands, torn apart on the merciless rack of the black hole’s titanic gravitational power.

  Your mind still lives, I heard somehow. The information that is you still flows through the cosmic spacetime, Orion.

  Is this what death truly is? A bodiless, nonphysical existence, a shadow world of memories and desires, the same dreams and terrors endlessly repeating, echoing across the universes? Yet even as I wondered such thoughts, I could feel my bodiless mind fading, dwindling, dissolving into the final nothingness of ultimate oblivion.