The Wolf and the Crown (The Perilous Order of Camelot Book 3)

by A. A. Attanasio

  We thit in the Theat of the Thlain and bwibe the Wyrd Thithter of the future to help uth ethcape. Ith thith twue?

  Before Merlin could reply, a deafening caw threw Rex Mundi to the moss-clumped ground. Twisting his hackled head, the composite being gazed past the brim of his hat at a dark span of wings blotting the fiery stars. "Stay still and be quiet!" Merlin whispered. "A roc!"

  A wock? Dagonet felt Rex Mundi quaking with the deep vibrations from the huge wings. It wookth wike a bird!

  With a rush of wind, enormous talons swooped out of the dark and plucked Rex Mundi off the ground. Dagonet screamed, but Merlin forced the body to give that fear no voice.

  He fixed his attention on the chrysolite cliffs they had climbed and the amber bands of dusky forest below diminishing in the pouring wind. Other boughs swung into view, bosky obscurities of giant pines wormed with eerie lights. Fire snakes slithered upon the starspun waters of still pools. Centaurs drowsed there, lulled by orphic scrawls of light in the black water.

  The roc released Rex Mundi above a nest of gaping hatchlings, and Merlin snapped open his wizard's robes and glided past the hungry beaks. An irate roc-cry followed the falling body into the night shadows of the forest.

  Dagonet's fright found a way out and, wagging a scream like a bright banner, Rex Mundi crashed among brittle branches. He jolted to rest in incandescent mists beside a slick pool. Fire snakes sunk out of sight, startled by the noise of their crash.

  Dagonet peered over the shaggy ledge where they had landed and groaned to see the Earth reduced to an aquamarine stripe under the white enamel horn of the moon. God's gwief! Are we there yet?

  []

  Mother Mary, I have sent my brother into harm's way. Cei is a good soul with a brutal mind. He meant well when he slew the four assassins sent against me from Lot's camp. All the same, his good intentions contravened my direct command and have provoked Lot's darkest suspicions of me. The old Celt already believes I am untrustworthy simply because of my faith in our Savior, whom he calls the nailed god, the foreign god of the desert tribes. No doubt, he believes I secretly ordered the execution of his men. He believes me capable of such duplicity. I dread his wrath should he ever discover that I have fathered the child his wife carries. Was it that fear that inspired me to send gruff Cei to retrieve Morgeu from Verulamium? I was afraid to send Lot—afraid Morgeu would reveal to him the truth of the child's sire. If I lose Lot and his fierce warriors, I lose all hope of uniting Britain. I need his brave men and his expertise of the north country. And for this, I have put my brother at grave risk. Mother Mary, forgive me and intercede with your Son and our Father for their forgiveness. Protect Cei, for he goes against great wickedness, and I am in dread for his soul.

  The Night Marchers

  Huddled in a leather mantle with leopard-skin hood given as a gift by a Libyan prince to his father, King Arthor stared into the night mists, waiting for sleep. Rest did not come directly, even though several days of long, watching riding had exhausted him. He worried that he had acted precipitously in sending Cei to retrieve Lord Lot's wife. Cei, though strong and brave, did not possess spiritual cunning and power equal to the sorcery of Morgeu the Fey.

  Out of the crawling mists, figures loomed. Marchers filed among the trees. How had these intruders eluded the sentinels? The king struggled to rise and warn the others. He lay paralyzed as by a spell.

  Mute and staring, he witnessed the drift of a slow throng, thousands of people—Britons and Celts—slogging out of the fog. They bore horrible wounds, gashed faces, peeled skulls, lopped limbs, some crawling legless. Many women and children, stripped naked, carried their entrails in their hands.

  These slain of his island kingdom, murdered by the fierce invaders, marched to their king, demanding retribution. Arthor gazed among them, searching for Cei. Anonymous corpses shuffled past, all turning to stare grievously at him.

  "Wake, sire!" Bedevere shook Arthor to alertness. "You suffer a dream."

  Arthor sat up into the bracing cold. He gawked about briefly at the hawthorn thicket that sheltered him for the night, glimpsed campfires flickering in the distances, heard a harp twanging slumberously and the watch droning the station of the night. In a low voice, he moaned, "Bedevere—in truth, I am scared."

  "Of a certainty, sire." The steward faced into the nocturnal depths of the forest, where shadows frothed in the haze. "We are yet alive—and so fear is right and just. We'd be fools to feel otherwise, given the great mission put upon us."

  "Put upon us by the dead." Arthor sunk deeper in his mantle.

  From the deep pocket of his sleeping gown, the steward withdrew a long-stemmed Coptic pipe and herb wallet. "The dead stand as silent chorus to our God-given mission, yes."

  "God-given, Bedevere?" Arthor cast him a tired look. Which god?"

  Bedevere calmly replied as he stuffed the pipe, "There is only one God, my lord. You are distraught by your dream."

  "I have seen the Furor, Bedevere. And not in a dream." Arthor chewed his lower lip, remembering his life as Kyner's savage son, when he had ventured into the hollow hills. "I stared into his mad eye. He is completely mad." He nodded with certainty.

  "The Furor is not God." Bedevere opened a tinder pouch and struck a spark with firesteel and flint. "He is merely a god among many others—a demiurge ... "

  Arthor glared at his steward. "I know that. I'm not a pagan."

  "Forgive my misunderstanding, sire." He puffed a soft ring of sweetly aromatic smoke. "Draw on this. It will help you rest."

  Arthor waved the pipe away. "No medicaments for me. I'm not ill. Just scared. I won't elude my fate in potions and vapors."

  Bedevere smothered the fragrant herb with his thumb, and a sheen of wonder glazed his sleepy eyes. "Yes, you are right, sire. There is no medicament for what the dead convey to us."

  []

  Mother Mary, I fear the gods. I still have nightmares of my tour of the hollow hills—of the Furor's one, mad eye glaring at me, dooming me. Except for Merlin's intercession, I would have died that frightful day. Where is my wizard? Can I even call him my wizard? He installed me as king and departed for where? For hell, as Marcus believes? He is gone, and I am king. Perhaps that had been his intention all along. Yet, I need his magic to counter the power of the gods. They are set against me—the Furor and his ilk. And our Father will not strike them for me. Did not His own Son say, "He makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good?" That is Matthew five, forty-five, and I trust those words. I trust that God loves all, the good and the wicked, and so His only Son taught us to love our enemies and bless those who curse us so that we shall be as just as our Father in heaven is just. But I am not just. I am king, and I am prejudiced in the extreme against the enemies of my people. Forgive me my weakness, Mother Mary, and pray to your good Son and our just Father for forgiveness of my intolerance of my enemies. Watch over my brother Cei on his dreadful mission. And—if this is at all possible—return Merlin to me.

  Wolf Warriors

  The devastating defeat of the Foederatus invaders in the lands of the Dumnoni had inflamed the north tribes with bloodlust. Many vehement warriors banded to cross the Belgic Strait and attack the worshipers of the nailed god, the slayers of forests, these alien magicians who maimed the land into plowed fields and trapped her under nets of roads, fences, and cities of torn stone. The bands proudly called themselves Wolf Warriors, for they dared to sail into the boreal winds, predacious as the Furor's lupine packs.

  King Arthor, ably advised by his warlords, had established swift lines of communication by bird and road that connected all their territories to the west, from Lot's north isles, through Kyner's hills, to Marcus' peninsular realm. News of the Wolf Warriors' attacks traveled quickly, and ferocious replies followed.

  Kyner's and Lot's chiefs, who had been left to command the king's forces in the west, easily crushed the small warbands that arrived. In the Celtic domain of the Durotriges, ruled by Lord Urien, the fanatic warriors found refuge behind th
e gigantic earthwork entrenchments and ramparts of Maiden Castle.

  The siege lasted a fortnight, until the long darkness of the winter solstice, when the Wolf Warriors rushed from their citadel under the moonless night and fell upon Lord Urien's camp.

  Arthor arrived first from his pavilion, bearing torches into a field of combat where all flame had been crushed by the enemy. In the darkness, neuter shapes grappled. Arthor's palfrey trudged unwillingly toward that blind equality of combatants, unsure where to strike and where to flee.

  The king dismounted and set his horse running from the melee. "We must wait for Kyner and Lot and more fire," Bedevere advised.

  Arthor shouted above the cries of the wounded, "We will not wait! Urien is under my protection!" Excalibur lithe in one hand, torch in the other, and his shield of the Madonna strapped to his back, he charged, followed by his guards in black leather armor.

  Bedevere hurried to his side, short sword drawn and flashing in the king's torchlight. The enshadowed democracy of warriors thwarted quick identification, and the upheld torches attracted the Wolf Warriors and their thrown hatchets. Several banged off the king's shielded back, spun him around, and drew him deeper into the fray.

  Bedevere struggled to keep up. A blow struck him behind the skull with an ugly sound. Blood flew, and he fell foul of hands that yanked him into darkness.

  Raven's Branch

  All the long night, Rex Mundi lay curled up beside a slick pool luminous with fire snakes. Two hippogriffs cantered by in the chalky dark before dawn, their raptor heads underlit by the shining water, large wings folded back against sleek equine bodies.

  At Merlin's direction, Rex Mundi leaped up, flapping his robes. The hippogriffs startled and reared back. Swiftly, Merlin removed his cap, seized the lion mane of one beast, and leaped upon its muscled shoulders. While the other creature galloped into the gloom, Merlin pressed the long cap across the eyes of the winged mount and held it in place until the fabulous animal gentled.

  lth thith a good idea?

  "Providence, Dagonet." Merlin waited for the residual magic in his cap to penetrate the hippogriff's brain. "We must seize our opportunities as they present themselves. Raven's Branch is far distant, and the gods dwell in these astral woods. Better that we find our way swiftly to our destination than become prey of the Wild Hunt. Don't you agree?"

  Oh thertainly! Let uth away!

  Merlin removed his cap from the beast's eyes though kept it tight to the broad feathered head so that the slim magic in the hat allowed control. They soared. The squawking of the hippogriff and the thwack of its wings beating the dawn's bright wind shook Rex Mundi's bones, yet his grip did not fail.

  Into the sun's glare they flew, and the full splendor of the Storm Tree opened around them. Under orange clouds that spanned the gates of day, forests of obscure purple disclosed stone temples of dolmen rings and oaken halls roofed in beaten bronze: the shrines and hunting lodges of the gods.

  The hippogriff carried them past terraced landscapes of immense swards patterned with mazy hedges. Above these, they galloped on the wind over wild gorges choked with emerald boulders. Distant buttes appeared on the heights beyond, their bases grounded among cloven rocks and the silver fumes of cascades and filament waterfalls.

  Higher yet the hippogriff mounted at Merlin's command, toward the indigo zenith, where adamantine cliffs rose out of plateaus of gray, driving rain.

  Far beyond these ranges of weather, the hippogriff carried them to the topmost branch of the World Tree—a bleakly barren expanse. The winged eagle-leonine-horse alighted on a desert dune among warped and quaking horizons. Rex Mundi dismounted, and the hippogriff shrieked with jubilation and lofted away.

  Behold thith evil world! Where are we, Merlin?

  Rex Mundi looked about at the wasteland of sulfur sands and shattered rocks under stars that flared like cactus flowers. "This is the Raven's Branch. And there—there is the Seat of the Slain!"

  He pointed toward a ferric mesa upon which a grim throne of rusted and pocked iron sat beneath the reaping-hook of the moon.

  Battle Blind

  The dark riot surged most violently about Lord Urien and his personal guard. Bloody-headed, gaunt Urien stood in the middle of a pile of fallen bodies, lit only by the rare flicker of a torch and sifted starlight. Arthor hacked his way through whirling Saxons, swatting with torch and sword.

  When he looked about for Bedevere, the steward had vanished in the dark, as had the king's guards. He stood alone in the midst of violence. That suited him. He had been reared a violent warrior, a protector, bred to throw his life away for his chief. He had possessed no station in Kyner's clan and had expected to die in battle from the day he first took up a sword. If this night was that destined hour, he felt no fear.

  The fight washed about him with shrieks and a clangor of steel. He hurled the torch onto the pile of corpses where Urien fought and used the flap of light to mark his progress. Shield protecting his back, Excalibur gripped in both hands, he struck savagely, cutting a swath toward the light.

  Soon, he stood beside Urien, and the two unslung their shields and backed against each other to fight their way through the reeling battle.

  When Kyner and Lot arrived with their forces, they found Arthor and Urien staggering with exhaustion. By then, most of the Wolf Warriors had been slain, and the battle had slowed to a brutal hacking and hammering of exhausted warriors.

  The reinforcements quickly dispatched the remaining Saxons, and Urien, swaying dizzily, clutched at the gory youth at his side. "Who are you, boy?" he croaked, fatigued hand trembling to the lad's blood-smeared face. "You shall be rewarded this day for your valor."

  "I am Arthor," the boy husked, barely audible. "Your king."

  Priests and Druids mingled among the dead, seeking the wounded and offering spiritual solace to the dying. They came upon the king and the chieftain on their knees with Excalibur standing between them. "The sword Lightning," Urien announced in his fractured voice. "Crafted by Brokk, smithy of the Furor. Stolen by the Fire Lords for Merlin. He gave it to this lad—our sovereign."

  "You are battle-blind, brave Urien," warned a Druid in the green leather vestment of his healing station. "He is Christian."

  "I would be battle-dead if not for him." Urien clutched Arthor's sword arm. "We have bathed together in the blood of our enemies. This king I will serve."

  In the moment that Arthor's heart lifted, he met Kyner shambling toward him. "Your personal guard are dead, sire. All of them, save Bedevere. We found him buried among the dead." The stout Celt stared darkly at his stepson. "Did you learn nothing as my ward? You lead men, not sacrifice them."

  "Kyner, those men died that I might live," Urien spoke up, struggling to his feet with the help of the Druids. "I will honor their deaths by pledging my clans to this king."

  Kyner took Arthor under his arm and hoisted him upright, whispering to him, "Is this how you will secure your throne—buying pledges with the blood of those already sworn to you?"

  Out of Londinium

  Morgeu escorted Merlin's body through the subterranean passages of the governor's palace. The soul of her father, Gorlois, had been marked by the Furor, and the enchantress, who had been aware of this since she convened with her father's mangled ghost in the woods of the north, wrapped his head in a turban inscribed with runes designed to break the god's influence.

  Astonished to find himself alert and unimpeded by visions, Gorlois lauded his daughter, "You have greater glamour than your mother!"

  "Hush, father." Morgeu squeezed his hand as she led him through the corridors unlit save by the spectral glow of vampyres. "We have not yet won our freedom."

  He glanced fretfully at the blurred apparitions escorting them in the dank tunnels. "Where are you taking me, daughter?"

  "Out of Londinium."

  "But our work is here." Gorlois gestured expansively at the dark, dripping cavern. "Syrax has brokered an alliance with King Wesc. Bors Bona and Count Platoriu
s are in his service. With this bloc, we can crush that upstart sired on your mother by Merlin's puppet, Uther."

  "Father, you are inside Merlin's body. We must draw you out before the wizard finds us or your soul is lost."

  "You are a powerful worker of magic. When the wizard comes for this body, slay him."

  "I am not that powerful, father." They emerged in a region of old clay drains and jointed cess-pipes, where the feculent stink burned their eyes and nostrils. "I am but an enchantress. But I do have the skill to extract you from this demon's form."

  "Extract me to where?" Gorlois asked, hand over his mouth. "I am a ghost."

  "I am preparing a new body for you—as my child."

  "Your child!" His surprise echoed back from the dark deeps. "I am your father."

  Morgeu squinted angrily at him. "Would you rather be a ghost?"

  "I would rather keep this body. It has magic within it."

  They stepped gingerly along a ledge above a pool of sludge. "Father, the Furor has marked you. Even now, that wrathful god is working to unravel my enchantment. When he succeeds, you will belong to him again."

  "That was not so bad." He jumped over a stream of gray sewage percolating through the bedding slates of the tunnel. "I peek into people's souls. I speak with authority that masters all who hear me. And I see other things, daughter. I see terrible things in the future, far beyond our time."

  "Trust me, father. You do not want to linger in this evil body." She pulled on his arm, guiding him toward a jiggling torch flame. "The Furor and the demon Lailoken will fight over you—and you will suffer. Accept the body I am weaving for you."

  Gorlois paused. "Who is the father of this body?"

  Morgeu faced him anxiously and whispered, "Arthor."

  "Your brother!" His shout boomed off the stone walls.