Orion and King Arthur

CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Battle of Camlann

1

The morning dawned thick with fog, worse than the day before. Arthur’s knights roused themselves and slowly, reluctantly, donned their chain mail and climbed onto their horses. Once again we stood in battle array at the foot of the slope, barely able to see through the chill, dank fog the army of Modred waiting for us at the crest of the ridge. The air was still, and the tendrils of fog seemed to clutch at us like cold, evil fingers.

Sir Percival was mounted at Arthur’s other side, staring gloomily at Modred’s host atop the ridge. “Look, sire,” he said, pointing. “They’re in sunlight up there.”

“Mayhap the sun will broil them in their armor,” Arthur joked.

Percival was not amused. “They outnumber us by far, sire,” he said, just as he had the previous morning.

Arthur turned to him and smiled wryly. “What of it? If we are to die, there’s enough of us to make our people mourn our loss. But if we win, the fewer we are, the greater our glory.”

Percival looked unconvinced, but he muttered, “I suppose so, sire.”

I looked at Arthur’s smiling face. “Did you sleep well, sire?” I asked.

“Quite well, Sir Orion,” he said happily. “Very well indeed.”

Arthur was himself again. Morganna’s invasion of his dreams had ended.

Shielding his eyes against the rising sun, Arthur wondered, “Will this everlasting fog burn away?”

“Not for hours, sire,” I answered.

“We can’t just sit here for another day, Orion. Half my men will pack up and leave if we don’t fight this morning.”

“But it would be folly to charge uphill against Modred. That’s just what he’s waiting for.”

Arthur shook his head, murmuring, “I wish there was some way to entice him to come down here.”

“Perhaps there is, sire,” I said, remembering a tactic that the Mongols had used when I’d been among their horde under the leadership of the wily Subotai.

I explained to Arthur the Mongol tactic of the feigned withdrawal. Often Subotai, when faced with a force that outnumbered his, would have his mounted warriors pretend to retreat, inviting the enemy to charge after them. The Mongol horsemen bent their line into an arc, like a bow, with the middle retreating faster than their wings. The enemy usually charged into the center of the retreating line, thinking that the Mongols were fleeing.

At a given signal, the Mongols wheeled about to face their pursuers. Before they realized they’d been tricked, the enemy found themselves attacked on both their flanks, while the center of the Mongol line stood firm and faced the enemy’s charge. Hemmed in on both sides, the enemy’s numbers became a liability instead of an asset; they were too crowded to fight effectively.

It was a tactic the Mongols had devised from the great hunts they undertook every autumn in their homeland by the Gobi. Subotai perfected the trick and used it to slaughter armies from the Gobi to the Danube River.

“Pretend to retreat?” Arthur asked, uncertainly.

“Let the center of our line move the fastest, and the wings more slowly,” I said.

“It sounds complicated.”

“Explain it to the leaders of your knights. And have the churls pack up the wagons, or at least move them out of the way.”

He scratched at his beard.

I urged, “Modred will think you’re retreating, running away. He’ll charge down from his hilltop position to chase you. Your knights can surround him and chop his men to pieces.”

His face furrowed with deliberation, Arthur at last nodded and smiled at me. “It’s worth trying,” he said.

The fog did not burn away, even though the morning sun climbed higher in the sky. Arthur called his leaders together and explained what must be done. The workmen were sent scampering to pack up the wagons and start them down the road we had taken to get here.

“Modred can’t see the wagons through this damnable fog,” Arthur complained.

“But he’ll see your knights when they begin to retreat, sire,” I said.

“Yes, he will, won’t he?”

“And he’ll come charging down the slope to catch you in retreat.”

Nodding doubtfully, Arthur muttered, “More men are slain in retreat than when they face the enemy bravely, that’s true.”

It would work, I was certain. We’ll trick Modred into racing down here and face him on this level.

It was nearly high noon before Arthur gave the order to begin the retreat. Despite the sun shining high above, the fog still lingered, chill and dank, like an evil omen. Arthur gave the word at last; as the bugles blared, he turned his steed and, with a glance over his shoulder, began leading his troops away from Modred’s waiting army.

It almost worked.

2

I should have realized that these Celtic knights, who gloried in single combat, were not able to match the well-drilled maneuvers of Subotai’s veteran army of hardened Mongol horsemen. The retreat began well enough, although it was clear that Arthur’s men thought their High King was showing cowardice to run away from the enemy. That was all to the good, as far as I was concerned: perhaps Modred, watching us from up on the ridgeline, would also think Arthur had lost his nerve.

Slowly we plodded through the fog, which seemed as thick as ever. I could not see more than a few dozen knights on either side of me. Turning in my saddle, I looked back at Modred, still sitting in the clear sunshine, unmoving beneath his black boar pennant.

The feigned retreat depends on careful training and strict obedience to the commander’s orders. The Celtic knights had precious little of this kind of training in coordinated maneuvers, and hardly any of the iron discipline that had made the Mongols conquerors of most of the world. Practically born in the saddle, the Mongol warriors were drilled mercilessly in the kinds of maneuvers that confounded the enemies they faced. Subotai’s men swept across the breadth of Asia and crushed the armies of Europe’s Christian kings because they rode as one mailed fist: thousands of hardened warriors fighting as a single entity, controlled by one mind.

This kind of discipline was unknown to the Celts. These knights had little knowledge of tactics beyond the headlong charge into their enemy’s midst. After that, their battles broke down into individual fights, man-on-man, little better than the vainglorious Achaean warriors who spent years on the plain of Ilium because they had no idea of how to surmount Troy’s high walls.

So Arthur’s knights slowly, unwillingly retreated into the fog. Even in the little I could see clearly, instead of moving in a smooth unbroken line they were already clumping together, a few knights riding close to each other, leaving gaps in their line.

“Sire,” I said to Arthur, “the men should keep an even separation from one another. If there are breaks in our line, the enemy can take advantage of them.”

Arthur nodded. “Ride up and down the line, Orion, and tell them what they must do. Tell them their High King commands it.”

“Yes, sire,” I said.

But as I spurred my horse to begin giving Arthur’s orders, the air was rent by the blast of bugles. Looking up, I saw that Modred’s host was at last charging down the slope toward us, lances leveled, pennants flying.

“Ah-ah!” Arthur shouted, relieved, as squires went racing among our knights, handing out helmets and shields, heavy thrusting lances and lighter throwing spears.

Arthur’s face was smiling, buoyant, as he lifted his helmet over his head. The battle was about to begin and he was in his element. Mongol tactics were not for him, even though he understood the value of them. The enemy was charging at him, and he was eager to countercharge straight into their midst, lance in hand, Excalibur at his side.

I pulled on my helmet and spurred my mount. The whole army was aroar, charging now pell-mell into the enemy, all thought of tactics and discipline blown away in their sudden relief. This they could understand. Face your enemy and smite him with heavy blows. Battle at its most brutally elemental.

Through the swirling fog we charged, lances in hand, horses racing at full gallop. Once again my senses went into overdrive; I saw Modred’s knights charging at us as if the world had slowed to dreamy languor. Even as I spurred my steed onward I could see the bulging eyes of the horses approaching us, spittle dripping from their bared teeth.

With their helmets hiding their faces and their heavy shields in front of their bodies, the enemy knights looked more like robots than humans. I could not see their faces. I tried to tell myself that they were intent on killing me, and worse, killing Arthur.

Yet the old primitive excitement that I once felt in the heat of battle was no longer in me. I tried to tell myself that these faceless warriors charging toward me were machines, toys, inhuman killing machines. Yet I knew that inside those helmets and suits of chain mail were men, human beings who lived and hoped and feared and did not want to die.

No matter. They were upon us and the two armies clashed into each other with a roar and clang of metal against metal. Lances splintered. Knights were lifted out of their saddles. Men and horses went down. The swirling fog was filled with shouts and curses, screams of agony and blood-chilling war cries.

In an instant the battle lost all semblance of order. We were not two armies fighting against one another but a wild tangle of men slashing and thrusting in individual combats.

Charging alongside Arthur, I smashed into the first knight I could reach, my lance cracking through his shield and knocking him out of his saddle. He crashed to the ground as I drove past him and took on another knight. His lance thrust screeched along my shield and passed me harmlessly while I feinted toward his helmeted head and then dug my lance into his middle, beneath his raised shield. He screamed in agony and fell off his charging horse.

A sudden blow from behind dazed me. Turning, I saw a knight in heavy body armor, swinging a studded metal ball at the end of a short chain. Off balance from his first strike, I raised my shield to ward off his next, but he cannily changed the direction of his blow and struck my horse hard on the neck. The poor animal reared and buckled on his hind legs, taking me to the ground, one leg pinned beneath the thrashing steed.

My mace-wielding foe wheeled about and came at me again, swinging that studded metal ball over his head and yelling a piercing battle cry. Watching him in slow motion, I tugged at my leg, pinned beneath the bleeding horse, and ducked his blow as he rode past.

My horse scrambled to his feet and trotted away unsteadily, bleeding from the wound in his neck. I pulled out my sword as I slowly got to my feet. My leg felt numb but there was no time to test its strength. The knight was charging me again; I could see wisps of fog swirling about him as he came galloping in slow motion toward me.

I threw my shield at him edgewise, like an oversize discus. It struck him a glancing blow, but it was enough of a distraction for me to ram my sword into his side as he rode past. I felt the point grate on bone. He howled and rode off, slumping in his saddle as he disappeared into the fog.

I yanked the heavy helmet off my head; it restricted my vision too much. Glancing around, I saw that the battle had broken down into a wild melee, a tangle of individual fights. Knights ahorse and on foot were battering each other in the swirling mist. The fog was still chill, but we were hot with rage and bloodlust.

Where is Arthur? I wondered. I had been at his side when we first charged against Modred’s host, but now he was nowhere to be seen. I started off afoot to seek him, without helmet, without shield, sword in hand.

A mounted knight came charging at me, crouching behind his shield, his lance pointed at my heart. I froze, watching the point of his lance as it bobbed slowly in rhythm to his horse’s pounding hooves. At the last instant I dodged sideways, and as he rode past me I hacked at his extended arm. He howled and dropped his lance, his arm almost severed just above the elbow.

Two more men in chain mail advanced upon me on foot behind their heavy shields, one bearing the emblem of a bear, the other a stooping hawk. Both of them carried long Celtic blades.

“Yield, sir knight,” called one of them from inside his helmet, “or we will slay you.”

“Yield yourselves, gentlemen,” I shouted back at them, “and save your lives.”

That ended our conversation. They ran at me, spreading slightly to come at me from two different angles. I sprang at the one on my right, diving into a rolling block that knocked his legs out from under him. Leaping to my feet, I drove my sword into his ribs before he could get up, then recovered just in time to block the vicious swing his companion aimed at me.

I backed away from the dying man on the ground while his companion advanced upon me, shield in front of him, held up to the eye slits of his helmet. Slowly he came at me, confident that a man without shield or helm had no chance against him. I retreated slowly, feeling my way across the uneven ground, littered with fallen men and broken weapons.

I knew that it is impossible to thrust at an opponent and defend yourself at the same time. A winning fighter must be fast enough to switch from offense to defense almost instantaneously. But with my hyperspeeded senses, almost instantaneously was not good enough.

My attacker aimed a mighty blow at me. I saw him cock his right arm over his shoulder, plant his feet, and swing his sword at my bare head. His blow came at me as if it were swinging through a thick invisible goo, languorously slow, so leisurely that I had plenty of time to dance back and avoid it, then thrust forward and slice his forearm from wrist to elbow with the point of my sword.

He bellowed with pain as his sword fell to the ground. For a moment we faced each other, his mouth hanging open, his face twisted in agony. He awkwardly fumbled off his shield so that he could grip his bleeding arm with his left hand. I pointed my dripping sword at his throat.

He dropped to his knees and beseeched, “Spare me!”

I nodded and stepped past him, looking for Arthur. And felt a searing pain in my back, just above the kidney. The treacherous dog had stabbed me with his dagger. I swung round and took his head off with a swipe of my sword. Then I sank to my knees, bleeding hard. I reached around and yanked out the bloody dagger, then willed my blood vessels to clamp down and stanch the bleeding. The pain was monumental, but I commanded my brain to ignore the flaming signals my nervous system was flashing.

Still, the world wavered before my eyes and I toppled face-first onto the cold bare ground and slipped into unconsciousness.

3

How long I was down I don’t know, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. When I opened my eyes men were still hacking at each other in the swirling fog, screaming and cursing in victory or in pain; riderless horses trotted by, their eyes wide with fear as their masters killed and maimed one another. The broken, rocky ground became slippery with blood. Bodies of the dead and wounded littered the field.

But where was Arthur? I had to find him.

I saw Sir Percival, down on one knee, crouching behind his battered shield that bore his red lion emblem. He was bleeding heavily from a gash on his shoulder. Three mounted knights surrounded him, and it was clear that they were offering him no quarter.

Stiffly, I got to my feet. The wound in my back was already clotting; the pain was only a distant throbbing ache. Picking up a spear from the littered ground, I hurled it at the horsemen surrounding Percival. It sailed past them harmlessly, but it served its purpose. They turned their attention to me.

As they spurred their horses, I charged toward them and jabbed my sword toward the eyes of the nearest horse. It whinnied in fright and reared on its hind legs, nearly throwing the knight out of his saddle. Running past him, I slashed at the exposed leg of the second of them before he could lower his shield enough to protect himself.

Percival staggered to his feet and hurled himself at the third, dragging him out of his saddle to thump painfully on the ground. In an instant all three of them were dead, and I saw that Percival was bleeding from several wounds and gasping heavily. His shield was badly dented; even his helmet was cracked.

“Get away while you can,” I told him.

“Not while there are enemies to fight,” he answered bravely.

“Then find yourself a horse.”

Nodding, he added, “And a lance.”

“Where is the High King?” I asked him.

Percival pointed into the fog. “He went after Sir Modred.”

I started off in the direction he pointed to, limping slightly, my leg weak and my back twinging.

It wasn’t a battle now, the fight had turned into nothing more than a jumble of separate brawls, men slashing at each other with swords and maces, spears and knives, even bare hands, intent on slaughtering each other. Blood and pain and red-hot fury filled the cold gray fog. Men were killing each other for the mindless urge to kill, to batter, to destroy their enemy.

The Creators had built that bloodlust into the human psyche, I knew. They had made us killers, haters, beasts who slaughtered not merely to survive but to revel in the power and passion of killing.

I hated them for it. All of them, especially Aten. All of them, except Anya.

And then I saw Arthur. With Modred. It was a sight I will never forget.

They were up on a little rise in the ground, two dark figures in the gray fog, silhouetted against the silvery, clouded sky. Both of them had lost their helmets. Neither of them bore his shield.

Arthur had transfixed Modred on his lance, gripping the lance with both his hands, his teeth gritted, the expression on his face awful as he stared at his spitted son.

And Modred was crawling up the length of the lance, even as his entrails slithered out of him, dragging himself inch by agonizing inch, the lance penetrating completely through him, dripping blood, pulling himself along with one hand while his other gripped a heavy sword. Modred’s once-handsome face was grimacing with agony—and something more: sheer hatred, unadulterated malevolence—his delicate features were twisted into the countenance of a demon from hell.

I was more than a hundred paces from them, but I tried my best to reach them, hobbling slightly from my wounds.

Modred was spitted on Arthur’s lance, but Arthur himself was also transfixed, wide-eyed, as he watched his son crawling toward him, sword raised high to strike.

It was a horrific nightmare. In sluggish slow motion I watched Modred creeping nearer to his father, while Arthur did nothing but stand there, gripping the lance in both hands, staring at his approaching doom.

I wanted to scream at them. I wanted to tell Arthur to drop the bloody lance and get away. Modred was as good as dead, save yourself, I wanted to say. But no words came out of my mouth. In desperation I hurled my sword at Modred, but it sailed past him unheeded.

I knew I was running as fast as I could but it wasn’t fast enough. Modred, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing hate, struck at Arthur’s bare head. I saw the blade smash into Arthur’s light brown hair. His knees buckled and he dropped the lance at last as he sank to the ground, bleeding. Modred fell, too, writhing for a few moments before his body finally stiffened into death.

“It’s finished, creature.” I heard Aten’s arrogant voice in my mind. “Your precious Arthur is dying.”

“He’s not dead yet,” I muttered as I stumbled toward the fallen High King.

Arthur’s scalp was streaming blood, his amber eyes were half closed, yet still he recognized me. “Orion…” he gasped. “Orion…”

“Come, sire,” I said, sliding an arm beneath his shoulders. “I’ll help you.”

He groaned with pain as I lifted him to a sitting position. “No use, sir knight. I am slain.”

“You’re not dead yet, sire,” I said, wishing I knew what to do, how to help him.

“Excalibur,” he murmured. “What will become of Excalibur?”

“That’s not important now, sire. We must get you to safety, to a healer.”

“Merlin could heal me. He could do anything.” Arthur’s voice was growing fainter. He was dying.

I glanced around us. The fog was thinning at last, and the battle seemed to have ended. At least I could see no one near, hear no sounds of battle, no shouts or screams or even moans of pain. Nothing but deadly silence. The very air had become absolutely still.

Arthur was sinking fast. His voice barely a whisper, he said to me, “I want you to take Excalibur, Orion. Return it to the Lady of the Lake, with my eternal thanks.”

“I will, sire.” Then the idea struck me. “And you with it.”

4

Grasping him carefully, tenderly, I picked up Excalibur in one hand and then rose to my feet with Arthur in my arms. The pain from the knife wound in my back nearly made me collapse. But I fought it down and willed us to the distant lake far to the south where Anya had first appeared to him in her guise as the Lady of the Lake and given Arthur his Excalibur. One instant we were on the blood-soaked battlefield of Camlann, wispy tendrils of fog clinging to us, the next we were at the shore of the lake, in the silver moonlight of a calm, warm evening.

And Anya was standing at the shore, the little wavelets lapping at the hem of her long white robe, her lustrous onyx hair garlanded with flowers. Her beautiful face was framed in moonlight, her lustrous eyes wide, startled.

“Orion!” She gaped at me. “How did you bring me here?”

“I?” I asked, just as surprised as she looked. “I thought you came of your own power.”

Anya shook her head. “I was halfway across the galaxy, Orion. Now, suddenly, I’m here with you.”

“One of the other Creators…?” I wondered.

With a slow smile of understanding, she said, “No, Orion. It was you. You summoned me. You translated me across eons and light-years.”

I started to shake my head. “I don’t possess that kind of power. Aten never built that capability into me.”

“You’ve learned how to do it, Orion. You’re gaining the powers of the Creators themselves.”

The realization stunned me. I stood there with the dying Arthur in my arms, staring at Anya, who smiled back at me knowingly. I am gaining the powers of the Creators themselves, I thought. Yet I felt no different than before. But wait: the wound in my back was healed. I was no longer in pain; I felt strong, powerful.

A groan from Arthur snapped me back to my senses. Strong and powerful I may be, but Arthur was dying in my arms.

“I failed, Orion,” he said, his voice weak, faint. “I tried to bring them peace, tried to protect them from the barbarians, and it all came to naught.”

“Not so, sire,” I said, as I laid him gently on the moonlit grass. “The Saxons and other invaders have turned to peaceful ways, because of you. You and your knights have brought peace and stability to Britain, while the rest of Europe has sunk into savagery and despair.”

“I killed my own son,” he sobbed.

Kneeling beside him, I said, “He gave you no alternative. He was intent on killing you and ending all you stood for.”

With a painful sigh, he said, “Modred has succeeded, then. All that I stood for is lost.”

“It’s not lost, Arthur. Britain will never sink into the barbarism that would have engulfed it if you had not lived. Over the coming years, the coming centuries, Britain will remain free, strong, a haven against the tides of barbarians that will sweep the continent.”

He almost smiled. “The Channel … our moat defensive, to protect us against barbarian invasions.”

“Not merely the Channel, sire. That’s just a band of water. It will be the men on this side of the Channel, the men who remember Arthur and his knights of the Round Table, who remember that you fought for the right, to protect the weak, to keep human decency alive on this island.”

“It would be pretty if it were true,” he whispered.

“Believe it, sire. Britain will be a beacon of freedom and hope for ages to come. The memory of you and your knights will shine across the world.”

He actually did smile. And closed his eyes.

Anya touched my shoulder. “Let him rest, Orion. Let him die in peace.”

Getting to my feet, I looked down at Arthur. His face was covered with blood from his terrible wound, but it looked peaceful, content. I placed Excalibur in his folded hands.

My eye caught a faint glimmering in among the trees that ringed the lake. As I watched, it grew into a bright golden glow and I knew that Aten, the self-styled Golden One, had come to join us.

Once, his presence would have paralyzed me, left me helpless with awe, unable to move a muscle. But no longer, not now.

He stepped out from the trees, a stunning figure resplendent in a skintight uniform of metallic gold. He smiled coldly at Anya, then turned his gaze to me. I stood before him, unmoving, unmoved.

“Your work here is finished, Orion,” said the Golden One, glancing down at Arthur’s body.

“Not yet,” I said. “Not yet.”

5

Almost before I myself knew what I intended to do, Aten snarled at me, “You dare?”

“I dare,” I replied.

“I’ll destroy you forever!”

Anya held up a restraining hand. “No, Aten. You can’t. Orion has learned far too much to buckle to your will.”

“You defy me, too?”

She gave him a serene smile. “Let Orion do what he wishes. In fact, I don’t think you can stop him. He’s almost our equal now.”

“Equal?” The Golden One sputtered with rage. “A creature, my equal?”

“You built him too well, Aten,” said Anya. “He is learning how to be a god.”

“Never!”

“See for yourself,” Anya said. Then she turned to me. “Go ahead, Orion. Save Arthur if you can.”

I looked down at Arthur’s dying body. Closing my eyes and focusing all my energies, I translated him through time. In a swirl of centuries I sent Arthur through the spacetime vortex, across the continuum, to appear in Britain whenever he was needed.

In a wild kaleidoscope of shifting time I was with him as we led townsmen who battled the brutal Viking invaders bringing fire and death to Britain in their longships.

I was part of Arthur’s crew in the fireboat as we sailed across the choppy waters of the Channel to defend Britain against the Spanish Armada.

On the deck of a man-of-war, slippery with crewmen’s blood, together we fired our cannon at the French ships off Trafalgar, loaded, and fired again, as we desperately held Napoleon’s invasion forces at bay.

I flew alongside Arthur in the Battle of Britain as we few, we band of brothers, hurled our Hurricanes and Spitfires against the Nazis who were trying to invade and conquer Britain.

And I stood at the edge of the moonlit lake, facing the smiling Anya and the enraged Aten. Arthur’s body was gone, translated through spacetime, leading his people whenever they were threatened with invasion.

“He isn’t dead,” I said to Aten. “He will never be dead, not as long as Britain needs him.”

Blazing with fury, Aten roared at me, “You fool! You ignorant, arrogant fool! Do you realize what you’ve done? Do you understand that every change you make in the continuum unravels the fabric of spacetime? You’ve forced us to spend eternity trying to repair the damage you’ve caused!”

“So be it,” I replied. “You began the unraveling by your tinkering with the fate of the human race.”

“We created the human race!” Aten bellowed.

“And the human race evolved into us,” said Anya, coolly. She seemed almost amused.

Steaming, Aten swore, “I’ll destroy you, Orion. Once and for all, I’ll erase your existence.”

Anya shook her head. “I doubt that you have that power, Aten. Orion is too strong for you now.”

He glared at her. “We’ll see,” he snapped. And with that he disappeared as abruptly as a light switched off.

Anya stretched out her hand to me. “You’re in great danger, dearest. He’s a deadly enemy now.”

“You’re in danger, too,” I said, clasping her soft warm hand in mine.

She laughed lightly. “Both of us, then. Together.”