Orion and King Arthur Read Free Page A

Why was it important to slay those beasts?”
    “To save the British captives, of course.”
    That surprised me. “The captives? Those pimply-faced youngsters and that emaciated old man?”
    She smiled knowingly. “One of those pimply-faced youngsters is the son of a Romanwho stayed behind after the legions left Britain. His name is Artorius.”
    I shrugged. It made no sense to me.
    “He will be important one day. A light against the darkness.” She reached out her hand to me. “The sword you found in the cave. Please give it to me.”
    Puzzled, I detached the scabbarded sword from my belt and handed it to her. She slowly drew out the blade, examined the inscription onit, and smiled.
    “Yes,” she said in a whisper, “he will need this later on.”
    I read the one word inscribed on the matchless steel blade.
    Excalibur.

 
    BOOK I
    Dux Bellorum

 
    CHAPTER ONE
    Amesbury Fort
    1
    “A Sarmatian, you say?” Sir Bors looked me up and down, sour disbelief plain on his scarred, bearded face. “And what is your name?”
    “Orion,” I replied. It was the one thing I was certain of. How I came to this time and place I knew not.
    “And why are you here?” asked Sir Bors.
    We were standing in the dingy courtyard of a hilltop fort named Amesbury, its wallsnothing more than a rickety palisade of timber staves. These Britons had tried to build their forts in the way the Roman legions had, but their engineering skills were poor. They stared at the ruins of Roman aqueducts and monuments and thought that the stonework had been done by giants or magicians.
    A few dozen men milled about the bare dirt courtyard, some leading horses, a few practicing swordplaywith one another. The place smelled of dung and sweat. And fear.
    “I came to serve King Arthur against the Saxons,” I said.
    Bors’ eyes widened. “ King Arthur? You’ve made him your king, have you?”
    I felt confused. “I thought—”
    Bors planted both fists on his hips and pushed his scarred face so close to mine that I could smell the stale wine on his breath.
    “Ambrosius is our king, Sarmatian! YoungArthur may be his nephew, but the pup’s still wet behind the ears. King indeed!”
    I said nothing.
    Bors grumbled, “His uncle’s put him in charge of Amesbury fort here and sent Merlin to watch over him, but that doesn’t make him anything more than an inexperienced babe in the woods.”
    “I … I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I meant to say King Ambrosius.”
    Bors snorted with disdain.
    My mind was spinning.I remembered Artorius as a skinny, pimply-faced boy, a captive of the Danes when I served Beowulf. I had saved him then, I dimly recalled.
    Somewhere in my mind I knew he was to be king of the Britons, and he would lead these island people against the invading barbarians. Britain had been abandoned by the Roman Empire after centuries of their occupation. The legions had returned to Rome to fightagainst the hordes of Goths who were slashing into the empire’s heartland. Britain was left to fend for itself, wide open to invasion by the barbarian Angles and Saxons.
    Aten had put that knowledge into my mind. But why he had sent me through spacetime to Amesbury fort I did not know. Aten, the Golden One, is my master, my Creator, sneering and superior. I have died many times, in many strangeand distant places, but always he brings me back, revives me to send me on still another task of pain and danger.
    “You are my creature, Orion,” he has told me often. “My hunter. I built you and you will do as I command.”
    I hate Aten and his mad dreams of controlling all of spacetime to suit his whims. There are other Creators, as well, haughty and demanding, toying with human history like childrenplaying with dolls. Cruel gods and goddesses, all of them.
    Except for Anya.
    Anya of the gray eyes and supernal beauty. Anya is the only one among those Creators who cares at all for their creatures. Who cares for me. I love Anya and she loves me. Aten knows this