Ben Bova - Orion and King Arthur

Two puny men armed only with swords against a twenty-ton killing machine.

But I nodded and edged off toward the water. Arthur sidled in the other direction, his eyes on the “dragon,” his new sword held high in his right hand.

The dinosaur looked from him to me, swiveling its ponderous head slowly. It stepped toward me, hesitant, its tiny brain perhaps puzzled by the maneuvers of intelligent prey.

I dared not go so far out into the water that I could not move swiftly. I yelled at the dinosaur and waved my sword in the air, trying to hold its attention while Arthur moved stealthily behind it. It leaned down in my direction, as if to see me more clearly. I felt its breath, hot enough to make me almost think it could actually breathe fire.

I waited until those monstrous teeth were gaping just above me, then thrust my sword into the beast, into the base of its jaw, with all the power I could muster from both my arms.

The dinosaur howled and reared, lifting me completely off my feet. My sword was lodged in its jaw and I clung to the hilt with both hands, my legs dangling uselessly in midair.

Arthur dashed in and slashed at the beast’s belly. Even in the pale moonlight I could see his blade redden.

The dinosaur bellowed and shook its head so viciously that I was dislodged and flung to the ground, my sword still wedged in its jaw. Stunned, I saw through a red haze of pain the dinosaur turn on Arthur, raking his shield with the powerful claws of one hind foot. Arthur tumbled onto his back and the beast bent over him, jaws gaping wide.

But Arthur still clutched Excalibur and slashed at the dinosaur’s snout as he scrambled backward, trying to rise to his feet. The dinosaur yowled and tried to pin Arthur to the ground with one foot, but Arthur scrabbled out of the way once, twice …

I pulled myself to my feet and, avoiding the beast’s heavy swinging tail, leaped upon its back. Like a monkey clambering up a tree I scaled along the dinosaur’s spine, climbing toward its massive bony skull.

It must have felt me on its back, for it stopped trying to crush Arthur and reared up to its full height, nearly throwing me off. But I wrapped my legs around its neck and swiftly drew Odysseos’ dagger. Plunging it into the back of its neck at the base of the thick skull, I hacksawed madly, searching for the spinal column.

Below me I saw Arthur, on his feet now, plunging Excalibur into the beast’s exposed belly again and again, working madly, frenziedly, spattered with the dinosaur’s dark blood again and again.

My blade found the spinal cord at last and cut it. The monster collapsed, nearly crushing Arthur as it fell.

I slid off its back and tumbled to the grassy ground, exhausted, gasping.

Arthur stood blinking at the dead carcass for a few moments, then raised both arms over his head and screamed an exultant victory cry at the distant moon. It was an eerie sight: the young warrior bathed in the beast’s blood, holding his sword and shield aloft and shrieking like a banshee. Beside him the dead “dragon” lay, a mountain of scaly flesh, teeth, and claws.

“Did you see me, Orion?” he called triumphantly as he hurried over to where I lay. “Did you see me kill it?”

Slowly I pulled myself up to a sitting position. The dagger was still in my hand, but Arthur paid no notice to such a puny weapon.

He brandished Excalibur in the night air. “I must have struck its heart,” he said, bubbling with excitement. “With this steel I can conquer anything!”

I smiled inwardly. Arthur had found his steel; not merely a sword, but the inner steel that would one day make him king of the Britons. If I could keep him alive that long.

I could sense Aten scowling angrily at me. He wanted Arthur removed from this timeline, and he would do all he could to work his will. And punish me for defying him.

All I really wanted was to spend the eternities with Anya. But for now, I was at Arthur’s side, ready to battle men and gods to protect him.

1

Three days after we returned to Amesbury, with Excalibur belted at Arthur’s side, a large band of Saxons made camp outside the fort. The next day they were joined by others. Day after day their numbers grew and we sat inside the fort. Arthur seemed uncertain of what he should do.

One evening I looked out over the parapet of the fort’s flimsy palisade and watched the campfires of the Saxon invaders dotting the twilight landscape like a thousand angry red eyes. As far as the hilly horizon they stretched, more of them each night.

“They’ve never done this before,” whispered Arthur, standing grimly beside me. I heard bewilderment and deep foreboding in his hushed voice.

“What are they waiting for?” grumbled Sir Bors, standing on Arthur’s other side. “Why don’t they attack?”

“Each night their numbers grow,” Arthur murmured, staring transfixed at the Saxon campfires. “Their leader, Aelle, calls himself Bretwalda now—king of Britain.”

“Hmph,” Bors snorted.

“Other barbarian tribes are joining his host: South Saxons, West Saxons, Jutes, Angles—they’ve all sworn their allegiance to Aelle.”

We stayed hemmed up inside Amesbury fort for nearly two weeks. Usually the barbarians raided a village or farmstead and ran away before the British defenders could find them. But now they were camped outside this hilltop fort, with more and more of the raiders joining the besiegers every day. These were not mere raiders, they were a powerful army, under the leadership of Aelle, who obviously intended to destroy Amesbury fort and its defenders.

I looked up into the darkening sky. A fat gibbous moon grinned mockingly at me, while the Swan and the Eagle rode low off in the west. My namesake constellation of Orion was climbing above the eastern horizon. Autumn chill was in the air, yet the barbarian invaders showed no sign of heading back to their settlements on the coast and leaving Britain a season of peace and healing.

Wheezing old Merlin joined the three of us up on the parapet, climbing the creaking wooden stairs slowly, painfully. In the starlight his tattered white beard seemed to glow faintly. With his long robe he seemed to glide along the platform toward us, rather than walk.

“I have determined when the Saxons will attack,” he pronounced in his quavering, thin voice.

“When?” Arthur and Bors asked as one.

“On the night of the full moon,” said Merlin.

“A week from now.”

Bors growled, “It makes sense. They know we’re starving in here. They’ll wait until they figure we’re too weak to fight.”

“Then we’ve got to do something,” Arthur replied. “And soon.”

“Yes,” Bors agreed. “But what?”

Arthur had been put in charge of the hill fort’s defense by his uncle, Ambrosius, who styled himself High King of the Celtic Britons. The Saxon barbarians had been raiding the coasts of Britain for years, decades, ever since the Roman legions had left the island. Now the Saxons and their brother tribes of barbarians were building permanent settlements in the coastal regions.

And moving inland. Amesbury was one of a string of hilltop forts that Ambrosius had hoped would stand against the Saxon tide. Some called it a castle, but it was nothing more than a wooden palisade enclosing a few huts and stables, with a single timbered tower, a rude wooden chapel, and a blacksmith’s forge. Even so, it stood against the barbarians well enough. They knew nothing of siege warfare, had no knowledge of rock-throwing ballistae or any devices more complicated than a felled tree trunk for a battering ram.

Yet crafty old Aelle had decided to bring all their strength to Amesbury and destroy the fort. And afterward? I wondered. Would they methodically reduce each of Ambrosius’ forts and leave the interior of Britain open to their ravages?