Ben Bova - Orion and King Arthur

The dark night wind whispered to me and I looked up at the stars scattered across the black sky. I had seen the same stars at ancient Ilium, I remembered, in another life. I had built a siege tower there, under the watchful eye of wily Odysseos, and led my men over the high stone wall of mighty Troy.

In another life. I have lived many lives, and died many deaths. I have traveled among those far-flung stars bedecking the night sky. I have fought battles on distant worlds under strange suns.

My Creator Aten, the Golden One, has sent me to this place and time to serve Arthur until the moment comes when I must stand aside and let him be killed. Or perhaps the Golden One plans for me to murder Arthur. I have assassinated others for him, in other lifetimes. I knew that I must obey my Creator’s commands, yet with every fiber of my being I wanted to defy those commands, to disregard his murderous orders and raise young Arthur to the power and authority that would save Britain from these barbarians.

Yet I stood helplessly in the gathering darkness beside Arthur, the son of an unknown father, adopted by Ambrosius and guided by Merlin. Barely old enough to begin growing a beard, Arthur had been marked by my Creator for a brief moment of glory—and then ignominious death.

To Bors and Merlin and all the others I was Arthur’s squire, a servant, a nonentity. Arthur knew better, but we kept our friendship a secret between us. It was easier for me that way: I could remain at Arthur’s side and provide him with advice and guidance—and help in the fighting, when it was necessary.

“Well, what do you want to do?” Bors asked again, gruffly. He was a blunt, hard-faced man, scarred from many battles, his thick beard already showing streaks of gray.

Without taking his eyes from the hundreds of Saxon campfires dotting the night, Arthur replied softly, “Instead of waiting for the barbarians to build enough strength to bring down this fort, we should sally out and attack them.”

Bors said flatly, “There’s too many of ’em already. We’d be massacred.”

But some of Arthur’s youthful enthusiasm was returning. “If a strong group of us charged out at them on horseback, we could do them great hurt.”

“We could get ourselves killed and save the Saxons the trouble of scaling the walls,” Bors snapped.

“Not if we surprised them,” Arthur insisted. “Not if we attacked them tonight, after the moon sets, while most of them are sleeping.”

“At night?” Bors frowned at the idea.

“Yes! Why not?” Eagerly, Arthur turned to Merlin. “What do you think, Merlin? What do you foresee?”

Merlin closed his eyes for several long moments, then wheezed, “Blood and carnage. The barbarians will fly before your sword, Arthur.”

“You see?” Arthur said to Bors.

Bors glowered at the mystic. “Do you see the Saxons running away and heading back to their ships?”

Merlin shook his head slowly. “No … the mists of the future cloud my vision.”

Bors grumbled with disdain.

But Arthur would not be denied. Bors had more battle experience, but Arthur had the fire of youthful vigor in him.

“Orion,” he commanded, “get the horses saddled and fit. And ask all the knights which of them will honor me by joining in this sally against the enemy.”

As a squire, of course, I went where my master went. Knights could offer excuses to remain safely inside the fort. There were no excuses allowed for squires.

2

It was well past midnight by the time we were armed and mounted, thirty-two knights and squires on snorting, snuffling horses that pawed impatiently on the packed earth of the courtyard. Arthur and the other knights were helmeted and wore chain mail and carried spears as well as their swords. The moon was down. Firelight glinted off the emblems painted on their shields: Arthur’s red dragon, Bors’ black hawk, the green serpent of Gawain, lions and bears and other totem symbols.

I was the only squire who wore a chain mail shirt. The others, mostly beardless youths, went into battle in their tunics, protected only by their helmets and shields. I carried neither helmet nor shield nor spear, only the sword strapped to my back, as I sat on my mount at Arthur’s side.

Sir Bors, still grousing, nosed his horse up to Arthur’s other side. “This is madness,” he muttered. “They outnumber us a hundred to one.”

Arthur smiled grimly in the starlight. “Their numbers will be smaller before the sun rises again.”

“As will ours,” Bors mumbled.

Arthur pointed with his spear and a pair of churls lifted the heavy timber bar from the palisade gates, then slowly swung the gates open. They creaked horribly in the stillness of the night. I thought that any chance of surprise was mostly lost already.

But Arthur bellowed, “Follow me!” and we charged out into the night, each man screaming his own battle cry.

The barbarians were truly surprised. We thundered down into their camp at the base of the hill, trampling the embers of their campfires and scattering the startled men like dry leaves before the wind. I stayed close behind Arthur, saw him transfix a running Saxon with his spear and lift the shrieking barbarian off his feet. Arthur was nearly knocked off his horse by the shock of the impact, and he had to let go of the spear. The barbarian warrior, clutching the shaft where it penetrated his chest, fell over backward, already dead.

I rode close behind Arthur, my sword in hand, ready to protect him against anything. Once more my senses went into overdrive and everything about me seemed to slow down into a sleepy, sluggish torpor. I saw a naked barbarian run in dreamlike slow motion at Arthur’s left side, his long blond braids flying behind him. Arthur took his sword stroke on his shield and, while drawing Excalibur from its jeweled scabbard with his right hand, bashed the warrior’s head with the edge of the shield. The man staggered back and Bors pinned him to the ground with his spear.

Another warrior hurled his axe at Arthur’s unprotected right side. I saw it turning lazily through the flame-lit air and reached out with my sword to flick it harmlessly away. Then I drove my mount at the barbarian and slashed him from shoulder to navel with a stroke that nearly wrenched me out of my saddle.

Waving Excalibur on high, Arthur urged his mount forward against a gaggle of barbarian warriors who stood naked but armed with swords and axes. I pulled up alongside him and we sliced the lives out of those men, their blood spurting as they screamed their death agonies.

But still more were coming at us, roaring with anger and battle lust. The first shock of our surprise attack had quickly worn off and now they were hot for our blood. They seemed to grow out of the very ground, no matter how many we killed still more rose against us. We waded into them as they swarmed around us, pulling men off their mounts, pulling down the horses themselves. Men and beasts alike screamed as the barbarians hacked them to bloody pieces.

The knights fared better than the lightly armed squires, but even they were being hard pressed by the teeming, swarming barbarians. Arthur and I weaved a sphere of death with our swords. Anyone who dared to come within reach of our blades died swiftly.

But still more of the barbarians rushed at us, assailing us like swarms of wasps, surging like the tide of the sea.

“We’ve got to get back!” Bors shouted. “Their whole army is aroused now.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed. “Sound the retreat.”

The squire who served as bugler put his ram’s horn to his lips and blew mightily. We turned back toward the fort, fighting and hacking our way through the maddened barbarians. The Saxons made no effort to climb the hill and get through the guarded gate; they were content to drive us out of their camp.