God of the Wild Hunt, god of the storm, the Furor inspired fear in ordinary tribal folk and received worship only from sorcerers, poets, and berserkers, those warriors touched with his fury, his frenzied battle-fetter that bound them to killing trance.
These Wolf Warriors served the Furor as elite berserkers. All had known the Furor first as sorcerers, priests of prophecy, and then had run through the wilderness with the wolf packs until they had grown strong on pain and the voice of the wolf spoke in them.
The wolf and the raven, the Furor’s familiars, accompanied his followers. The raven whispered to the sorcerers and told them of the terrible destiny that awaited the world. And the wolf's voice belonged to the berserkers. It sang to them of the Furor's passion to save the world from destruction. The wolf song lifted the berserkers above human conceptions of good and evil.
Determined to serve their god, Wolf Warriors sailed to Britain in the night. By day, they roamed the countryside in packs, hunting Britons and Celts, and stalking their own glorious deaths.
Chapter 7:
Dragon Psalm
Of the mammoth trees that once flanked the old Roman highway north of Venonae only charred trunks remained. The surrounding fields and hills had been scorched, and much of that land lay cindered and without definition. A few groves upon the ridges remained intact, though the dearth of spring rains had left them sere and winter-bare.
Clattering at a slow pace across the bare stone and gravel reefs of the remnant highway, five filthy, brutal horsemen rode. They wore dusty rawhide vests bleached and cracked like old ceramic, and their beards and scabrous hair hung in strings black and greasy as twists of singed candlewick. With an air of menacing vigilance, they surveyed the grim landscape and spotted through the ebony columns of incinerated trees a ramshackle roadhouse.
A broad cinder path led from the decrepit highway through a brambly garth of apple trees, past a run of chickens and a drowsy dog. The roadhouse had once been a Roman villa, and it retained a regal stature though thatching replaced most of the missing tile roof, and the adobe walls had partly crumbled and relied on huge veils of browned bean vines to cover gaping holes.
An old calf hide nailed to one wall had stenciled on it in rain-leached letters: THE BLANKET OF STARS.
Before dismounting, the feral horsemen rode to either side of the wide building, hands on their sword hilts, alert for Wolf Warriors. They spotted a burly youth in a crude hempen tunic grooming a gray palfrey. Green flies spun around him in a sunny haze of dust and horsehair. The clop of hooves, chink of metal, and creak of saddles elicited no attention from him, and the riders returned to the front courtyard and dismounted.
A scrawny, barefoot lad in gray breeches and chemise of knotted rags stood warily in the wide entryway. "Stable your mounts, sirs?" His voice quavered, and he kept his eyes averted from the dangerous men.
One of the riders grabbed the groom by the scruff of the neck and hurled him into the courtyard so forcefully the boy rolled across the dirt. "Unsaddle each in its turn only. We want them ready to ride quickly. Have you grain?"
"No cow parsley for these steeds," another of the men demanded, "or we'll wring your neck."
The boy nodded and scrambled to his feet. '"Tis dear, m'lords. Three coins silver a bag."
The men laughed in unison. "Not for us, boy. We're king's men—with billeting privileges. A bag for each of our mounts. And look lively."
The five soldiers shambled like barbaric tribesmen into The Blanket of Stars, pausing briefly in the broad doorway. A graven and splintered gorgon gazed blindly above them.
What once had been many servants' cubicles in a time long ago had coalesced to one large cantina with a floor of tamped earth. Holes in the thatched ceiling let down silver wands of sunlight among two long, ramshackle tables and warped benches.
At the back, through knotholes and numerous cracks in a weathered partition of gray planks, stood visible the galley, with its lopsided stone oven and smoking charcoal grill. A young woman and an old man, both in rags and skins, warily stared at them through the steam like cavefolk.
The tables were not empty. A ragged monk and three road-dusted pilgrims with prayer beads at their wrists sat hunched over soapstone bowls eating cereal flummery and nettle soup. At the far end of the second table, a balding, one-armed man in a merchant's red leather jerkin did not raise his eyes from his bowl of salt fish boiled in milk.
Once assured that this impoverished roadhouse posed no threat, the soldiers went directly to the three wine casks stacked beside the galley partition. They opened the bung and, with much pushing and shoving, took turns filling their mouths with the brown wine.
From behind a moth-chewed curtain that draped the rickety stairway to the sleeping alcoves entered a barefoot woman in a matron's robe of blue velveteen so old it appeared crinkled as crepe. She possessed rustic beauty, this big-shouldered woman with honey brown hair tied atop her head in a twist. Her eyes, small blue slits of sky, gazed confidently from under blond arches of brow. With cheeks ruddied by sun and freckled nose, she carried summer into the dim room. "I'm Julia," she announced in a voice of relaxed command. "Welcome, travelers, to The Blanket of Stars. Will you be having table fare with your wine then?"
"Not 'lest it's you on the table!" a soldier gibed, and the others guffawed.
Like fingers of a hand, the five men arrayed themselves in the middle of the cantina and leered at her as one. The short, stout one—the thumb—seemed their leader, and he spoke with guttural authority: "Me and these men be king's soldiers. We're wanting bread and cheese and what fare we can take with us."
Julia shoved between the tallest—the stooped middle and ring fingers—and stopped the bung they had left splashing wine into the catch bucket. "Show me your silver, and I'll provision all your saddlebags."
"Best you let us talk direct with the innholder," said the greasy and scorched thumb.
"The innholder is my husband, Eril, a king's soldier, too. He's not yet returned from this battlefield wide as Britain. So, show me your silver, and I'll see to your provisions."
"We'll be taking what silver we find in this hovel," the thumb declared loudly, and nodded to the others. Immediately, pinky and forefinger went to the tables and stood threateningly over the diners. "We are here to collect what coin you have for our service in the war."
"The war is over," the one-armed merchant spoke up forcefully. "And I know for a fact that the king sanctions no quartering privileges among his soldiers."
"For a fact?" queried the forefinger, placing both hands on the table where the merchant sat and leaning forward with a malicious grin. "And how would you know that, monger?"
"I've just come from Camelot," the merchant replied coolly, "and I heard from the king himself that he will tolerate no looting. It is a hanging offense. If you are the king's men, you should know that."
The soldiers bellowed laughter at the merchant's refined tone and their own grim intent.
From the galley came the old man, a cleaver in hand. "Is there trouble here, daughter?"
"Nay, Father. These brutes only now learned the war is ended They are leaving." Julia pulled from behind at ring and middle fingers' belts, tugging them with surprising strength toward the door. "Go steal from the Cantii Saxons, you louts—if you've courage enough."
The soldiers' laughter frenzied to barks and howls. Thumb stepped before the old man and, in one motion, lifted the cleaver from his hand and smote him hard across the brow.
The aged cook collapsed with a moan, and Julia barged past the soldiers and rushed to him. "Father!"
"There'll be worse for you if you don't shut up and do as we say!" the thumb shouted. "Now everyone put your coin on the table. And you, woman, you'll show me the larder—you and me together."
The moth-chewed curtain jerked aside, revealing the beardless, brawny youth the soldiers had seen earlier in the back lot. Though pale and rosy-cheeked, his brown hair shorn to the temples like a farm boy's and bristly as ba
dger fur, he conveyed menace. His yellow eyes held a baleful, intent look as he entered the cantina with a pronounced limp. "You dishonor your king," he said in a low and unhappy voice.
"Shut up, boy, or we'll pull out your tongue by its roots." The thumb waved the cleaver. "We've come for coin and provisions. But we'll take blood if we must."
"Only your blood will be spilled here if you don't leave this place at once," the boy said, a green vein ticking at his temple.
The thumb laughed darkly. "I told you to shut up! Now, gimp, I'm going to shave your head with this cleaver." The stout soldier advanced with a hostile grin, cleaver held high to distract while his other hand swiftly drew a gutting knife from his belt.
"Stop!" Julia cried. "Leave him be! He's but a boy and halt! You can have what you want!"
"We'll have it all anyway—and this gimp's scalp as well." The muscular thumb feinted with the cleaver and drove his knife upward, blade flat to slip between ribs.
The boy, nimble as a dancer, pivoted on his good leg so that the knife found only air.
The thumb leaned forward off-balance, and the boy's right hand swiftly slapped the assailant behind the head, throwing him forward, and his left hand twisted the cleaver from the soldier's grip. The lad waited a heartbeat for the thumb to scramble about and come at him again with the knife before he deftly flicked the cleaver, lodging the blade in the enraged man's skull.
Before forefinger could react, the merchant's one arm blurred. A dagger pinned the soldier's right hand to the table-top where he had been leaning with vicious attention. Half a scream ripped from him, before the one arm grabbed him by the hair and pounded his head hard on the table, rendering him silent.
Outrage bawled from the three standing soldiers, and they drew their swords. As they came forward, the halt boy limped past Julia and her cowering father. He stepped with his bad leg on the end of an empty table bench, tilting it upright. With a mighty heave, he slammed the bench down on the upraised swords, catching two in the wood and yanking the weapons free. He caught the bench again as it fell and shoved it forward, throwing the front two soldiers off-balance.
The third soldier—pinky—dashed forward to skewer the adroit boy, but the staggering soldiers and the bench slowed his charge. The burly lad seized a sword from the bench, and with one swipe severed pinky's sword hand and stabbed the sword tip into the breastbone of the soldier pressing beside him. The stabbed soldier reeled backward with a grunt. Pinky collided into him, mutely regarding his bleeding arm stump.
Thumb lurched upright, face slick with blood, and pulled the cleaver from his skull. The halt boy's yellow eyes fixed him with a cold look. Thumb dropped the cleaver and ran past, cowed.
Out the way they had come, the five soldiers fled. The one-armed merchant strode after them, dragging the unconscious soldier whose hand he had pierced. The monk and pilgrims followed timidly, anxious to see that the malefactors departed.
"Who are you?" Julia asked.
The lad bent over her father and examined the bump under his blood-matted hair. "I am my master's servant." He helped the old man to his feet. "You should lie down. Your wound is not serious. A patch of willow's bark will speed the healing."
"You are a soldier," the old man muttered. "The way you move, lad—"
"I am my master's servant."
"Your master is the one-armed merchant you accompany?" the old man inquired. "You speak like lords."
"A Christian lord taught me well. And he is well traveled." He helped the hurt man to sit down on a table bench, and added comfortingly, "Those felons will be driven off without their horses. The steeds belong to you now. Sell them if you wish and use the money to repair your inn."
"Who are you?" Julia asked again. "What are your names?"
The yellow eyes regarded her kindly. "I am ... John Halt ... and he is Elder John."
"Johns Halt and Elder." She smiled at him and kissed his cheek. "You shall have our finest vintage. Leoba! Open the Rhenish keg!"
A younger woman with strawberry hair came out of the galley with a wet rag for the old man's head. "The Rhenish keg?"
"Yes, you heard me aright, sister. Now, go and bring us two cups." She smiled again at John Halt, showing teeth clean and even as a Celt's. "We were saving that keg for my husband's return. But there'd be no home to receive my Eril if not for you and John Elder. You shall have our best vintage."
"Save your vintage for Eril." John Halt took both of Julia's hands and stared a long moment into her freckled and sun-burnished face. "Your kind regard is reward enough for me."
"He speaks good as a lord," the old man said again. "Leoba—come meet good John Halt!"
The one-armed merchant returned with two sword belts in his hand. The monk and pilgrims followed, looking much relieved. "The malfeasors are away and unarmed. They are now at the mercy of what brigands will receive them on the road."
"No doubt they will find comfort among the king's army of brigands," Julia griped, and finished securing the wet rag about her father's brow.
"You have no love for our king?" John Halt asked, and received with both hands the cup of well water Leoba brought to him.
Julia's upper lip curled. "We fared better when the warlords ruled Britain. My Eril was taken from me to secure King Arthor's throne."
"Now that the king has united the realm, surely there will be better times for all." John Halt looked to Julia's father for agreement, and the old man just shook his head.
"Arthor is a boy," the elder said glumly. "He made claim on the throne by right of birth, but the experience to rule all Britain, that he lacks sorely. Look at our fair land. He's made a botch of it already. That he might wear a crown and rule over us, he fought a war that lay waste the prospering earth. What manner of king is that?"
"A dangerous fool, say I," Julia answered irascibly.
"He united the warlords," John Halt pressed. "With our land one, we can better defend ourselves against pagan invaders."
"Aye, and will pagan invaders treat us less kindly than the five men of our own king's army you drove from our door?" the old man asked, and his daughters concurred with vigorous nods.
"I want my Eril back," Julia added, "and each day pray he has not lost his life to put a crown on a boy's head."
"It's time we go," Elder John called from the doorway, where he had kicked out the soldier's severed hand for the dog to gnaw. "We've a long way to travel this day."
"Go?" The old man stood up, then sat down again in a sway of dizziness. "You must stay, the two of you. You can sell your wares from here, merchant. Now that spring is come and the strife ended, there'll be travelers aplenty on the roads, and we'll be busy, you'll see. There's plenty work for your lad. Why wander in this dangerous world when Providence has led you to our haven?"
Elder John shook his patrician head. "Thank you, good man. I've business to attend elsewhere. Perhaps we will visit again before long. Get the horses, boy. Don't dawdle. We've far to go while it's yet light."
John Halt frowned, then shrugged and limped out the back way. After helping her father to his cot in a back room behind the galley, Julia stepped into the back lot, past the soldiers' five abandoned mounts. She found the big-shouldered youth saddling his gray palfrey.
The stableboy, Julia's young brother, came forth from a rickety stable leading Elder John's stallion, a deep chestnut steed eighteen hands high and laded with the merchant's goods wrapped in burlap.
"I got a good eye for people," Julia said warmly. "An innkeeper's wife would, seeing all kinds passing through. And my eye tells me, you're no common merchant's boy."
John Halt made no reply and kept his attention on securing his scuffed and worn saddle.
"Your halt leg—it's a battle wound, is it not?" Julia stepped closer, and continued in a conciliatory tone, "You don't fight like a brawler. You're proper trained in killing. What I just seen tells me you been soldiering for the king yourself. That's why you have good words for him." She put a hand on his shoulder.
"I apologize for what ill we said of the crown. We all miss Eril. Sometimes I fear the worst—and I blame the king."
John Halt smiled. Before he could speak, Elder John called from the dusty lane with its trellis of dried bean cords and squash vines, "Stop lingering, boy. We've far to go."
The youth swung into the saddle. "I'll pray for your Eril," he promised, pulling the palfrey around.
"And I'll pray for our king," she called after him, and waved.
"She said she would pray for me." Arthor grinned proudly at his one-armed companion as they rode away from The Blanket of Stars. "Do you think her sincere?"
"What I think, my lord, is that you are taken with her."
"Taken, Bedevere?" The king cast a lingering look backward at the broken-down villa. "Is that why you insist we depart? You were robust in your command of me back there."
"There was no point in remaining."
"What if those cutthroats return?"
"They will not, my lord." Bedevere lifted a pocket flap of his leather jerkin to reveal its mirror-polished brass underside and turned in his saddle until it caught the sun and winked three short flashes. A moment later, a star glinted from a distant cinder ridge. "They are still running north, toward Ratae. I signaled Bors to watch for them. If they turn back, they will be hanged."
"Hanged?" The youth let out a dry laugh. "Where will Bors find a tree in this devastation?" He gazed about with open despair at the scorched horizon: tree trunks angled like charcoal runes against a sky whose very blueness and toppling clouds seemed renegades of the strange and barren world below. "This is so much worse than I had thought."
"Then the wizard is justified sending us disguised into this wasteland." Bedevere rode his massive horse slowly among the broken cobbles. "Now you know what you could never have surmised within the walls of Camelot."
The king peered about for some living thing to stir among the black pastures and found only cloud shadows running mutely across ashen fields. "Where is Merlin?"
The Serpent and the Grail (The Perilous Order of Camelot) Page 7