Excalibur (The Warlord Chronicles #3)

by Bernard Cornwell

That did not surprise me. He was a goat.

But first I must lie with another salty man. Belly to belly with another dry thing from the Cauldron’s heart.’

Goddammit merlins body is gonna be so mutilated

chivvied

Word

Mithras’s mother was a virgin, shepherds and wise men came to see her newborn child, and Mithras himself grew to become a healer and a teacher. He had twelve disciples, and on the eve of his death he gave them a final supper of bread and wine. He was buried in a rock tomb and rose again, and he did all this long before the Christians nailed their God to a tree. You let the Christians steal your God’s clothes, Derfel!’

for you two I loved above all men.

My last gift to those who were my friends.’

stared at the rainclouds above Isca’s roofs. ‘If I cut off Ceinwyn’s head, Lord,’ I spoke to Arthur, ‘will you cut off mine a heartbeat later?’ ‘No,’ he said in disgust. ‘Lord!’ I pleaded.

Folk call her husband a saint to this day, but I think the wife is called a saint by God.

spat through the mask’s mouthpiece.

Old habits die hard

And thus I became a Christian.

though perhaps Igraine, if she reads these words, will have my balefire built. I pray so.

‘Change it?’ He looked indignant. ‘My Queen won’t let me change a syllable!’ ‘Truly?’ I asked.

So cute

She was heavy and clumsy, but she was still my sword, and I peered at the yellowed pig bones set into her hilt and then at the lover’s ring that was bound about its pommel and I saw, on that flattened ring, the tiny scraps of gold I had stolen from the Cauldron so long ago. She brought back so many stories, that sword. There was a patch of rust on her blade and I carefully scraped it away with the knife I use for sharpening my quills, and then I cradled her for a long time, imagining that I was young again and still strong enough to wield her.

Jesus fuck

in my sinful soul I am still a spearman of Mithras.

‘I will go where my man goes,’

but then his shyness about power, and his perverse belief in the innate goodness of man, and his fervent adherence to the sanctity of oaths, had let lesser men undo his work.

‘Then we shall have to change his mind,’ Arthur said, ‘for I do not think I can grow old without you.’ ‘Nor I without you, Lord.’

I was the very last wolftail.

I was the last, just as I was the last warrior alive to carry Ceinwyn’s star on my shield.

I’m crine

‘He killed, Lord,’ I

Lit

‘Those of us who can swim,’ he added. ‘Can you?’ ‘Never too late to learn,’

I had not seen a ghost fence in years,

and to counter his spells we sang the War Song of Beli Mawr.

We sang tears into our eyes and fear into our enemy’s hearts.

was close-knit and full of famous warriors.

but had never faced a shield wall of hardened killers. And how we were killing now.

‘You can grow a beard now, Derfel,’ he said.

Ah fuck. I can’t believe you’ve done this

I was the last of Arthur’s warlords.

I would wait for her beneath the apple trees of the Otherworld;

No no no go fuck yourself. Go fuck yourself bernard cornwell.

And so my Lord was gone. And no one has seen him since.

Holy jesus fucking fuck