Gavin spoke little, and always in a monotone.
Later, as he sat before a bonfire, Gavin overhead Anor knights asking the adventurers if this grim and silent knight, who didn’t even acknowledge the ladies, could truly be as good a jouster as they had bragged.
Rumors spread and messengers came to Gavin, squatting beside him or taking his hand and asking him his dilemma. The most he gave was another mournful sigh. As the Elban knights debated what had caused this change—Gavin had been a delightful shipboard companion—the mystery of the silent knight took hold of the local imagination. South Anor knights begged him to join them at feast. Ladies wondered aloud if poetry readings wouldn’t cure his heart. Gavin watched the practice jousts, acrobats and contortionists. He sat among revelers and shook his head when anyone offered him wine. Several knights questioned his courage. He stared up at the stars.
“Does he mock us?” cried Sir Ullrick, Banfrey’s hardiest knight. He was known as ‘the Bear,’ both for his shaggy beard and axe blows.
The gentlemen adventurers muttered among themselves. They wore linen surcoats and walked in felt shoes. Many bore rings of silver or gold or chains studded with gems. The majority were eldest sons of rich lords, recently knighted. On their return home most would spend the rest of their lives on their father’s estates, taking over when he died. Among them were choice friends, loud and brash young men avid for their patron’s glory.
These Elban knights were not seasoned campaigners or hardened veterans, yet they were vain and dangerous, highly trained in swordsmanship and lancing and attended by vicious warriors and thegns. Thegns were mounted fighting men like knights, but of ignoble birth.
Sir Hunneric shook his head. “He does not mock us, sir. Something has happened to Sir Gavin.”
Ullrick the Bear scowled with hairy eyebrows. “I think he mocks us. I think he makes sport of us.”
“That is a grave charge, sir,” said Hunneric.
“Do you say that I’m wrong?” growled Ullrick.
The trio who protected young Sir Hunneric looked away from Odo swallowing a sword and carefully gauged the mighty Banfrey champion.
Others did likewise, but Hunneric seemed not to notice. “Yes. You are wrong, good sir. I’d stake my very honor on it. Sir Gavin is the model of a knight. For him to turn sullen at the beginning of the tournament—he has seen something terrible, I assure you.”
Meanwhile, in the Shrine of Tulun, Swan recounted her visions to a plump woman in her fifties. Swan’s earnestness and the passing of certain tests convinced the old woman that Swan spoke the truth.
When the High Priest of Hosar heard of Swan and learned that Gavin had escorted her to Banfrey, he sent for Sir Ullrick the Bear and began to devise a trap.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Last night ladies had sent their maids to Gavin as he slept beside the fire. He had refused their queries and thus created even more rumors. Now he strolled with Odo the sword-eater. They moved among the many-tented lanes, observing and being observed. There were horse dealers selling replacement mounts, busy tailors stitching with their needles and overburdened armorers hammering at their forges.
“You’ve created quite a stir, milord,” said Odo.
Gavin shrugged mail-clad shoulders, his golden spurs jingling as he walked.
“Ah,” said Odo. “Trouble at last.” He glanced at Gavin. “Is this what you’ve been waiting for?”
Sir Ullrick the Bear strode like a champion, a warrior certain of his prowess and trailing a bright red cloak. Behind him followed several of the gentlemen adventurers. Upon seeing Gavin, Ullrick scowled.
“Sir!” shouted the loud-voiced champion.
Gavin paused, while Odo quietly slipped back several steps.
With a barrel gait almost like that of a bear and with his wide face flushed, Ullrick led the knight-errants to Gavin. There he planted himself, speaking loudly, “I think you mock us, sir.”
Gavin sighed as if with weariness, as if he was too troubled with his own inner woes to notice such a mighty fighter. He began to walk around Ullrick.
The champion of Banfrey put a heavy hand on Gavin’s chest. “I challenge you to single combat, sir. I’ve grown weary of your churlish manner.”
Gavin sidestepped the hand.
“Ho!” cried Ullrick, glancing at the gentlemen adventurers before giving Gavin his loudest boast yet. “You’ll not escape my wrath so easily, sir.” With three thick fingers, the Bear touched Gavin on the cheek.
Gavin squinted.
“In two hours!” shouted Ullrick.
Gavin nodded.
Heralds ran through the tented lanes, shouting the news, even though this had been declared a day of feasting, of resting because the first day of practice jousts had produced more injuries than expected. Nevertheless, a huge throng gathered in the jousting yard.
At the appointed hour, Sir Ullrick appeared at one end of the list and on a mighty charger, a piebald steed with evil eyes. Ullrick wore a great helmet and glittering mail. None wielded a heavier lance or carried a thicker shield. The device on the shield was that of a roaring bear, while the lance, as befitted a jousting contest, had the normal two-foot shaft of razor-sharp steel removed. It had been blunted.
On a restive black stallion, Gavin entered the other end of the field. He brandished a blunted ash lance purchased from a Neetivian merchant far from home. He bore no emblem upon his great helmet nor did he have any device upon his triangular shield. His well-oiled mail seemed dull compared to Ullrick’s.
They signaled their readiness by lifting their lances. The flag, held by Sir Hunneric’s squire in the middle of the lane, dipped. Hooves thundered. Both lances splintered against opposing shields. On the second encounter, with the clash of steel and a terrific thud, Sir Ullrick rolled upon the ground as his steed trotted away.
A cheer arose from the gentlemen adventurers.
Gavin cantered beside the hunched over Sir Ullrick, whose squire ran onto the lane and yanked off his master’s helmet. Blood dripped from Ullrick’s thick nose, staining his beard. His eyes were glazed.
“Nobly done, sir,” groaned Sir Ullrick. “For my pains I now pray for a request.”
With the great helmet yet on his head, Gavin remained silent and staring.
“Tell us what ails you,” cried Ullrick.
Gavin tore off his helmet and hurled it to the ground. Mock tears fell from his eyes. “I weep for Anor!” he shouted to the startled crowd. “I weep that as we play at war the darkspawn march across the isle in conquest. I’ve met them. Now I know you must stop them.” Gavin turned his stallion and galloped from the field and back to his spot by the bonfire. There he waited as the rumors built anew.
“Darkspawn?”
“Is he mad?”
“What does he mean?”
After a host of pleas from curious knights and their ladies, the King ordered Gavin to appear at the red silk tent. Gavin came with Hugo, who had fetched Swan as bidden. The vast tent was packed with the lords and ladies of Banfrey, with devotees of Hosar, South Anor knights in armor and the richest merchants together with their wives. The feasting tables and benches had been thrust to the sides. Those of lesser rank stood on those tables so they could see. A long red carpet divided the tent in two. The carpet trailed up a wooden dais where the King sat on a big cedar chair. A small man in a white gown sat behind him, while a loud-voiced herald shouted for everyone to fall silent.
A herald introduced Gavin to the assembly. He bowed at the waist to the nervous, black-bearded man on the dais, King Egbert. The middle-aged king seemed troubled and his eyes roved everywhere, as if he knew himself inadequate and watched to see if anyone else noticed.
Gavin spoke well, turning now and again to those around him but mainly facing the King. He first asked forgiveness for his preoccupation. There was a reason, a reason he would now explain. He spoke about how he had come upon the ruffians ready to chop off Cuthred’s hand and how he had risen at Baron Barthek’s feast
on Swan’s behalf.
The crowd studied Swan, noting her youngness and gauging whether she indeed had the purity that Gavin implied. She swayed under their undivided attention, leaning against Hugo and whispering in his ear. The old, one-eyed squire smiled, patting her hand, muttering assurances. The throng grew silent as Gavin spoke about Leng, the descent of darkness at the baron’s feast, how Baron Barthek had entered in the company of darkspawn. Gavin told of his drawing of the silver sword and battling his way into the dungeons, freeing Swan and escaping through the depths of Forador Swamp. Sir Gavin pleaded with the king that scouts be sent at once to Forador Castle to validate the truth of his tale.
At that point, Sir Ullrick the Bear thrust up from his chair near the dais. “Your adventures have driven you mad, sir!”
The crowd buzzed with whispers, and the white-robed man behind the King grinned and nodded to Sir Ullrick.
Young Sir Hunneric lurched to his feet. “Come now, sir. That is no way to speak to the man who unhorsed you. Our Gavin is a gifted warrior, a knight-errant of the purest motives and perhaps the hardiest fighter in all Anor. If he says this strange adventure has happened then it must be so.”
That only increased the whisperings and mutterings, of many in the crowd to turn and give his or her opinion to their neighbor.
The King looked troubled, and he glanced at the small man behind the throne. That one motioned to the herald, who banged a metal staff against the wooden dais.
“The King bids quiet!” shouted the herald.
As the tent again grew silent, as the herald banged his staff yet again, the King made ready to rise. Before he could, Swan stepped up, touching Gavin on the arm and with her eyes bidding him to step back.
She raised her arms so her wide white sleeves fell back, exposing the paleness of her forearms. It seemed in that moment as if everyone stopped breathing. She indeed looked innocent in her long white gown, with a golden cord around her waist. Her short dark hair, her pale yet sturdy features and the scar on her cheek, it lent her a quality that was difficult to describe. Her eyes seemed to shine, and when she spoke, her fervency made it clear that she had been touched in the head or Hosar had touched her.
She spoke about the darkspawn, about Baron Barthek’s mad quest in the dungeons underneath ancient Forador Castle. She told them something about Leng the Sorcerer and an amulet forged by one named Zon Mezzamalech eons ago. She told of his wretched fate and his spirit’s rebirth here in Anor lo these past weeks. Unless they moved now, with speed and ruthless urgency, and slew these fiends, all Anor would fall to Old Father Night and the pantheon of Darkness. Clawman, gaunt, undead and blood-drinker, these hideous fates awaited each of them. None would be immune from being born into darkness, from becoming a horrible creature of the night.
“We must band together as crusaders,” she said, her voice high-pitched and urgent. “If we wait we are finished. O my lords and ladies of Banfrey, how will you meet this challenge? Will you scoff in unbelief and doubt and do Old Father Night’s bidding for him, or will you rise up and fight for your very lives?”
Silence greeted her words, shock, disbelief, worry, and doubt.
“You must pick up the sword and lance and the crusader’s banner!” cried Swan.
“How do you know these things to be true?” asked the small man on the chair behind the King, the High Priest of Hosar. He asked in a tone that implied she couldn’t know.
“I have seen with mine own eyes,” said Swan, “and I have been given visions.”
Those in the tent seemed to gasp in unison.
“Blasphemy!” cried a priest.
“No!” said Swan. “I speak the truth, but do you have the courage to listen to it?”
Eyes went to the throne. The small man in the white gown, the High Priest, leaned near the King, whispering.
Hugo slipped beside Gavin and muttered, “If they burn her as a heretic we’ll surely burn too because we’re foreigners.”
Gavin moved as if stung. He shouted, “I have further proof of the darkspawn!” From his pouch, he drew the golden medallion once worn by the clawman. “This is a coin from ancient times, taken off one of the creature of Darkness that I slew. On the coin’s back is the likeness of the dreaded Moon Lady, the evil goddess of Night and Seduction. On the coin’s front is the likeness of a sorcerer from Hyperborea, an ancient realm of legend. I say to you that this coin was dug up from the grave of that hideous and olden Hyperborean sorcerer, Zon Mezzamalech.”
The King’s eyes grew wide as he looked at the shiny coin.
Gavin clanked to him, handing him the double weight gold piece.
With trembling fingers, the King plucked the medallion from Gavin’s gasp, inspecting it. “It has the symbol of the moon,” said the monarch.
“Evil!” cried a priest. “Sire, you must not touch it.”
The King hesitated a moment, then he thrust the coin at Gavin, who held it up for all to see.
“Sire!” said Swan, nearly overcome with emotion. “Unless you put down these creatures of Darkness all Anor will perish in bloodshed and rapine. O my lord King, I beg you not to let this happen.” She ran weeping to him, throwing herself upon the dais and clutching the King’s foot, kissing it.
“I will not let this evil happen,” said King Egbert, his eyes also shining.
With tears running down her face, Swan looked up at him. “Let me lead a crusading of nobles and hard fighting men into the heart of this wickedness, your Highness.”
“You?” asked the King. “You are a maid.”
“I have been given these visions, my lord King.”
“Yes!” said the King. “Yes, you shall crush the darkspawn for us.”
“Your Majesty,” said the High Priest behind him. “We must test these foreigners before we give them such authority.”
“Test?” asked the King, a hint of worry in his eyes.
“This will be the test,” shouted Gavin. “When the darkspawn swarm Banfrey because we have been slow in going onto the attack, then we will know that the maid was right. Is that the sort of test you desire?”
Knights roared before the High Priest could reply.
Grinning at such wild acclaim and emotion, the King clapped his hands, nodding, shouting and jumping to his feet: “We will attack!” Then he lifted Swan to her feet. “And this pure maid will lead them.”
***
That afternoon scouts rode for Forador Swamp and the tournament was postponed. At the High Priest’s request, the Matron Innocence called for Swan’s further testing, and to the Shrine of Tulun Swan went, guarded by men-at-arms and surrounded by amazed and wondering crowds. Knowledge of her speech had spread throughout the city. In the shrine, in a small room where everyone sat on stools, several old Wisdoms tested Swan on her orthodoxy, questioning her sharply.
Meanwhile, the High Priest summoned Gavin to a meeting. It was in a plain tent behind the king’s large red one. The small High Priest sat at a table, parchments and inkpots spread before him. He wore a tall hat and white robes, and except for his hard, weasel-like eyes, he seemed a simple, unassuming man.
Gavin knew that was a disguise. Here was the guiding hand or the hidden hand of the kingdom.
“Please sit, sir,” said the High Priest.
Gavin did in a wooden chair. He noted that heavily armed men-at-arms stood outside, and that the sounds of the tournament couldn’t be heard here.
“I congratulate you, sir, on your performance before the King.”
Gavin remained silent.
“Yet I wonder if you truly believe that I will let you lead the King’s host into battle?”
“Not me, your lordship, but the young maid.”
The High Priest grinned tightly. “A useful figurehead, I suppose. But even from your account, it’s clear that you did the fighting and the planning. No, the King’s hosts aren’t given to adventurers with fancy tales, of that I assure you.”
“If you won’t let me lead the host, then I beg your
lordship that you let me ride with you.”
The High Priest seemed to measure Gavin, as if by staring he could discern who and what Gavin was. With a sneer, he asked, “Darkspawn have risen among us? Is that correct?”
“Yes, your lordship.”
“And your proof is that maid and your coin?”
From his pouch, Gavin drew the medallion. The High Priest indicated that he drop it onto the table. With a clink, Gavin did so.
The High Priest sat back, tapping his chin, studying the gold coin. He learned forward, using an ink-stained reed to lift the golden chain, drawing the gold piece nearer. “I don’t recognize the script or the writing around the ruler’s head.”
“And you must see plenty of various coinage,” Gavin said.
The High Priest glanced up sharply. “Is that supposed to be witty?”
“A simple observation, milord.”
The High Priest turned the coin, studying the profile of the Moon Lady and the outlined moon. “I shall keep this.”
“As you wish your lordship.”
“You have no objection?”
Gavin shook his head.
“Wouldn’t it have been better to bring us the head of a… What did you call them, those beasts that chased you in the swamp?”
“Clawmen,” Gavin said.
“Why not bring us the head of one?”
“We barely survived the swamp, your lordship. I’m afraid we weren’t thinking so far ahead.”
“At least you didn’t slay a wolf and chop off its head and try and convince us with it.”
“I don’t need fraud, your lordship. The truth is hideous enough.”
“The truth that simpleton told us?”
Gavin’s eyes tightened. “Perhaps in the heart of Banfrey, home to sophistication and cleverness, grimiest evil seems but a fancy.”
The High Priest laughed. “Oh, you’ve a quick tongue, sir, and you sling words like arrows. And even though you know that I need merely snap my fingers and my soldiers will rush in to slay you, you dare bandy words with me. Yes, you are likeable if what one desires is a rogue. But to ask me to believe these visions…” The High Priest shook his head. “No. I simply cannot do it. For you must understand, sir, that I—er, the King drew up the Anno Charta for a reason. No baron or mayor may raise a host without express permission from the King. South Anor is restless, and the Duke of Glendover plays a cagey game against King Egbert. Now it is said that you traveled first through the Duke’s fiefdoms.”
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