Igraine the Brave

by Cornelia Funke

  The two knights were fighting ever more fiercely. But the swords were heavy, very heavy, and soon their strokes were less certain and missed their mark. One or other of the combatants was forced down on his armed knee more and more frequently, and they both found getting up increasingly difficult each time. Their gasping and groaning rang in Igraine’s ears. There was not another sound to be heard in the night. And then, suddenly, Heartless raised his sword for a fearsome stroke. The Sorrowful Knight parried it, forced his opponent back, and drove him backward with a flurry of sword strokes, until Heartless lost his balance, stumbled, and fell. Gasping, he lay on his back, right in the middle of the tilting ground. His sword had fallen from his hand and was too far away for him to reach it — and the Sorrowful Knight put the point of his own sword to his opponent’s breast.

  “We won!” shouted Igraine, so loudly that for a moment everyone turned to her. Osmund made use of that moment. He leaped up, went to the edge of his dais, and spread his fingers. Hardly anyone noticed, but Igraine recognized magic when she saw it, and she knew at once why the Spiky Knight’s sword was sliding back to him over the trampled ground. Without thinking of the promise she had made the Sorrowful Knight, without thinking of what she had promised her parents and Albert, either, she swung herself up on Lancelot’s back, galloped onto the tilting ground, and brought the horse to a standstill right above the enchanted blade. Snorting, he set one front hoof on the great sword.

  “Call your squire off!” roared Osmund. “You’re breaking the rules, Sorrowful Knight!”

  “You’re the one who’s breaking them!” Igraine shouted back. “Since when do swords start moving of their own accord without magic?”

  Osmund did not reply.

  A murmur rose among his soldiers.

  The Sorrowful Knight, however, took the point of his sword away from the Spiky Knight’s breast and straightened up.

  “You are defeated, Rowan Heartless,” he said. “Get up and go away with your greedy master. But first tell me where you are hiding the noble ladies who were entrusted to my care.”

  Heartless rose to his feet with difficulty. His heavy armor, weighed down by all those iron spikes, made him stagger, and when he opened his visor his face was white with rage.

  “You haven’t defeated me!” he shouted at the Sorrowful Knight. “No one defeats me. The little minx there has cast a spell on me; that’s the only reason why you brought her! She’s a magician like the rest of her family.”

  “That’s not true!” cried Igraine indignantly. “You wicked liar! You were going to save yourself by magic. You and your greedy …”

  But she got no further.

  “Seize her!” cried Osmund. “Seize them both and put them in chains.”

  Igraine looked around in alarm. Some of the soldiers were hesitating, but enough of them were ready to obey. They came storming onto the tilting ground from all sides, with lances, spears, and drawn swords. Lancelot pranced on the spot and threw up his head. Igraine looked desperately up at the castle. The tower was dark, the whole place was dark, she couldn’t even see Albert on the battlements.

  “Flee, Igraine!” cried the Sorrowful Knight, fending off the first soldiers trying to seize him.

  “Leave him to me!” roared Heartless, snatching a sword from the hand of one of the men. “Let me pass, he’s mine!”

  “The knight can wait. Bring me the girl!” Osmund called to him. “Bring her to me alive, understand?”

  Heartless swung around, a furious retort on his lips, but Osmund stared at him until he bowed his head.

  Igraine saw him coming toward her. She struck out with her sword at every hand reaching for her, fended off spear points, kicked helmets and breastplates. Lancelot turned in a circle, neighing shrilly, kicked and bit, but however hard Igraine tried to get him close to the Sorrowful Knight she simply couldn’t do it. The stallion was far too agitated, and the milling throng around her was growing denser all the time. She had to watch helplessly as the Sorrowful Knight was thrown to the ground, and the next moment Heartless was standing in front of her.

  “Well, little minx!” he cried. “And how do you like the life of chivalry? Not quite the same thing as playing on the battlements in a shiny suit of armor, is it?”

  With a single blow he struck Igraine’s short sword from her hand, pulled her out of her saddle, and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of beans. She tried to bite him — his fingers, his nose, his ears, anywhere — but he was protected by his chain mail and his armor. Laughing, the Spiky Knight carried her to Osmund’s dais and threw her at his master’s feet. Igraine tried to scramble up, but two of Osmund’s servants forced her back onto her knees.

  “Excellent!” cried Osmund, looking down at her with a mocking smile. “And now your silly brother will bring us those books in person. He won’t be able to let the drawbridge down fast enough, if that means getting his captured little sister back. And when your foolish parents are home from their journey,” added Osmund, pulling at his beard with satisfaction, “then they won’t find a castle standing here anymore. As for their children, well, I have yet to decide what I’m going to turn you two into.”

  “Here’s the other prisoner, sir!”

  Igraine spun around.

  Three soldiers were forcing the Sorrowful Knight down on his knees in front of Osmund’s dais. They had torn the helmet off his head.

  “Osmund, you have no honor,” said the knight wearily. “You have broken your word. Nothing could be more disgraceful.”

  “Oh, yes, it could. You brought an enchantress with you as your squire,” replied Osmund scornfully. “That’s truly disgraceful. You’re the knight without honor.”

  “I’m not an enchantress, you dirty liar!” shouted Igraine, trying to bite Osmund on the knee, but he stepped back just in time.

  “I think I’ll turn you into a gnat,” he said. “Or a yapping puppy. And your magician of a brother will make an excellent donkey.” Raising his hand, he signaled to his soldiers. “Take these two to Darkrock and throw them into the Dungeon of Despair. Her brother will have to bring me the books in person if he wants his sister back. I’m sick and tired of sleeping in a stuffy tent outside this crumbling castle.”

  But just as the soldiers were hauling the two prisoners to their feet, a bright flash of lightning shot across the sky.

  It came from Pimpernel, shot down from the castle battlements, ran zigzag over the tilting ground, and struck Osmund’s armchair. Colored sparks flew through the air, and all of a sudden, instead of the chair, Albert stood there life-size on the wooden dais. Blue fire dripped from his magic coat, the little bells on its hem were ringing, and three mice were sitting in his dark hair.

  27

  Albert’s big entrance struck everyone silent. Osmund was so scared that he would have dropped into his armchair, except that it wasn’t there anymore.

  “Osmund, Osmund,” said Albert. “You are indeed the shiftiest and most dishonorable creature going about on two legs. Oh, and greetings from my parents. They’re just back from their journey, and they’d like your fire raisers and book robbers to know they’ll spend the rest of their miserable lives as cockroaches, scurrying around outside our castle, unless they unchain my sister and the noble knight, right this minute.”

  Osmund was not the only one who turned to stare uneasily at the castle upon hearing Albert’s words. White fire was spraying down from the gargoyles’ mouths into the moat, and up on the battlements stood two figures whom none of the besiegers had ever seen before.

  A few of the soldiers, their fingers trembling, began undoing the bonds that held Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight captive, but their lord and master obviously hadn’t yet taken in the gravity of the situation.

  “Stop that!” thundered Osmund, in such a loud voice that the soldiers flinched back in alarm. “What are you waiting for? Grab that jug-eared beanpole!”

  Albert spread his arms wide and smiled, the way he did when he’d left a big fat spid
er dangling over Igraine’s bed. Fire danced along his arms, over the backs of his hands, and down his fingers. Even his hair was sprinkled with tiny flames. “You’re in trouble, Osmund,” he said. “Real trouble, and if you don’t know what that means you’re about to find out.”

  Igraine freed herself from her half-loosened bonds and helped the Sorrowful Knight to undo his. No one was taking any notice of them. They were all staring at Albert.

  “Seize him, by Death and the Cauldron!” shouted Osmund.

  But his soldiers didn’t budge.

  Thunder rolled behind them, making their hair stand on end under their helmets, and another flash of lightning, followed by a third, flickered across the black sky. Two shining white globes struck the ground at Osmund’s feet, smoking hot and scattering sparks. The lightning was so bright that everyone, even Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight, had to close their eyes for a moment. When they could see again, Sir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande were standing beside Albert. Igraine’s father was carrying Sisyphus, and two Books of Magic were sitting on her mother’s shoulders.

  Osmund stared at those books so greedily that they put out their tongues at him.

  “Allow us to introduce ourselves, Osmund,” said Sir Lamorak politely. “I am Lamorak, also known as Lamorak the Wily or Lamorak the Witty, and this is my extremely clever and, as you can see, extremely beautiful wife, Melisande.”

  “We,” said Melisande, taking a step toward Osmund, “are the parents of this jug-eared young man and the girl in silver armor there. And as I am sure you can imagine, we are not particularly happy about your treatment of our children, let alone your dishonorable behavior toward the noble knight who is facing you now. Thank you very much,” she added, giving the Sorrowful Knight her most beautiful smile, “thank you very much indeed for your truly chivalrous aid.”

  The knight bowed, looking embarrassed.

  As for Sir Lamorak, he turned to Osmund again.

  “The fact is,” he said, “we are rather annoyed, as you will soon find out for yourself. Books, page 232, please. Da capo, fortissimo!”

  The two books began to hum. It sounded like the angry buzzing of a couple of hornets. Igraine had never heard them sing such notes before.

  Tiny flames flickered up Osmund’s dais, surrounding him with a wreath of fire and then creeping down from the platform like a burning fuse on their way over to Rowan Heartless. The Whispering Woods began to rustle so loudly that the night was filled with an eerie roar, and the water snakes slithered out of the moat and wound their way, hissing, across the tilting ground and toward the tents.

  Osmund’s soldiers groaned in terror. They retreated from the flames, but now here came the snakes. In panic, they stumbled into one another, trod on each other’s feet, pushed and shoved just to get away — but get away where?

  The men ran off in all directions, anywhere but toward the place where the snakes were coiling around the tents with their tongues darting in and out. Cries of fear drowned out the rustling of the forest, and soon Osmund was alone on his dais. Only Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight were left on the now-deserted tilting ground — and a few steps away from them, grim-faced and with his sword drawn, stood Rowan Heartless.

  The books were still humming, a deep and angry note, and now it sounded like bumblebees buzzing in two-part harmony.

  The Fair Melisande pushed her dark hair back from her forehead and placed her fingertips together. Then she said softly:

  Wicked evil, black as night,

  Now be empty, airy, light!

  May the earth of you be free,

  Let it not infested be

  By such cruelty and greed.

  Be gone, away from here, make speed!

  Treacherous miscreants, be off!

  Melisande has had enough!

  Light as a couple of balloons, Osmund and his castellan champion floated up into the air. However much they kicked and struggled, flailed their arms about, cursed and swore, they couldn’t get back to earth. They hung in the air as if invisible hands were holding them there.

  Igraine couldn’t resist it. She went over to Osmund and gave him a push that sent him spinning around on his own axis like a top.

  “Now, now, my dear,” said Sir Lamorak, hugging her tight. “We mustn’t take advantage of our prisoners’ unfortunate situation. That’s not chivalrous, is it?”

  “You’re right,” said Igraine, burying her face in his robe. It still smelled very slightly of pig bristles and the stable.

  “That’s what bothered me most about being a pig,” said Melisande, putting her arm around Albert’s shoulders, “not being able to give my children a hug.”

  “You miserable magicians!” Rowan Heartless almost turned a somersault as he drew his dagger from his belt and sliced the air with it.

  Shaking their heads, Igraine’s parents looked at each other. “What are we going to do with them, dear heart?” asked Sir Lamorak.

  “Throw them in the castle moat,” Albert suggested. “Sisyphus will soon fish them out again, won’t you, Sisyphus?”

  The cat expectantly licked his whiskers.

  “No way!” said Igraine, picking him up. “They’d only give him indigestion. And they’d certainly bite my fingers when I feed the snakes. No, you’ll all have to think of a better idea.”

  At this, Osmund and Heartless were perfectly still. Obviously they were worried by their conquerors’ suggestions. Only the Sorrowful Knight had said nothing so far. He stood there holding his injured shoulder and looked up without a word at his enemies dangling in the air.

  “I think you ought to decide what happens to them,” said Igraine, taking his hand. “You’ve had more trouble with them than anyone.”

  But the Sorrowful Knight shook his head. “I don’t want revenge,” he said. “I just want an answer. Where are the three ladies? Did you kill them, Heartless, or are you keeping them prisoner in some dark place?”

  They all looked up at Rowan Heartless.

  But he only smiled mockingly. “You’ll never find out, sighing knight!” he said. “However long you look, you’ll never find them.”

  At this point Albert went over to him, looked up, and smiled his broadest, most typical Albert smile.

  “That’s not very friendly of you,” he said. “But then, you never were very friendly. Now that I come to think of it, you were always an extraordinarily unpleasant person. Not much nicer than your bungling magician of a master. But we have plenty of time. We’ll leave Sisyphus here to watch you while we go back to Pimpernel Castle for some supper. If you happen to remember the answer to this noble knight’s question, just send us the cat. However, if you have visitors while we’re gone, for instance all the peasants whose pigs and chickens you stole or the men you forced to play soldiers for you, well …” Albert shrugged his shoulders. “Well, then it could get rather uncomfortable for you. Not everyone’s as peace-loving as we and this noble knight are. But perhaps you’ll still be alive when we come back, who knows? We’ll just have to see. Have fun, all alone in the dark.”

  Albert turned and led Igraine away with him. “Oh, my goodness, speaking of fun …!” he said, turning back again. “I do believe a few of your men are already on their way back. But I’m sure they love you so much for your kindness to them that —”

  “Stop!” Osmund’s voice was considerably shriller than usual. “Go on, tell him!” he snapped at his castellan, giving him a kick that sent his spiky armor rattling. “Give that miserable sighing drip his answer, will you?”

  “No, darkness take it! I’ll do no such thing,” snarled Rowan Heartless, jabbing his spiky armor into his master’s side. “I like listening to his eternal sighing far too much. Why don’t you do something? What’s the idea, leaving us hovering here, making us look like idiots to everyone? I thought you were such a great magician!”

  Osmund made no reply to this.

  “At the moment he’s not a magician at all,” Sir Lamorak replied for him. “I took care of that. And
as to whether he was ever a great one — well, opinions may differ on that point.”

  Rowan Heartless cast his helpless master a scornful glance. “Be that as it may,” he sneered, “even if your men carve us into slices, I won’t say where those ladies are.”

  “Then I will!” shouted Osmund. He was paddling so frantically in the air that his shoes fell off. “They’re in the tent! His tent!”

  Igraine looked at him disbelievingly.

  “Liar!” she said. “I’ve been in his tent myself. There aren’t any ladies there. I’d have noticed.”

  Heartless stared down at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “What are you talking about, minx?” he growled. “You’ve never been in my tent.”

  “Of course she has,” said Albert, speaking up instead of Igraine. “She broke the spell on your lance. Why do you suppose it didn’t help you to win your fight this time?”

  For the first time, a little color rose to Rowan Heartless’s pale cheeks. “You just wait, minx!” he said. “When I get back on the ground again—”

  “Which I guess isn’t going to be for quite a while yet,” Igraine coolly interrupted him.

  Her father gently picked up a mouse that had jumped off Albert’s head onto his own, and put it on his shoulder. “Well, well, Osmund,” he said with a deep sigh. “So now you’re trying to lie to us. How shabby of you. I think we really ought to go in for supper, as Albert suggested.”

  With the mouse on his shoulder, he went to the edge of Osmund’s dais. “Come along, my dear,” he said, giving Igraine his hand. “You must be ravenously hungry after all your heroic deeds.”

  “I wasn’t lying!” bellowed Osmund. “The three ladies are in his tent. I turned them into birds. That’s what he wanted.”

  Igraine stood still, thunderstruck.

  “Birds?” she asked.

  “Yes, birds, I said so!” Osmund was waving his arms about so vigorously that he suddenly found himself hanging in the air upside down.

  But Igraine turned to the Sorrowful Knight. “He’s not lying after all,” she said. “I saw those birds. But there were four of them.”