Feast of the Elfs: The Green Knight's Squire Book Two (Moth & Cobweb 2)

by John C. Wright

  The head saw Gil staring, and the left hand brushed at the hairs of his head so that his bangs were flung down over the face, so that Gil could no longer see the eyes clearly, but only caught a glimpse of yellow, like the eyes of a tiger seen in the green grass.

  Then the huge corpse picked up the axe in his left hand, and held it up in a salute to Gil.

  “Well struck, little cygnet!” Roared the huge severed head. Gil wondered how its voice could be so loud when it was no longer connected to windpipe or lungs. Then he wondered how it could be alive at all. But this was no illusion. None of the colored shadows that held the glamour of the elfs dared get near him. “You agreed to receive the return blow when and where I should call for it, did you not? Now is your chance to argue, cajole, cavil, and call your lawyers to go over the fine print.”

  “I am ready now,” said Gil. To his own surprise, that fear which had just a moment ago been washing through him was gone.

  The huge man just laughed. “Courage born of rushing blood and the thrill of the moment! We shall see how long that lasts! A month? A week? An hour?”

  He turned away, shook the blood from the axe with a heavy shrug of his huge hand, and wiped the axe head rather carelessly on his breaches and leggings, and slung the axe from a loop in his saddle bow. The green steed did not shy, albeit its nostrils twitched. Apparently the monster horse was quite used to the smell of blood. The Green Knight tied his head by the hair to the other side of the saddle bow, where the long beard hung past the horse’s knee. Then the headless body mounted and took up the reins. He turned his steed in a half circle, so that the side where his head was hanging faced toward Gil.

  “I will grant to you the grace of a year’s time minus one day, and will not call you to me to collect my debt for twelve month’s time counted from yestereve. Meet me on the last day of Advent at the Green Chapel.”

  As before, many of the elfin knights flinched with fear at the mention of this name, and many a lady shrieked. Nimue swooned in her seat.

  Gil called out, “You have not said how to find you!”

  “It is the land beyond the War Poles, beyond the Great Lakes. Set out before the End of Ordinary Time.”

  Gil said, “End of Ordinary Time?”

  Gil did not know what it meant, but it sounded ominous and terrible.

  The severed head rolled its eyes and sighed and said, “Well, if greater speed is given you, you may delay, but do not delay past the Feast of Ambrose.”

  Gil said, “Which way?”

  “Any way. Set out. If you seek me, you will be led. If you sit or tarry or give up seeking, you are foresworn and baseborn!”

  The Green Knight said no farewell to the elf lords and asked no leave of them, but simply looked on them all and laughed, and dug his heels into the sides of his steed.

  The huge green steed with a noise like thunder departed through the broken doors, and down long, dark, high corridor, and out into the snowy night.

  Chapter Nine: Fate of the Fair Bright Sword Foretold

  1. The Queen’s Champion

  In something of a daze, Gil returned unsteadily to his stool and sat. Immediately there came a clamor of calls and applause.

  Gil looked up, wondering what the commotion was about. He saw squadrons of little light flickering around a great roast pig on a grate. The skin of the pig was bright gold, and its tusks shined with dazzling metallic reflections. The little lights were swelling up, and taking on the forms of butlers and serving maids. The proud cook with his giant cleaver sliced meat onto plates and trenchers which the servants took up and flew away with. Gil wondered how one beast, even one as big as a hippopotamus, could feed so great a multitude, especially with servings so lavish.

  But he had calculated without taking elfish magic into account. He saw that the plates were handed to the tiny butlers when small, but that when the butlers swelled up to full size, the plates and portions and everything they held grew with them as they grew. Two of the butlers became tall as titans for a moment when Balor of the Evil Eye was served, and so the slice of pork cut from the boar given to him, by the time it rested before him, was larger than the boar from which it came.

  But that was not what the calls and clamor was about. The feasters were not applauding the pork.

  They were calling for the Swan Knight.

  Phadrig Og appeared at Gil’s elbow so suddenly that Gil could not tell if the tall, pale seneschal had appeared out of nowhere by magic, or had walked up so softly and swiftly that it was like magic. Phadrig Og threw back his head and spoke loudly, his voice like a trumpet. “The King of Elfs and Shadows, Alberec of the Midsummer, commands to you a better seat; to which Erlkoenig the Emperor, who is first among these mighty peers, and Brian, and Ethne give their consent and add their voices.”

  Gil realized that his eyes were drooping of their own accord. Gil wondered what hour it was in the outside world. It had been after dark when he entered the mountain, and he had enjoyed no comfort and little rest in the days before. No doubt it was past midnight now.

  Thus it was with a weary note in his voice that Gil spoke as he stood. “Ruff must come with me.”

  Phadrig Og was developing a nervous twitch in one eye. “But of course! You would not be the Swan Knight if you did not make things difficult. Sir Knight, or Master Squire, or however you are called, there is no seat prepared for anyone other than you. And who is Roof?”

  Ruff stood up. Gil was disoriented to see the dog in his musketeer outfit standing on his hind legs, but the green boots he wore somehow allowed the animal to stand in a human posture, and he was taller than his real dog legs would account for. “Me! Oh, me!”

  Phadrig Og looked down his nose with a practiced disdain. He said to Ruff, “I thought your name was Sgeolan son of Iollan.”

  Gil said sleepily to Ruff, “You never told me your real name before.”

  Ruff said urgently, “At dinner, you mean. I did not tell you my name before at dinner.” Ruff looked back and forth from Sheila McGuire to Phadrig Og nervously.

  Gil wondered who in his right mind would ever hire Ruff the Dog as a spy. He was most transparent fibber of all time.

  “You did not tell me your real name before at dinner,” said Gil, nodding.

  If Sheila McGuire or Phadrig Og harbored any suspicion because of Ruff’s tone of voice, the magic in Gil’s voice, which allowed others to hear the truthfulness when he spoke the truth, surely soothed those suspicions away, because Gil saw no wary look in either face.

  Ruff explained to Phadrig Og, “I did not tell the Swan Knight my name because hearing one of you sasanach mangle the pronunciation is rough on my ear. So, I said to the Swan Knight, ‘You can just call me Ruff!’ That is what I said. It was a name picked totally at random. Rhymes with Gruff. I don’t know him.”

  Phadrig Og said to Gil, “I can see the Hound of Glen More will serve you both as fetch and familiar, but also as jester. Nonetheless, there is nary a seat for him.”

  Ruff barked excitedly, “Oh! Oh! I’ll sit under the table!”

  Phadrig Og said, “What?”

  Ruff calmed down and spoke in a dignified voice, “I do not need a chair. I will sit and eat whatever scraps my master drops.” And, without waiting for any answer, Ruff put his human-shaped green glove under Gil’s armpit and urged him to his feet.

  Gil stood. Ruff now shucked off the musketeer style coat he wore, and kicked off his thigh-high boots with one swift motion of his legs. He plucked off his gloves with his teeth and put them carefully on the table. Ruff said, “Hey, hey! Lachusa Strega, can you look after my stuff?”

  The young bathing beauty with the head of an owl nodded her owl head.

  Ruff said, “Thanks!”

  The owl spoke in a sweet but husky voice, “Keep the feather in your cap, or else no one will understand your speech.”

  The music struck up a triumphant and solemn song, and Gil was too weary to resist the pull. He followed Phadrig Og and the waiters carrying the p
ork dish, and Ruff followed after, prancing and dancing, looking like a dog in a floppy hat. The princes and ladies cheered and the knights and men-at-arms called out.

  They marched grandly by the modestly dressed high servants, seneschals and ministers of state, scribes and jurists, and then past the richly-dressed lesser knights, and then the greater.

  When he marched past the warlords of the Fomorians, one-legged Morc and one-armed Corb (both of whom glared at him with the one eye in the middle of a frowning forehead) Gil realized something out of the ordinary was happening here. Then they went past the blue-skinned Nemedians adorned in pearls, past the six-fingered Nephilim dressed in fur, and then past sad-eyed human men in dark robes with pointed hats. Gil thought he would be seated here, with the humans, but then they walked past them as well.

  He was escorted past the squat and burly Nibelungs and their gem-laden cat-eyed wives. He was escorted past the Efts, men with eyes of dragons, whose forked tongue crawled with tongues of fire.

  Gil next thought he would be seated with Aglovale and his other brothers, who sat with the dignitaries and nobility of the elfs. But no, Phadrig Og marched past them solemnly, the wand in his hand tapping the ground as he went.

  Gil now thought this whole thing was one more joke of the elfs meant to humiliate him.

  But his expectation was wrong. Phadrig led him to where Bran of Ys was seated. Bran the giant was not using a chair, but was crossed legged on the ground. He arose, and bowed to Gil. It was a startling sight indeed to see that huge head like a full moon falling down and going back up as the vast figure made his bow.

  Bran the Blessed was the size of a church steeple, sixty feet high. Bran, peering down, said, “It is no shame to yield my seat to one whose heart is larger than mine. Sit here, Swan Knight.” Bran reached across the chamber (and his arm was as long as a suspension bridge, and stronger) and picked up a wooden chair with a high, carved back. As Bran drew the chair across the table top, one of the legs bumped and upset the bowl of salt.

  Bran held the chair for Gil. The hand of the colossus was two yards from fingertip to wrist, so it was as tall as the chair it held. Gil sat down gingerly, wondering.

  Bran now seemed to shrink to half size, so that he was only as tall as a house rather than tall as a tower. He said, “Excuse my clumsiness…” And he moved his hand (now only a yard long) across the little pool of spilled salt. Gil saw the colored shadows of elfin glamour flicker in his eye when Bran did this.

  The illusion showed Bran sweeping the salt to into his palm and throwing it over his shoulder. The reality, which only Gil saw, was that Bran drew a curved line in the salt. It looked like a lower case cursive letter ‘l’ lying on its side, or perhaps like the outline of a fish.

  Bran smiled cryptically and stepped away.

  Gil was now served. The pork dish was laid before him, and other butlers and waiters and waitresses, both large and small, set out a goblet, a knife, and all the other finery before him so quickly that it was like a juggler’s act. He stared in amazement, and then, only then, looked up and saw where he was sitting.

  Next to him, in a seat only slightly higher than his own, was Alberec. Gil was seated at the King’s right hand, the place reserved for the king’s own champion. Gil remembered Billy Blin had told him the King’s Champion was gone today, and that the Ethne’s champion, Bran the Blessed, had been given the seat of honor instead.

  Ruff had dropped his hat under Gil’s chair and took a spot on the floor between Gil’s feet. His head rested on Gil’s knee.

  Alberec raised his glass, and, of course, everyone else did also. Gil started to pick up his goblet, but Ruff coughed a little cough. Gil looked down. Ruff shook his head a tiny shake, and whispered, “Ixnay on the inkdray.”

  Alberec said, “Here is the only one who places the honor of the sovereign elfs above even his own life. My peers, lords, ladies, and gentlemen, ye wise and ye humble who serve: give your hail and your blessing to the Swan Knight. Weal and long life to him!”

  “WEAL AND LONG LIFE TO HIM!” roared the voices in the chamber.

  Gil listened in shock as the whole chamber of proud and terrible fair folk were toasting him. It should have gladdened his heart; instead he felt obscurely ashamed, for he knew they were toasting the death he had brought upon himself by challenging the Green Man.

  Alberec said, “Now hear my decree: This squire will be called at the end of Advent next Wintertide, on this day less one, to appear at a place whose name I will not spoil this feast by naming aloud. Now, if this lad walks forth and is detained, or ensorcelled, or delayed, or maimed or slain in any day of eighteenscore days and four from now until then, rumor will stain and blacken the name of these four crowned heads, and thus stain all our names from highest to least! What squire can walk a pilgrimage so dire?”

  Alberec then turned toward Gil. “Young man! It is our royal will that you be trained and taught in all the arts and mysteries of knighthood, sword and lance, the handling of horse, the just laws of courtliness and tourney, and all good practices of war, as much as may be learned in so short a space of time. What say you?”

  Now joy did enter Gil’s heart. “Sire, such would be my fondest wish.” Gil’s tone escaped him and leaped up to a high warble as he said this, and his whole face was afire with a silly smile.

  And some of the elfs there laughed, for even wicked creatures can be delighted when they hear the voice of young delight.

  2. The King’s Champion

  There came a flourish of trumpets. Alberec betrayed no change of expression, but the dark haired beauty seated beyond him uttered a gasp halfway between fear and annoyance.

  Her gown was samite woven with silver thread, richly figured with images of clamshell and eel, salmon and shad, and she wore a corselet of close fitted scales. Her crown was pearls and abalone. This was Nimue of the Lake.

  “What new interruption mars our feast? Green Knights and Swan Knights and knights without limit or let!” she cooed in exasperation. Even when vexed, her voice was contralto music. “Will this evening never cease?”

  Now Erlkoenig spoke, “Have you no ears, Nimue? That is the flourish of Hautdesert. The trumpets blow for Sir Bertolac.”

  Ruff said to Gil, “Hey! Hey! Who is blowing the trumpet? The guards who stopped you were carried off on stretchers.”

  Into the chamber through the shattered doors now strode a tall and clean shaven man wearing a coat of mail whose every link and plate was gold, so that sparks and darts of yellow fire seemed to leap from him in every direction as elf light and firelight danced across his form.

  Over his shoulders as his mantle was thrown a fulvous lion skin, and with the upper jaw and skull of the lion as his helmet, and a golden mane as his plume. His chain of office was shining amber, and his belts at shoulder and waist were clasped with buckles of chrysoberyl and citrine. His hair, which was cropped short, was startlingly blonde. Even his eyes were yellow. His surcoat displayed the sign of a golden lion rearing. He had no shield in his hand, and his scabbard was empty.

  At this side, trotting along, was a tall white collie that seemed more wolf than dog. His flanks and tail were red. From a strap around the dog’s neck, in the place a St. Bernard would have carried a cask of ale, hung a hunting horn carved from an elephant’s tusk.

  Knight and hound came forward, walked past the central fire pit, and stood before the highest table where Alberec and Erlkoenig were seated. The golden man sank down to one knee, and the hound crouched down and lowered his shaggy head.

  Alberec said, “Arise, Sir Bertolac of Hautdesert! We had not expected to see your living form with waking eye for many a month.”

  And when the golden man did not arise, a dark look came into Alberec’s eye.

  Erlkoenig made a small nod his antlered head. From behind his mask of ice his cold voice came, “To your feet, sir! Address your liege with all due prompt obedience.”

  Sir Bertolac stood, saluting first Erlkoenig, then Alberec, then Brian
, then Ethne and then the other royalty and nobility in order. He then said, “My lord Alberec, by mere happenstance am I returned from my voyage to the abyss to confront the Leviathan. He bade me tell Your Majesty that great Leviathan, king of all the children of pride, hath refused all offers of battle.” Bertolac smiled a wry smile. “And I believe it is for this reason now I stand alive before you this night.”

  Alberec said, “Refused? What of the calamities and quakes that shattered towers in Atlantis and drowned villages along the golden coasts of Troynovant?”

  “Leviathan spake a strange tale of a ship made of iron, cold iron, although made of elfin arts and shapen like a manta-ray. This ship passed by secret ways close by him as he slept; not upon, but far beneath the waves. This trespass caused him to stir in his dark slumber, casting up waves in the sea and shaking the world’s foundation. He warns the world not to disturb him more. So he bade me say: so I have said.”

  But Erlkoenig said, “Surely he said more, or else you would not have spoken thus, Sir Bertolac.”

  Sir Bertolac inclined his head, “Your Imperial Majesty is far sighted. Leviathan leaves it to us to abate this nuisance to him, lest worse befall.”

  Little king Brian spoke up, “My Emperor, this matter falls in my domain. Let the Autumn People see to it, I pray. And can we not return to lighter matters? The ladies will be vexed if we let the meats grow cold, or diminish the sherbets, sorbets and afterdinner wines, or delay the onset of the dances by one bar of music. Let the champion of Alberec takes a seat.”

  Erlkoenig made a small, impatient gesture with one black finger, which apparently was a sign of agreement, because Bertolac saluted the Emperor.

  Bertolac turned toward Gil. “Who is sitting in my seat?”

  Gil started to get up, but Ruff from beneath the table coughed and caught his eye and shook his head. Gil uneasily seated himself again.

  Alberec said, “This one is called the Swan Knight.”