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

by John C. Wright

“For I am the Scoundrel of my story.”

  8. The Reward

  The dog-faced giant said, “My third message is this: You have found favor in the sight of the Queen of Heaven, so, as a reward, I am come to impose greater burdens on you and to require of you a greater feat than you have done erenow.”

  Ruff said, “Hold it! Hold it! How is that a reward?”

  But Gil said, “What Our Lady asks of me, I shall perform.”

  “Will you? There are three duties: first, to eat no meat nor drink no spirits after Shrovetide until Holy Saturday; second, to eat no meat nor drink no spirits between the Feast of Philip and the Nativity of Our Lord.”

  Gil made a mental note to himself to ask his mother when those dates were. Gil said, “And the third duty?”

  “A day will come when one who stands on a bridge you seek to pass will defy you to combat. Answer him with courtesy, meekly, and do not fight. If he strikes you, do not defend yoursel. Do not return the blow, but flee.”

  “Wait– what?”

  The dog-headed giant bristled, and his lips curled back from white, sharp teeth. “The feat is beyond your strength. Shall I tell Our Lady that you refuse her wish? Seven swords of grief have pierced her heart, thou disobedient child. Add you one more?”

  Gil bowed low, trying to hide the expression on his face, for his teeth were gritted. “Tell Our Lady that I will obey. I will not fight anyone whom I find blocking my way on a bridge.”

  And he closed his eyes, sighing, for it caused him a great heaviness in his soul to say such a thing.

  Something cold touched the back of his neck, and there was a noise like a fine chain rattling, and something swung and touched his collarbone. “I grant you this medallion, which I bless, that you may finally find your way after being so lost, as did I. Go your way in safety.”

  When Gil opened his eyes, the saint was gone, and Ceingalad was contentedly munching on a carrot left behind on the grass.

  Gil straightened. On a fine chain around his neck hung a Saint Christopher medal.

  Chapter Twelve: The Stone of the Polar Peak

  1. First Squire

  Months passed. Gil began to notice that the other non-elfin squires, the Owl-lad, and the Fomorian, and so on, although they had been in training for longer than he (some of them since childhood), learned new maneuvers and tricks at a glacially slow pace and had to practice a sword move or a lance exercise over and over again to get it right. It was as if their nerves and muscles had a great innate resistance to what they were being asked to do, but his had little or none. The two slender elfs, however, only had to be shown something once to pick it up. From spring until summer, Gil found he could keep pace with them only with difficulty.

  In their mock battles with each other in April and May, and in archery and fencing that occupied July and August, Gil was the last and least of the squires.

  But as the weeks passed, when the days were hot and long, something changed in him and grew stronger. He noticed the change only bit by bit; the first time his shield was hung not in the last place, but only second to last, and he was allowed to order the blond Vanir boy to polish his boots for once. The second time when his blunt practice lance struck in the center of the shield of the ferocious Fir Bolg lad, casting him backward out of his saddle.

  And then Gil was winning the swordsmanship duels once out of every four or five times; then it was once every other time; and then he could beat one of the elf squires, the shorter and less mercurial of the two, four times out of five.

  Only the remaining elf squire, whose name was Llyr of Llell, was slightly taller, slightly older, and much slier. He kept his place as first among them, and his shield was displayed at morning parade at the top of a pikestaff, one rung above Gil’s.

  Then, a day came when Gil was pounding laundry by the waterside, and he saw a fish leaping in the stream. Hungry, and acting more by instinct than thought, Gil leaped into the stream, bellowed like a bear, and slapped the fish up onto the bank. Here, just by happenstance, Llyr was walking, and the fish struck him in the face.

  The elf lad said, “That insult will have to be paid for, Four-Months-to-Live.”

  Gil said, “Have you changed my nickname without asking? Go find one of the knights to chastise me. You lack the spirit to beat me; I see doubt in your eye.”

  “Hand me your practice sword,” ordered the elf, snapping his fingers imperiously. “And I shall beat you across your back with it, ten good strokes.”

  The squires were ordered to carry their wasters with them at all times, as real swords would be carried, and to have them by their pallets when they slept. Anyone found at any time without his wooden blade at hand was punished by spending that night atop a greased pole in the center of the practice yard. Gil always had two swords weighing down his hip, one of metal and one of wood, although Dyrnwen he now kept covered in the mist so that the other squires would not see it.

  “Quickly now!” said the elf. “Give me your sword!”

  Gil drew his waster. The wooden sword was not sharp, but it was thicker than his thumb and could break bones. Only the miraculous medical magic of the elfs had so far saved more than one a squire from dying in training.

  With the waster in hand, standing in the middle of the stream, Gil said, “Here it is. Come and take it.”

  The elf drew his own waster. “You defy me?”

  Gil pointed the wooden blade at the elf’s narrow eyes. “Today is different. I will beat you, and every day hereafter. You can hear the truth in the sound of my voice. You know it is true.”

  Rage or fear was in the laughter of the elf as he charged, splashing, into the water, wooden sword high.

  Perhaps something in Gil’s voice did unnerve him, or perhaps he did indeed somehow sense Gil’s growing strength and confidence. Perhaps. Or it could be that fighting thigh-deep in a cold and rushing stream hindered the quicksilver grace of the elf squire’s footwork and allowed Gil to use the greater force from his blows to his advantage.

  Gil, for his part, felt perfectly synchronized with himself, his soul and body acting as one, his instincts and training somehow fitting themselves in place with an effortlessness he had never known before.

  Once and twice the elf blows struck home, cruel and well-aimed. Three times Gil struck the other, shoulder, head, and arm, and the last time, the elf lost his footing in the slippery stream, and Gil grabbed him by the throat and dunked his head under the water again and again, until the poor lad sputtered, coughed, and said, “I yield!”

  That night, as he swaggered to the mess tent, Gil had three swords tucked through his belt: Dyrnwen, his waster, and the waster of the elf lad who was now second squire. Llyr of Llell spent the night clinging sleeplessly to the top of a greased pole. It rained that night.

  The next day and thereafter, Gil saw his shield was the highest on the lance. He practiced and drilled, fenced and tilted with Sir Dwnn, Sir Iaen, and Sir Bertolac.

  Sir Bertolac was the king’s champion for good reason. Sir Dwnn and Sir Iaen, when they handled sword or lance, could do surprising feats, beyond what the best Olympic athlete could do, but to the eye, they seemed to be within the laws of what was physically possible.

  Sir Bertolac was beyond that. His motions with blade or spear were like a symphony of music. Very, very fast music that always ended with Sir Dwnn or Sir Iaen on the ground and gasping for breath.

  2. The Nightjar

  The nightjar who spied on the conversations in the mansion house for him reported that the three knights talked of Gil.

  Gil was raking brightly colored leaves in the practice yard, and the little bird of prey sat on the bare bough above him, eyes bright, and told him all he heard through the windows.

  “The Swan Lad has learned rapidly and well,” said Dwnn, “More swiftly than is natural. War is in his blood.”

  Iaen said, “This settles one wager, at least. He must be an elf, and not human at all. Only we learn so quickly. Humans drill and practice and practice
and drill, thanks to all the weariness of sin and rebellious flesh they inherit from Adam, the first in sin! Our flesh is made of ethereal stuff.”

  But Bertolac said, “Is it indeed? Walk through a locked door, or fly upward like a thistledown, and I will believe your flesh and bone remains ethereal.”

  “Some elfs retain those arts,” Dwnn said crossly. “Cannot the phantom or the jinn through locked doors pass? Or owls can soar the middle airs, or swan maidens the upper?”

  “Not you. Nor I.” Said Bertolac. “We have all lived on Earth too long and grown heavy and thick with our crimes. As for the Swan, autumn will follow winter, and he will depart for that green place I dare not name. No elf has ever returned from there.”

  Iaen said in a cool voice, “I fear me there are those among the Twilight half-breeds who seek the lad’s life. If he fails his rendezvous with the Green Knight at the Yuletide, the court of elfs will become the scorn of the world. What folly possessed you to allow him off the grounds on Sundays? The Cobweb clan is closing in on him. You know the power of the Cobwebs increases in Autumn.”

  Or so the conversation ran, as best the nightjar recalled.

  Gil pondered a moment, leaning on his rake, pondering.

  “This place was as hot as the equator in midwinter,” Gil asked the nightjar. “But now it is acting like the temperate zone.”

  The nightjar said, “You know how the elfs stole all sorts of animals they liked, such as wolves and bears, all the creatures that are succulent or useful they took, leaving none for you, such as Dodo birds, Tasmanian tigers, and Passenger pigeons; but the guilt of exterminating these wild things they put on you. Not only this, they took your territory—the United States used to be maybe twice its size. The states of Absaroka, Deseret, Franklin, Westsylvania, and Kanawha are missing, as are Nickajack and Sequoyah.”

  “I had not realized they stole so much.”

  “Well, they also take your nicest weather, leaving you with little ice ages or long hot spells. They put on you the guilt for disturbing the weather also. That is half the reason the weather in the elfin lands is out of step with human seasons.”

  “And the other half?”

  “The distance between the Night World and the Day World changes when the mist gets thick or thin. When you first came here, Uffern House was near Xochimilco, but with shifts in the mist, now it is in Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana.”

  “How can it move?”

  The bird shrugged. “Time and distance are more like suggestions than really strict rules for elfs. Their geometry is different.”

  3. The Last Sunday

  Few leaves now hung from the dry and creaking branches of the Backswamp Wood of the Backland, and a cold wind blew. One Sabbath day toward evening Gil on Ceingalad rode back from Houma into the elfish lands.

  The stone bridge was hours behind him. Before him was the bridge of wood. This was a covered bridge whose roof was green. There were no walls. The pillars holding up the roof were carved and painted to look like oak, ash, and elm trees. In their branches lodged wooden birds, brightly painted, with glass eyes and gilded beaks and claws. Words in the loops and curls of the elfish letters (which twisted oddly in the eyesight unless pinned with a direct gaze) were written over the archway.

  Beneath the archway was what seemed to be a hunched shape squatting. It was gloomy, but Gil’s eyes were sharp. The figure stirred and stood, rising up and up until the crown of his head brushed the green roof.

  Fur like an ape covered his whole body, with a mane of thicker hair like a wolf’s on his neck and shoulders. The great collar of fur made his slanted skull seem small. Atop his head was a cap of shining metal topped by a knob of black crystalline rock. He stood on crooked legs which ended in a second pair of hairy hands. In one upper hand was a great two-headed ax of bronze, and the bronze metal caught the light of sunset and flashed like fire.

  But Gil could see the one thing he had previously had no power to see: Hidden as if in a colorless shadow of mist, a great silver cloak woven of hair and held in place with three great pins swathed the mighty limbs of the great beast. It was the same hue as Gil’s own hair, shining and shimmering like moonlightshine on snow. Only the hood was not complete. Two sides of a tall collar stood up about the ears of the monster and were pinned to the brim of his bronze cap, for the silver fabric was not great enough to meet over his head.

  Looking on Gil, he smiled. His left tusk was whole, but the right was missing and gave his lipless ape-mouth a lopsided and sarcastic look, as if he were sneering in mirth.

  Gil pulled on the reins. Ceingalad neighed. “What is the meaning of this? We must make haste to outpace the coming night! Why would you halt?”

  Gil said to Ruff, “What do you see on the bridge?”

  Ruff peered and sniffed. “Oh, no! Oh, no! A woses was here! I can smell ’em! He’s near! He’s near! I am sure of it!”

  Gil donned his helm and took up his shield. “Guynglaff the Yeti is standing before us on the bridge. He is wearing a cloak woven of my mother’s hair, and mist and shadow is round about him.”

  Guynglaff laughed. “Your pooka can neither see nor hear me!” Then, the monster squinted in puzzlement. “How can you bespeak him when he is not in his talking cap?”

  Ceingalad snorted. “There is no one here!” and stepped forward, hooves clopping on the wooden slats of the bridge.

  Without a word, Guynglaff slashed the ax across the neck of the horse. The horse reared back, slipped on his own blood, and fell. Gil adroitly leaped backward out of the saddle, somehow landing with his feet under him, his heavy mail clanging and clashing. He straightened up and drew his sword. Guynglaff with a second blow stove in the skull of the horse. Ceingalad toppled hugely backward, kicking through the railing of the bridge as he died. Guynglaff put his shoulder to the noble steed, heaved, and threw the dead horse’s body into the rushing river. The dark waters swallowed it.

  Gil was shocked and sickened at the death of the brave steed. In his heart he was burning with wrath. Gil said to Ruff, “Run. You cannot help me now.”

  Ruff barked, “Help you! I’ll save you! Just watch! Just watch!” But then he turned and pelted away into the leafless trees, running at remarkable speed, barking madly.

  Guynglaff smiled his lopsided, one-tusked smile. “It was a long time tracking you down, little Heretic-killer! Had you stayed at Uffern House, deep in the Night World, I might never have found the trail.”

  Gil put his shield before him. He held his sword as he had been taught, with his elbow high and the blade hidden behind his body, to prevent the foe from seeing whence the blow would come. He began breathing in slow, steady breaths. He set his feet, bent his knees, and began the lightfooted motion, almost like a shuffling dance, preparatory to rushing his foe.

  His shield he kept in motion ready to meet the foe’s ax head without directly blocking it. He had been taught to imagine the foe’s weapon as a lantern and to hold the shield far from his body so that the imaginary shadow it cast covered as much of him as might be. He also remembered the tricks he had learned to use his shield to pull or deflect the enemy blade out of line and to create an opening for the counterblow.

  He felt the pebbles and dry grass under his boots. Guynglaff was still on the bridge.

  Gil stepped backward then, still with his shield high and sword at the ready. “I have spared your life. It was the bargain I had with Erlkoenig.”

  Guynglaff said, “Did I yield to you? Did I cry quarter or surrender?”

  Gil said, “Your Winter King cried it on your behalf. He cried for the gentle right.”

  The monster grinned, and its beastly little eyes narrowed in a mass of wrinkles. “The gentle right is to allow me to regain my feet and ready my weapons. I am on my feet again.”

  Gil said, “You dishonor your lord. He made a deal with me.”

  “I did not yield, so this is merely a continuation of our first fight, which began before the Erlkoenig spoke. This fight will continue unti
l one of us yields, and only after it is finally ended will the bargain made between Erlkoenig and you apply.”

  Gil said, “That is rather convoluted logic.”

  Guynglaff shrugged. “I spoke with my lawyer. He said the reasoning was sound.”

  Gil blinked. “Bigfoot has a lawyer?”

  “Twilight Folk cannot break our oaths anymore than elfs can.”

  Gil said, “Don’t tell me. All the lawyers work for the elfs, too, right?.”

  “I heard that they work for the Devil, who is their prince. When you see him, you can ask him.”

  Gil said, “I fear we cannot fight. I am under orders. Unless you would care to step over to those trees, other there? Otherwise, I have to run away.”

  “You cannot outrun me on those puny little legs. I killed your mount for killing mine. Now I owe you for my two brothers. After I am done with you, I will hunt down your mother!”

  Gil opened his mouth to ask how Guynglaff knew his mother, but then closed it again. He himself had just admitted it, right in front of his enemy. He is wearing a cloak woven of my mother’s hair. Gil felt his heartbeat pulsing his face as he blushed in rage.

  Guynglaff said, “I am your true father. Haven’t you noticed you are stronger than other boys? Your small patch of fur is invulnerable? Yes, I enjoyed the succulent, sweet love of your mother’s fertile body and planted my seed in he…”

  Gil heard no more, but rushed him, sword and shield in constant motion.

  The monster was crouching with one shoulder nearly touching a pillar to his left. He held the ax high, its head pointed at Gil, in a pose that would let him strike left or right, high or low without warning. There was also a spike at the head of the weapon, meaning he could foin or thrust. The roof would prevent Guynglaff from any over-the-head blows, but his apelike muscles were so strong he hardly needed to employ such a blow. And the banisters and post of the bridge would prevent Gil from anything but a straightforward attack. But the creature had both longer arms and a longer weapon.