The Knight's Tale

by Jonathan Moeller

“Enough!” said Ulacht. “Our folk are in danger! You may berate each other after we win the battle.”

  Both knights managed to nod, and Ridmark strode for the rocky hill and the pale pillar of green flame.

  Soon Ridmark came to the base of the hill and the entrance to the tombs. A rocky cavern mouth yawned in the side of the hill, and a few new corpses shuffled from the entrance. A sorcerous circle had been drawn upon the ground outside the cave, and the pillar of green fire erupted from its center.

  There was no sign of any sorcerer.

  Ulacht looked around. “Where…”

  The air rippled, and Lady Gwenaelle appeared before the pillar of fire, magical power crackling around her fingers. Eight emerald eyes gleamed in her face, a pair of serrated pincers distorted her mouth, and crimson talons rose from the tips of her fingers.

  Ridmark found her rather less attractive now. Looking at her pincers, he was suddenly very glad he had not kissed her earlier.

  “Ah,” said Gwenaelle, her lovely voice a contrast with her half-human features, “Mother thought you might figure it out. No matter. If this herd must be culled, you can die with the rest of them.”

  “Wife,” said Hamus, staggering towards her. “I am glad you are safe! Come with me to the church where it’s safe.”

  Ridmark stared at him, incredulous. Could he not see the truth of the spiderling before him?

  Gwenaelle’s pincer-lined mouth twitched into a hideous grin. “Husband! Behind you! Your son and that filthy orc have betrayed you! They brought the Swordbearer to murder me! Save me, husband!” Terror filled her voice. “Save me!”

  Hamus turned with a roar. “You miserable traitors! I curse that I ever called you son!”

  He charged at Ridmark, screaming, his axe raised for a massive two-handed blow. Both Thomas and Ulacht raised their weapons. How could Hamus not see the truth?

  Unless…

  Spiderling poison had made Sempronius hallucinate.

  Perhaps spiderling poison tainted Hamus’s veins, made him see Gwenaelle has a beautiful woman, even after her true nature had been revealed.

  Ridmark gripped Heartwarden, drawing upon the soulblade’s power. Sir Hamus lumbered at him, axe raised for a two-handed blow. He was strong, but he was old and fat and Ridmark was not. He dodged around the massive blow, summoning Heartwarden’s strength, and slammed his left palm against the knight’s temple. White light flared from Ridmark’s fingers and sank into the old man.

  Hamus flinched, his eyes bulging, his face going even redder. And as he did, Ridmark felt something…leave him, some taint, some corruption.

  Hamus did indeed have spiderling poison in his blood.

  The old knight staggered back, and Gwenaelle peered at him, all eight of her eyes fixed on him.

  “Husband!” she said. “Save me! Oh, save me!”

  Hamus shook his head. “I…wife? No, my wife is dead, my wife has been dead for years. I…had the most peculiar dream. I dreamed I remarried, that…that…”

  “Husband!” said Gwenaelle.

  Hamus’s mouth fell open, and he turned to look at Gwenaelle.

  “God have mercy,” said Hamus. “It wasn’t a dream. And…God, what a fool I’ve been, I…”

  Gwenaelle sighed. “Vexing. You would have been useful in culling the herd as Mother wished. But I suppose we’ll have to do all the work ourselves.”

  “You took the children!” roared Hamus. “You deceived me!”

  “Has that just now occurred to you?” said Gwenaelle. “Mother was right about the feeble intelligence of the herd animals.”

  “Where are the children?” said Hamus.

  “In Mother’s larder, of course,” said Gwenaelle. “For our sustenance, once we have killed everyone who is aware of our presence here. Mother does prefer her privacy.”

  “Return them, now,” said Hamus, “or I’ll…”

  “Threats,” said Gwenaelle, “are of no consequence.”

  She beckoned, green fire flaring around her fingers, and the pillar of fire rising from the circle brightened. In the darkness of the cave mouth behind her more undead creatures came forth, yellowed bones rattling together, green fire shining in their empty eye sockets.

  Gwenaelle began casting another spell, her pincers clicking, and Hamus and Ulacht and Thomas stared at her in horror. Ridmark realized the other men had never seen dark magic before. Not that Ridmark had much experience with it himself.

  But the other men were not Swordbearers. He was.

  Ridmark drew on Heartwarden’s power and raced at the sorcerous circle, raking the soulblade across its boundaries. There was a flash of white light, a thrumming noise, and the pillar of green fire winked out.

  The undead emerging from the caverns dropped motionless to the ground like puppets with cut strings.

  Gwenaelle turned to look at the broken circle, surprised.

  “Take her!” Ridmark shouted, surging forward with Heartwarden’s power lending him speed.

  But the spiderling was even faster. She whirled, her clawed hand gesturing in a spell, and disappeared, much as the spiderling in the dark elven ruin had done. Again Ridmark drew on the power of his bond with Heartwarden, and white light flashed as he tried to dispel Gwenaelle’s spell. He was successful…and she reappeared just as she smashed with terrific speed into Sir Thomas, knocking the knight to the ground as her red gown billowed around her. Ulacht swung his club, but Gwenaelle wheeled and drove her right foot into his stomach. The breath exploded from his lungs, and the old orc stumbled to his knees.

  Gwenaelle spun to face Ridmark, all eight of her green eyes locked on him, her pincers twitching.

  Hamus stared open-mouthed at her, stunned by her speed. Gwenaelle stalked towards Ridmark, head swaying back and forth like a serpent about to strike, her pincers opening and closing.

  “A Swordbearer,” she hissed. “Mother used to collect the soulblades of your order as trophies.”

  “Then take this one,” Ridmark said, “and add it to your collection. If you can.”

  Gwenaelle laughed. “It is amusing to see a herd animal with spirit. Perhaps you would feel the same way if you saw a pig that wore shoes and tried to talk as a man.”

  Hamus growled and stalked towards her, two-handed axe raised for a blow, but Gwenaelle paid him no mind. Perhaps she hadn’t seen him yet.

  Or perhaps she could still control him. Or maybe Gwenaelle only thought she could still control him…

  Gwenaelle tensed, preparing to strike.

  Ridmark decided to distract Gwenaelle, hoping that Hamus was indeed free of her control.

  “Then stand fast and fight, vile creature of darkness!” Ridmark shouted, his mind digging up old challenges from the ancient poetry of Old Earth. “In the name of my father, the High King, and the Most High God I cast my despite your teeth. Draw weapons, you wicked spawn of hell, or slink back into the shadows and let all men know you as the craven that you are.”

  Gwenaelle laughed merrily, and she would have sounded exactly likely an amused girl if not for the clicking of her pincers. “Oh, how funny! How Mother shall laugh when I tell her.” She stepped closer with the sinuous grace of a hunting serpent, her talon-tipped fingers flexing. “Perhaps I shall turn your head into a puppet, and make it repeat that silly little speech over and…”

  Hamus brought his axe whistling down for her back. Gwenaelle whirled with a hiss, her foot slamming into his gut, and Hamus fell with a wheeze. Ridmark lunged, and Heartwarden drew a bloody line across Gwenaelle’s hip. She snarled in fury and backhanded him, and the sheer power in her thin arm knocked Ridmark back. The spiderling stalked after Ridmark, raising her clawed hands for a killing blow.

  Hamus roared again, his face the color of old wine, and swept his axe before him.

  Gwenaelle’s head jumped off her shoulders in a spray of black ichor and hit the ground, the pincers sinking into the dirt. The body jerked forward a few more steps and collapsed, the black slime pooling at Ridmark’s feet.
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  Hamus might have been old and fat, but he wasn’t weak…and Gwenaelle hadn’t been able to control him after all.

  Ulacht and Sir Thomas staggered to their feet, coughing, and Hamus looked at his son and sighed.

  “What a blind fool I have been,” Hamus said, gesturing with the axe. “I have been acting like a besotted boy, all while this…this creature preys upon my folk.”

  “You may not have had any choice in the matter,” Ridmark said. “The venom of a spiderling can induce…odd effects, to be sure.”

  “Forgive me, my son,” said Hamus. “For too long I neglected your counsel. And I beg your forgiveness as well, headman. The villages of Victrix and Rzoldur have dwelled in peace since the defeat of the Frostborn, and my folly almost destroyed that.”

  Ulacht growled. “The spawn of the urdmordar almost destroyed us, knight. They were long our masters, long before the High King ever came from Old Earth. And now that we are free, they will try to slay us.”

  “Ulacht is right, father,” said Thomas.

  “Regardless,” said Hamus, “the fault is mine…”

  “I suggest, sir knight,” Ridmark said, “that you shut up, and we proceed back into Victrix. The villagers need our help.”

  Hamus blinked and sighed. “You are an impudent young fellow, but I deserve worse. And without you, this would have been far bloodier. Lead on.”

  Ridmark led Hamus, Ulacht, and Thomas back to the square before the church.

  Silence had fallen over the square with the defeat of the undead, yet the tension had not left the men defending the church. Father Linus and Magistrius Sempronius stood before the doors along with a guard of militia archers. More archers waited on the church’s roof, their bows ready. All of them stared at a slight, gaunt figure in a loose black dress in the center of the square.

  Gotha, Gwenaelle’s mother.

  Something like an aura of terror rolled off her, like smoke rising from a fire, and for a moment Ridmark felt like a mouse confronting an amused cat.

  Gotha stared at Ridmark with a gentle smile on her lined face.

  Ridmark strode forward, Heartwarden glimmering with white fire in his right hand, and the others hung back, weapons in hand.

  “You are an urdmordar,” Ridmark said, “aren’t you?”

  “Ah,” said Gotha in her quavering voice. She tottered forward a step, her cane tapping against the ground. “So clever for one so young. Of course, your kindred usually isn’t.” Her pale green eyes blinked. “I remember the first time I saw a human. A thousand years ago, I think it was. At first I thought the dark elves had shaved an ape. Though for overgrown apes, I admit that you have overgrown brains. Just as well that you so rarely use them.”

  “That did not,” Ridmark said, pointing Heartwarden at her, “answer my question.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Gotha. “Very good. How difficult it must be to think with all those…elixirs…soaking into your primitive little brain, every nerve and drop of blood screaming for you to run, run now, run while you still can.” She giggled. “How you herd animals fear being eaten.”

  She was right about that, but Ridmark refused to let the fear show on his face. He was a Swordbearer of the Order of the Soulblade, and he would die like a Swordbearer if his time had come.

  Which, if Ridmark was truly facing an urdmordar, seemed likely.

  “Leave Victrix, now,” Ridmark said, “and you may yet keep your life.”

  “I will keep it regardless of your choices,” said Gotha, “and I shall still have it for long millennia after the last human has died sobbing upon his knees.”

  “Then you leave me with no choice but to kill you,” Ridmark said.

  “Oh?” said Gotha, amused. “You will strike me down in the name of your High King? Or in the name of your god of sheep?” Her smile widened. “I have heard hundreds of your kindred beg for your God to save them. And I am still here and they are not. But fear not. You are cleverer than most, and that sword you carry is actually dangerous. You have impressed me, boy…and earned the gift of a quick death.”

  She raised her voice, and Ridmark heard the power of magic in her words.

  “The Swordbearer!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the burning village. “The Swordbearer! He took the children. He is a dark elven wizard disguised as a Swordbearer! Stop him, stop him now, or he will murder your children as you weep!”

  A ripple went through the watching militiamen…and Ridmark saw the hatred bloom on their faces.

  He heard the creak as they took aim with their bows.

  Ulacht, Thomas, and Hamus stalked towards him, fury in their eyes.

  “Farewell, Swordbearer,” crooned Gotha. “This will be so much less painful if you lie down and surrender.”

  Ridmark gripped Heartwarden, his mind racing. Gotha had clearly used a spell to influence the villagers.

  But what kind of spell?

  She must have cast a spell upon herself to charge her voice with dark magic, and Ridmark lifted Heartwarden and drew upon the sword’s magic, calling on its power to break any spells upon Gotha. There was a flash of white light, Gotha blinked in surprise…and the villagers came to a stop. Hamus, Thomas, Ulacht, Linus, and Sempronius looked at each other in confusion, and then the confusion changed to fear as they realized what had happened.

  As they realized they faced an urdmordar.

  “Oh, very good,” said Gotha, taking a tottering step towards Ridmark, the tip of her cane rasping against the earth. “Very clever, indeed. Though you should have let them kill you. It will be far less painful than what is to come.”

  “You deceived us!” said Hamus, hefting his axe. “With your lies, your magic, your daughters…”

  Gotha smirked. “I think you allowed yourself to be deceived by my daughters.”

  “Or your daughters’ venom clouded his thinking,” Ridmark said.

  Gotha’s pale green eyes moved to Ridmark, and he realized that she was starting to look younger. A few moments earlier she had been a crone of a hundred years. Now she looked like a vigorous woman in her sixties, her hair more iron-gray than white.

  “Clever indeed,” said Gotha. “Though you will regret it. A herd animal shouldn’t be clever. It leads to a more painful death.” Her eyes shifted to Ulacht. “And what of you, orc? Fall to your knees and worship me, as your ancestors did. Your folk will be spared, and you shall be under my protection. I shall need loyal servants in the great culling to come.”

  Ulacht spat on the ground. “No, false goddess. We shall not. Better that we die as free men and enter into paradise, rather than live as your slaves.”

  “As you wish,” said Gotha. Her eyes turned back to Ridmark, and now she looked like a woman in her late forties. “Before the killing begins, Swordbearer…I will grant you a boon.”

  “What?” said Ridmark.

  Now she was in her middle thirties, a woman in the prime of her strength. “A boon. Cleverness deserves a reward.”

  “I thought you said,” said Ridmark, “that cleverness was a poor quality in a herd animal.”

  “Oh, but it is,” said Gotha. Now she looked Gwenaelle’s age, a woman of stunning loveliness. “But cleverness still deserves a reward. One secret, you can take with you to your grave.” She smiled, radiantly beautiful. “Because I am clever, too…and I know there is no treasure greater than a secret.”

  “What do you mean?” Ridmark said, pointing Heartwarden.

  Gotha continued to smile, rolling her shoulders as if preparing for some heavy lifting. Or heavy fighting.

  “One question, before I kill you all,” Gotha said. “One question I will answer for you…and you can take one secret with you to your grave.” She had become a radiant girl of eighteen. “Is that not a compelling thought?”

  Ridmark frowned. This had to be some sort of trap. Or it might well be the sort of twisted game an urdmordar would enjoy.

  He decided to ask the question anyway. Her daughters had mentioned something that wei
ghed upon his mind.

  “You just mentioned a ‘great culling’,” Ridmark said. “Both your daughters did as well.”

  “Before you slew them, of course,” said Gotha. She did not sound angry at their loss. Likely the urdmordar viewed their spiderling daughters as simply another tool, and not a very valuable one at that.

  “What is the great culling?” Ridmark said.

  “You don’t know?” said Gotha, lifting her eyebrows. “Ah. I suppose you would not. Your kindred has no memories for matters of importance. Your strength is how quickly you breed, not in the potency of your feeble brains. But not even your fertility will save you from what is coming.”

  “And what,” Ridmark said, “is coming?”

  Gotha smiled and looked at the sky. “Very soon now, very soon, the time will come…and the way will open. It has been in motion for centuries. So obviously visible to an immortal, and so hard to see in a little mortal life of sixty years. If that.” She leaned forward, her eyes alight with glee. “The cold ones are coming back.”

  “The cold ones?” Ridmark said.

  “Pah,” said Gotha, “you do not even know your own history. How like a human! Your kindred call the cold ones the Frostborn. You fought them off once before. But you will not do so again. You were stronger then. Now your lords are proud and fat and complacent, and corruption chews into your High Kingdom just as rot devours a tree. The Frostborn will return and destroy your High Kingdom utterly.” She waved a hand at the village. “Why do you think I went to such trouble? The orcs’ mines will make a splendid lair, and the sleeping children are hidden in my larder there. I shall harvest many children from the villages of the Northerland, and put them into the sleep like death with my venom. Then when the cold ones come, I will hibernate while they destroy your kindred, waking only to feed on the suspended children. And after the humans are destroyed, sooner or later another kindred will come to this world…and I shall feed upon them in turn.”

  “You…” Ridmark began to say.

  “Ah! I just realized!” said Gotha. “I am doing you a mercy. If you all die here…you shall be spared the horrors to come when the Frostborn return.” She smiled. “The time for talking is over, and you may rejoice in my mercy as I rend the flesh from your bones. Behold! For I grant you a final privilege. Behold the true form of Gothalinzur! Behold your goddess!”