All through the night, Flame held the fire out. But the four fed it generously and she found herself weakening. At dawn, knowing that the end was near, she opened the door and stepped into the flames, which shrank from her. The four knights drew their swords and rushed forward, but with her last strength she sent the flames at them, driving them back. Raising her hand, she pointed to them and intoned these words:
“For this wicked deed you do,
Wizard-slayers, hear your fate:
Ice and iron, wood and water,
Shall requite this cruel slaughter;
Wood and water, ice and iron
Shall entice you, like the Siren,
To the secret rendezvous
Where my vengeance shall await
You, and you, and you, and you.”
At the last word, her power gave out. The flames closed in and rose up around her with a great roar. In an instant, all was consumed.
“A very impressive curse. It rhymes, even,” said King Ezrammis.
“And you must remember, it was impromptu, and done with her dying breath,” Kedrigern pointed out.
Jossall waved a skinny hand for attention. “Yes, yes, but what of the curse? Did it work?”
Kedrigern smiled. Clearing his throat, he sealed back and went on with his story:
PART II: FULFILLMENT
The Four Bold Blackguards were annoyed by this turn of events, but unshaken. They had been cursed by dying victims so many times that they had become connoisseurs, and while they found Flame’s style and delivery impressive, they dismissed the content as the same old blustering.
In the course of the siege they had finished their food and water, so they set out again at a goodly pace for the castle of Giles the Bold. About midday, as they crossed a meadow, a knight dressed entirely in red appeared from the woods at the far side and blew a challenge on his horn.
Pleased with this opportunity for sport, the four reached for their weapons, that they might gang up on the lone knight. But the red knight charged at such speed that he took them by surprise, unhorsed Dennis the Bold, and disappeared down the path they had come.
Dennis the Bold lay groaning and uttering foul oaths, run through the chest with an iron-tipped wooden lance that had broken off in the wound. He begged for water. Having none, they gave him water from a puddle and placed him on his horse, binding him upright in his saddle and pressing on to the castle of Giles the Bold, where help might be found. The clouds gathered, and it grew bitter cold. Dennis the Bold began to rave and cry out wildly, and they realized that the water had been tainted. Before they reached the castle, he was dead— but whether he had frozen to death, or died of the tainted water or the iron-tipped wooden lancehead in his chest, no one could say.
At his castle, Giles the Bold was first to reach the drawbridge. For some reason, he dismounted and started across on foot. He tripped over an iron spike, slipped on a patch of ice, hit his head on a wooden beam-end, and
plunged into the deep murky waters of the moat. It was morning before his servants recovered the body.
Otto the Bold and Bruce the Bold slept fitfully that night, and after replenishing their supplies they left for their own strongholds, traveling together to gain whatever sense of safety they could from companionship, though in truth there was little feeling of companionship in either of them, and no feeling at all of safety. They knew that their doom was closing in.
As they made their way along a stony ridge above a shallow stream, Bruce the Bold heard a sharp cracking noise overhead. He looked and saw an ice-coated branch break free and strike Otto the Bold from his horse and send him rolling down the slope into the stream, where he lay face down in the water, immobilized by the weight of his armor. By the time Bruce the Bold reached him, Otto the Bold was dead.
In panic, Bruce the Bold rode until his horse dropped like a stone from exhaustion and died without a sound. Stripping off his armor, telling no one his true name, Bruce the Bold made his way ever southward, until he came to a desert. Here he stopped. He hid in a cave, eating uncooked food out of clay vessels. He never washed, and drank no water, subsisting on goats’ milk. When he regained his self-possession to some extent, he set down a full account of the fates of his companions and himself. He had once been a student, and knew how to write.
The last entry, in a shaking hand, told how he awoke one morning in an agony of thirst, feeling as if his body had been wrung dry of all fluids. He began to shiver uncontrollably as a chill came over his ravaged frame. With no wood about, he could not make a fire, so he dragged himself from the cave to seek the warmth of the sun.
He managed to struggle to the top of a small rise. A goatherd saw him and shouted, but Bruce the Bold was dead before anyone could help him.
“Now, that’s cursing,” said King Ezrammis. “I’m glad I never had an argument with Flame. She knew her business.”
“Flame was the best there ever was,” said Kedrigern. “She was a true professional.”
Jossall would have none of this. “She wasn’t better than Vorvas! Her curse fell apart at the end, with Bruce the Bold, didn’t it? All the other deaths involved ice and wood and water and iron, but there wasn’t any iron in the death of Bruce the Bold.”
Unruffled, Kedrigern said, “I didn’t finish the story.”
PART II: FULFILLMENT (CONCLUDED)
The goatherd, though he had lived long and seen many strange sights, had never seen anything like this. The Fearful One, as the local people had come to call Bruce the Bold, crawled from his cave and dragged himself up the side of the rise. He struggled to his feet and stood with his arms spread wide and his face turned to the sun. As he stood there, something plummeted from the skies and hit him squarely in the chest, knocking him flat. It was a chunk of solid iron the size of a man’s head, very badly pitted and warm to the touch. The desert people call such an object a “meteorite.”
A profound silence followed the end of Kedrigern’s tale. At last Jossall said in a low disgruntled voice, “Maybe Vorvas is the second greatest of them all when it comes to cursing. But he’s a close second.”
Seven
in the grip of the green riddler
KING EZRAMMIS was firm. “I don’t like to see you going off to the west on your own. You may be good wizards, both of you, and have an enchanted sword to help you, but it’s dangerous out there. I’m sending one of my guards along.”
“Your Majesty is very kind, but there’s really no need,” said Kedrigern. The horses were saddled and packed, and he was eager to be on his way. But the king was not to be dissuaded.
“His name’s Dyrax. He showed up here one day last fall and asked to be taken into my service. Done very well here, too. He’s a gloomy sort, but he gets along with everyone.”
“I’m sure he’s a sterling man, Your Majesty, but we—”
“He’s been out there. Knows his way around. He can guide you to the Moaning River without wasting a lot of time. Get you there and back before the weather turns bad.”
“Oh. I see.”
Ezrammis nudged him and laughed slyly. “I thought that would change your mind. Besides, if you should come across Ashan, or news of him, I want to know, and you may not come back this way, so I’ll need a messenger.
Dyrax is good and dependable. Quiet lad, brave as a lion, nice and polite. Never talks about himself, but he comes from good stock. I can tell.”
“We thank Your Majesty once more. If we hear word of Ashan, we’ll send Dyrax back at once.”
“No hurry, wizard. Let him take you to your destination first, and give you good clear directions for the rest of the way.” Ezrammis paused, then added in a softer tone, “Try to find Ashan for me, though. He probably thinks I’m furious about the spell, but I’m not. He was a good arguer. I miss him. Tell him so. He’ll believe another wizard.”
“I’ll tell him if I see him, Your Majesty.”
Princess, having taken her leave of Pensimer, said a last affectionate goodbye to Ezrammi
s. When she turned to her horse, grooms sprang forward to help her mount. Kedrigern looked about, but saw no guardsman.
“Go ahead and mount. Dyrax is waiting at the gate. He doesn’t like crowds,” said Ezrammis. And as they approached the gate they saw him, a sturdy, well-built young man with noble features and an air of deep gloom. He rode a handsome chestnut stallion and led two heavily laden packhorses.
“I am Dyrax, your guide and protector,” he said in a somber, cultured voice. “My sword and my life are at your service.”
“That’s very nice of you, Dyrax, but I think all we’re going to need is someone to point out the way,” said Princess.
“I have traveled in the western lands, my lady. Strange and perilous are the things to be found there.”
“Well, my husband and I both know magic, and we do have an enchanted sword. We really don’t expect trouble. Just the usual inconveniences of wayfaring.”
With a stately, sweeping gesture in the direction of the packhorses, Dyrax said, “King Ezrammis, with his accustomed generosity, has made provision against the worst inconveniences.”
“He’s a kind man,” said Kedrigern, “and I’m sure you’ll be a great help to us, Dyrax. Shall we be off?”
Dyrax took the lead, with the two packhorses directly behind him. Princess followed, and Kedrigern rode at the rear of the little column. From time to time he and Princess rode side by side, chatting or simply enjoying one another’s company in silence, but Dyrax never looked around and spoke only when directly addressed. In the evenings, he set up camp in some pleasant spot, prepared a simple but tasty meal, and erected a shelter for the wizards. He spread his own blanket in some dark and gloomy spot. On the first night he had announced his willingness to keep watch while the others slept, but they would not hear of it. A simple spell provided a more dependable warning system than a small army of heavy-eyed humans, and they wanted their guide to be alert along the way; and aside from such practical considerations, they did not like to see a healthy young man deprived of his rest. Dyrax seemed doleful enough already. There was no need to add fatigue to his problems.
On the fourth evening after their parting from Ezrammis and Pensimer, as Princess and Kedrigern lay side by side in their shelter, snug under blankets light as gossamer but warm and cozy as plump comforters, Princess yawned and said, “Can’t we do something for Dyrax? He’s so sad.”
“He is, isn’t he? Always sighing.” Kedrigern paused for a yawn, then said, “I don’t know any good jokes. I was never much of a hand at telling jokes.”
“It’s not jokes he needs. He’s thwarted in love, that’s Dyrax’s problem.”
“How do you know?”
“The sighing. Deep, heartbroken sighs are a giveaway.”
After a thoughtful silence, Kedrigern asked, “What can we do?”
“First we ought to find out the whole story. We won’t know if we can help until we know what’s the matter. Listen—he’s sighing again!”
Cautiously they raised their heads and peered outside. Dyrax sat by the fire, his chin cupped in his hands, gazing morosely into the flames. From time to time he heaved a deep, desolate sigh. Occasionally he groaned. At last he rose from the fireside, and with bowed head and slow, sad steps he walked to where his blanket lay and threw himself down.
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Kedrigern said.
But when morning came, Dyrax was much too melancholy to be approached. He prepared breakfast for the wizards, then went aside to nibble a crust of bread and sigh. Kedrigern answered Princess’s urgent glances with calming patient gestures, and they started the day’s travels in silence. Three times during the morning Princess fell back to ride at Kedrigern’s side and exhort him in angry whispers to make good his word and speak to the sad young man, and three times he put her off. At last, near midday, the wizard braced himself, reassured his wife, and leaving the black staff that was Panstygia in her care, rode forward to Dyrax’s side.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” he said with a cheery smile.
Dyrax raised his head and looked upward and around. “The sky is blue. It is neither too warm nor too cool for comfort. The leaves are highly colored. Yes, Master Kedrigern, one might speak so of this day.”
“It doesn’t sound as though you would.”
Dyrax sighed profoundly and said, “Lovely is a word I have purged from my vocabulary, along with beautjful and fair and happiness and joy.”
“That’s too bad. ls there any way I can help? I’ll be glad to do whatever I can, honestly.”
“No one can help me. Nothing can undo what has been done, unsay what has been said. I live in an abyss of pain, seeking forgetfulness, cursed with remembrance.”
They rode on in silence for a time, into a darker, denser part of the forest where the road narrowed and overhanging branches shadowed the way. In these surroundings Kedrigern found himself falling into the dismal mood of
his companion, and thinking that it was not such a lovely day after all. But he shook off such thoughts and said confidently, “If it’s forgetfulness you want, I may be able to help you.”
“No, kindly wizard. If I were to forget the cause of my unceasing anguish, I would forget my reason for being.”
“I have some very selective spells. I could work it so that you only forget the had parts.”
Dyrax shook his head slowly. “I must remember. It is my fate to remember, and to suffer.”
Kedrigern could see that he was getting nowhere, and changed the subject, observing, “The forest seems to be thicker here.”
“Yes. We are in the domain of the Green Riddler. We must be wary. He is as cruel as he is strong, and his strength is the strength of ten. He is twice the size of ordinary men. Our lives are in great peril at every moment,” said Dyrax in the same weary monotone.
“Do you think it mighi be wise to take another way?”
“There is no way to avoid the Green Riddler. If we should encounter him and his minions, be assured that I will defend you to the death, and fall with my sword in my hand.”
“It may not come to that.”
“No one can withstand the Green Riddler.”
Provoked by this unending flow of negativism, Kedrigern said, “I may not have the strength of ten, Dyrax—on some mornings I have barely the strength of one—and I am not twice the size of anyone but dwarfs and children, but I am a wizard. I have magic at my command.”
“So, it is said, has the Green Riddler.”
“He has? No one mentioned it before.”
“Perhaps people assumed that you know.”
“I wish people wouldn’t make that assumption. I’m not fond of surprises,” Kedrigern said with some annoyance. They rode on a few paces, neither man speaking, then the wizard brightened and exclaimed, “Wait a minute, now. I do know the Green Riddler. Never met the fellow person-
ally, but I’ve read of him. Yes, of course. He’s a friend of Sir Gawain’s; something of a prankster, but a decent sort. He has some rudimentary knowledge of magic, but he isn’t the sort to misuse it.” He paused to chuckle in a warm and friendly way, and concluded, “We have nothing to worry about, Dyrax. All those tales about the Green Riddler’s eating people are nonsense. He’s a pleasant chap. We’ll get along.”
“I fear you are mistaken, Master Kedrigern. The Green Riddler is said to have an amiable brother with connections at Camelot, but he himself is a monster of wickedness,” said Dyrax.
“Oh. And he has magic powers, you say?”
“So I have heard, and believe.”
Kedrigern looked somber. “Well, then, we will just have to see whose magic is stronger.”
The opportunity to put this question to the test came sooner than the wizard had expected. Scarcely had they gone a hundred paces farther on this dark portion of the trail when they reached a clearing, and as they entered the clearing from one side, the Green Riddler strode from the forest opposite them. One by one, his followers stepped from behind the trees around the cl
earing. The Riddler’s men were common forest ruffians, scruffy-looking, dressed in rags and animal skins, carrying clubs and daggers and rude spears, and all of them bore an expression of stupid malice. Their leader was unmistakable. He was bright green from head to foot—hair, beard, skin, and clothing were all green as spring grass—and the distance between these points was at least twice the height of an ordinary man.
The travelers halted, ringed by sullen men and facing their giant leader. The Riddler stood with folded arms, looking the trio over, and then he laughed, a deep slow rumbling laugh that suggested a very unpleasant sense of humor.
“Arm yourself, wizard,” said Dyrax in a steely undertone. “Side by side, we will fight to the death.”
“Don’t be hasty. There may be another way out of this,” Kedrigern said.
“There is none. The Green Riddler is merciless.”
“I don’t intend to appeal to his mercy.”
The Green Riddler raised one hand in greeting. Kedrigern returned the salute. Dismounting, he approached the giant, stopping just out of reach and working, as he walked, a quick protective spell to cover his companions and himself.
“Good afternoon, big fellow,” he said politely.
“Good afternoon to you, traveler, and welcome to my domain. You have arrived just in time for a wonderful dinner,” the Riddler boomed.
“Kind of you to invite us, but we’re just passing through on our way west. It’s too early for dinner, anyway,” Kedrigern replied.
Kedrigern Wanderland Page 10
