The Iron Tempest

by Ron Miller

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, but I don’t know that I much like the sound of it. You’re awfully pretty, did you know that?”

  “If reminding you of your past fame and noble deeds falls on deaf ears, then perhaps I’ll ask you if you have no scruples for your glorious descendants. How much longer will you deny that deserving womb the seed from which a mighty new race will spring? How can you dare prevent the noblest souls Heaven has ever invented from taking form on earth? How can you deny existence to your valiant sons and daughters, your grandchildren, your posterity—all of those who in epic battles and grim struggle will retore glory to Italia? You owe a duty to the harvest which your fertile tree will bear.”

  “What in the world are you talking about? Say, would you like a little wine?”

  “This witch whom you’ve made your queen, what has she got that a thousand whores do not? Why are you so enraptured of her? If you were not so ensorceled, you’d know full well what terrible fate lies in store for all those whom this woman has captured.”

  “Would you like to come over here and sit beside me?”

  “All right then, take this ring, return to your mistress and see what she really looks like.”

  And with those last words, Melissa slipped Bradamant’s magic ring onto Rashid’s littlest finger—the only one it would fit. In that instant, the knight’s wits returned to him—as did all of the sorceress’ recent words. He hung his great head in shame and wept.

  “Who are you?” he asked again and this time Melissa answered him fully. She told him who she was, why she was there and how she had come. She told him how much Bradamant longed for him, her agony only exacerbated by the greatness of her heart.

  “Now that I’ve severed the chain that Alcina had wound so tightly around you, now that you’ve been restored to your senses, it’s time for you to learn the truth. It was that brave maiden who loves you so much, and who in every respect deserves your love, to whom—if you haven’t forgotten—you owe your present freedom, it was she who sent that ring to you. If she could have, she would have torn out her heart and sent it, too.”

  So fervently and eloquently did Melissa put Bradamant’s case, so well did she praise her valor as a warrior (putting, perhaps, affection somewhat before truth, as a good advocate should do), that Rashid soon felt every remaining thought about Alcina turn to blackest hatred. As much as he once had loved her, he now loathed her—which is not surprising since it was, after all, only an artificial lust, created by the witch’s own magic.

  Leaping to his feet with a snarl, Rashid rushed from his apartment and into that of the surprised Alcina.

  “Rashid!” she cried. “Whatever are you looking so red about?”

  Rashid, who had all manner of words and havoc planned, stood stock-still in the doorway, stunned into silence by the sight of Alcina. He was reminded how when a boy he had once left a stolen apple in a cupboard. He had gone away and forgotten about it. A week or two later he’d found it again and was astonished at how the bright red fruit had decayed. What had once tempted him now seemed unappetizing and repellent and he had been more than willing to do without it. Disgusted, he had taken the putrid, mold-encrusted thing and flung it as far away as he could.

  This is how Rashid now saw the once fair Alcina. From head to foot, there was nothing left of her beauty but dregs. Nothing remained but an ancient, withered crone. Sparse white hair hung lankly from her balding, scabby scalp while drool ran from a toothless, pyrorrhetic mouth. She had shrunk from her commanding height to barely six palms. Older than Hecube or Sibyl, she had outlived every other woman on earth and it was only by means of her magic that she had lived that long and yet looked so young and beautiful.

  And she needed no word from him to know what it was that kept him so silent. She knew that he was seeing her as she really was. Rather than the murder he had come to do, Rashid turned on his heel and left the room—which for Alcina was worse than murder.

  He returned to Melissa who in the meantime had laid out his old clothes and armor. After he had changed into these, she led him to where his sword and magic shield had been stored and to where Papillon had been stabled. There was no opposition from Alcina.

  “You’ll lead me back to Bradamant?” he asked, mounting the animal.

  “No, I cannot,” Melissa replied.

  “Why not? You’ve come this far.”

  “There are some things I can do and some I can’t. I must return my own way and it’s a way you can’t share. Have no fear, you’ll find her.”

  “If you say so.”

  And this was how Rashid came to be flying toward Europe with the speed of a meteor, his only thought his imminent reunion with his precious Bradamant, as an arrow’s only thought is to reach the heart of its victim.

  As he neared the coast of Caledonia, Rashid happened to glace down at the approaching cliffs and was astonished at what he saw below. It will surely come as no suprise that the source of his surprise was a naked woman chained to towering black rock. At first he thought it was some sort of monument, a statue of alabaster or the most closely-grained marble, created by some master artisan—perhaps a memorial to some poor drowned maiden. However, as he swooped low over the beach he was certain that he saw a tear course down one smooth, white cheek (his eyesight was of course extraordinary), amid pale roses and white lilies, bedewing the ostrich-egg breasts with salty splatters. The freshing sea breeze lifted her golden hair and as he fixed on her aquamarine eyes he was reminded of those dark ones that belonged to his beloved warrior-maiden. He felt his heart torn between love and pity and great tears welled up in his own eyes. He was lost to a magic that even Alcina could not have matched and for which even Melissa had no counter-spell. As Papillon hovered over Angelica’s head, he called down to her.

  “Oh, lady! No chains should bind you other than those imposed by Love itself! Surely you don’t deserve this abuse! Who did this to you? Who dared mark such perfection with so much as a single bruise?”

  Angelica, astonished as much by this startling apparition as by the gallant question she was just asked, was at a loss for words. Obviously, whoever this wonderfully handsome man was and wherever he had come from, he meant her no harm—although she had her doubts about his fearsome mount, which was glaring at her hungrily. From the tone of his words, she thought that a modest blush would be appropriate and she managed to flush rosily, but any attempt to cover herself was prevented by her shackles—not that such a modest gesture even for a moment occured to her. She was free to weep and this she did copiously. And she was free to writhe and twist and this she did sinuously and with a well-practiced mixture of innocence and voluptuous suggestiveness. She ventured to reply to the knight—in her saddest, smallest voice—but the words never came. They were interrupted by a sudden roaring, very different than that of surf that pounded against the black pillar. Instead, she screamed.

  Something was slowly rising above the churning waves, like the black hull of some derelict ship blown there by the combined malevolence of Australis and Borealis. It was the orc, ravenously keen, come for its dinner. Not more than a hundred yards separated it from the princess. Angelica felt her knees collapse from her sudden terror and she hung limply from her shackled wrists. She heard an encouraging word shouted from the hovering knight, but did not feel particularly reassured.

  Rashid, seeing the monster lifting its horrible head, didn’t waste the time it would have taken to seat the butt of his lance; instead, he swung Papillon into the creature’s path and clubbed it as though he were swinging a sword. He hardly knew where to strike: the monster seemed to be nothing more than a writhing, tangled mass in the midst of which was something all eyes and tusks and gaping throat that he took for a head. He thrust the point of his lance between two of the eyes, but it glanced off as though the monster were armor-plated, which for all practical purposes it was. Swinging Papillon around, he tried again and once again. Seeing the black, winged shadow, the orc turned its attention away
from its intended victim, in order to rid itself of this unexpected annoyance. Twisting and turning, it tried to pursue the swooping hippogryph, and at every pass Rashid dealt it another blow.

  Just as the canny eagle, high in the clouds, spying a snake slipping through the grass or dozing on a sunny rock, will not attack the fang-bearing end of the reptile, but will instead swoop down from the rear, avoiding the venom and snatching up the hissing serpent in its talons—so did Rashid attack the terrible orc. Not where its gaping, fanged mouth snapped and hissed, but instead searched for a place where the monster might be gored to death safely. Yet, the harder he tried to find a vulnerable point, the harder seemed the task. He thought of the fly that in the hot days of Summer—those months of dust and madness—undertakes a war against a sleepy mastiff. Stinging the dog’s mouth, nose and eyes, the insect makes endless sallies until, suddenly, the mastiff is avenged in one quick snap of its jaws.

  The monster below was thrashing the waves into a thick froth. So high did it throw spray and foam that Rashid wondered if Papillon was flying or swimming. He feared that the drenching might waterlog the hippogryph’s wings and destroy their power to lift, which would be disastrous. Seeing that his weapons were scarcely even annoying the orc, and that Papillon was quickly tiring, Rashid considered a different tactic. He still possessed Atalante’s shield, attached to his saddle and hidden in its protective sheath.

  Reigning in the exausted hippogryph, he wheeled around and flew back to where Angelica had been watching the incredible battle with wide eyes and gaping mouth. Leaning far out from the saddle, he slipped Bradamant’s ring over one of the princess’ fingers.

  “Keep this on!” he shouted to her, over the combined roar of the surf and the enraged monster. “It’ll protect you, but try to keep your eyes shut anyway!”

  “What?” she asked, hardly hearing a word he had said, but the knight had already straightened and was turning his fearsome winged creature back toward the orc. As soon as he did this, he removed the shield from where it hung, held it up so that it faced the monster, which watched the peculiar proceeding with reptilian curiousity, and whipped off its cover. Instantly, it was as though a second sun were blazing in the sky. The orc reacted as though it had been struck by a mountain. It fell onto the beach, half in and half out of the water—appropriately enough since it was a creature native of neither. Rashid landed by its side and tried again to find a vulnerable place to apply the coup de grâce, but once again failed.

  “Fair knight!” Angelica called, fearing that the creature would awaken from its coma before the stranger gave up his efforts to kill it. “Let me loose first!”

  Rashid saw the logic of this argument and, leaving the stunned orc unslain for the moment, he ran to the pillar and, with a single blow of Balisard, set the woman free. Lifting her to the back of the waiting Papillon, who was no less anxious than Angelica to leave the island, he climbed into the saddle ahead of her. As Papillon mounted into the clouds and away from the evil island its monster, Rashid glanced back at the pale, golden woman whose arms were wound tightly around his waist and imagined he saw a thousand grateful kisses promised in her eyes. Angelica had no need of Alcina’s magic.

  His original intention upon leaving Alcina’s island had been to beat a path directly to where Bradamant waited, but he instead brought Papillon down on a broad, level beach in Brittany. Carrying his new companion to a grove of heavy, ancient oaks he set her down in the shade next to where a spring gushed from between the massive roots, its clear waters meandering across the smooth sand toward the sea. He tied Papillon to a low limb—and having one steed folding its wings he was now at liberty to allow another to spread its even wider. Seeing the swooning princess lying on her mossy bed, like an ivory idol in its velvet box, he could hardly restrain himself from climbing onto his new mount. He would have, too, then and there, but for his armor. Never before had he realized how complicated were its fastenings, nor how many. With hasty fingers he plucked and pulled at the strings and thongs only managing to make the knots tighter and the buckles even more adamant. For every strap he succeeded in undoing, there seemed to be two more. It had never seemed to take this long before.

  Although a rein will easily restrain a charging horse, seldom will reason so readily slow a lover’s ardor once it has sniffed the scent of lust. Just as the smell of honey will lure a bear from its path, nothing will induce it to stop. Certainly there was no hope that reason would stop Rashid’s intention of taking advantage of the luminous princess who reclined there naked in the solitary grotto. Every thought of Bradamant was gone, and this time he hadn’t the excuse of a sorceress’ hex. Even if her memory was as fresh as ever he’d be a fool (so he rationalized) not to take advantage of the present situation—a situation even austere Xenocrates could hardly have resisted.

  His shield, sword and lance lying scattered at his feet, Rashid stared dumbly at the princess, who smiled back at him sleepily and with no little amusement. He redoubled his clumsy efforts to shed himself of his armor, red and perspiring and humiliated under the insouciant gaze of his captive. Those lingering eyes seemed to make his fingers fatter and clumsier than ever.

  Angelica, for her part, was as amused as she was relieved. The man was certainly handsome and virile-looking enough—and was certainly a more appealing specimen than Sacripant had been, let alone (she shuddered) the disgusting hermit—but she was in no mood for fooling around, let alone the effort it would take to rid herself of him afterwards. Glancing down from the struggling knight, she allowed her gaze to drift appreciatively up her ivory prolongations until, surprised, it stopped at the ring that gleamed on the index finger of her left hand. She had completely forgotten about it. Now she not only remembered it, she recognized it. She was very familiar with this particular piece of jewelry (though in what manner and what adventures that entailed are hardly pertinent here). Suffice to say that the ring had once belonged to her father. Seeing it again on her own hand filled her with such astonishment and joy that at first she thought she must be either dreaming or hallucinating. Slowly and carefully raising her hand to her mouth, she drew the ring off with her small, sharp teeth. At the very moment it rested beneath her tongue, she vanished from sight as completely as the sun passing behind a cloud.

  Rashid, completely taken aback, up to his knees in a pile of armor, simply stood there, slack-jawed with astonishment. Then he lost his temper.

  “Ungrateful wench!” he cried, leaping toward the mossy bower. “Is this the way you thank me? I gave that ring to you, but now you prefer to steal it! Why not take Papillon too? And my shield and sword, while you’re at it! Oh, my princess, I’ll give you myself, too, to do with what you will, if you’ll only not hide yourself from me!”

  While he shouted, he groped the air like a child playing blind man’s bluff. But Angelica was already well away and at a good clip, too, all things considered.

  Rashid felt like such a fool.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In which Bradamant does her Duty, learns more of her Destiny and falls prey to a Magician’s sly Trick

  Charlemagne was astonished to see Bradamant appear, phantom-like, at his court. He did not ask her where she had been, but instead engulfed her in his huge arms as though she were a long-lost child; the golden-maned giant was the only person who could make Bradamant feel physically small—the effect was something like that of a cheetah in the unlikely embrace of a lion—a sensation she would have disliked had it been caused by anyone else.

  The great man towered more than a foot above the warrioress’ head—that is, something more than seven feet from the floor [this height has been confirmed by later historians, who based their estimates on the measure of Charlemagne’s feet—which they fervently assert were of remarkable length; he no doubt inherited these from his mother, the suggestively-named Bertha of the Big Feet]. When he was angry one would swear that his broad, ruddy face emitted flames like a fanned coal. His hair was brown and flowed in heavy waves over his shou
lders and his enormous beard was innocent of the barber’s shears. Although he was nearly as big in circumference as he was tall, he bore the proportion well, as a mountain does. Bradamant had seen him with her own eyes devour at one sitting a quarter of mutton, an entire goose, a ham and a peacock. Suprisingly, given this, he drank wine temperately, habitually taking it mixed with a little water. His strength was prodigious. He had often entertained his godchild, when she was a little girl, by straightening horseshoes with his bare hands, after which he presented them to her as gifts. Bradamant still possessed every one of them, which she treasured as much as a miser does his gold or a priest his relics. He could lift her, in full armor, at arm’s length; he could split a fully-armored warhorse in half with a single blow of his sword. He had the compassion of a Titus, the judgement of a Solomon, the piety of a Joseph, the magnificence of a Sardanapalus and the wisdom of an Aesop. But two qualities he valued above all others: that when he spoke he meant what he said, and when others spoke to him he listened.

  When it came to heroes, Bradamant could wish for no one better.

  The emperor’s discretion was a source of infinite frustration for his court, any member of which would have given two quarts of his or her soul to have learned anything substantive about the rumors linking Bradamant and the famed Saracen knight, Rashid. However, the great man, who had heard the same rumors, did not inquire and no one had either the courage or the lack of wisdom to confront the warrioress with questions concerning such private matters.

  The tide had turned, the emperor explained, so far as the siege of Paris was concerned, and therefore he regretfully had no real use there for Bradamant. But Marseilles, the city whose protection Charlemagne had entrusted to her and which duty she had so callously abandoned, was in dire straits and, without intervention, would soon fall to the Moors. Bradamant, in a fury of remorse, swore to amend her great error without further delay and promised to set out for the beleagured city within the hour.