Scilly Seasons

by Chris Tookey

  Wyrd felt a mighty blow to his head. Normally, it would have left him reeling on the ground, but with the stirrups to support him he managed to sway and strike Fingolfin in the side as he passed by.

  “That’s two points to Sir Uther,” boomed King Otto, “and three to Count Fingolfin!”

  When Wyrd dismounted, he found Sir Ector waiting for him.

  “Why didn’t you go to ground?” asked Sir Ector. “You do realise this chap’s the best swordsman in Lyonesse?”

  “No, I didn’t,” muttered Wyrd, his head still spinning from the lance’s blow. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “What are you planning to use in the second round?” asked Sir Ector, as impervious to irony as ever. “Sword? Mace? Axe?”

  “What do you suggest?” asked Wyrd.

  “Mace or axe,” said Sir Ector. “And a good, strong shield.”

  The second round was usually the final one. Even though the weapons were blunted, sword-thrusts, blows over the head with a mace or axe wounds were often enough to bring Triple Combat to a premature and often fatal conclusion. Points from the previous round were carried over and could be augmented by knocking one’s opponent to the ground (one point), forcing an opponent to concede defeat (two points) or knocking him out (three points). Inflicting death on one’s opponent earned no extra points but undeniably did much for a combatant’s prestige.

  “Do you know how many kills this Fingolfin’s had?” asked Sir Ector.

  “No,” said Wyrd, “but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

  “Six,” said Sir Ector, “and they tell me he’s undefeated in Lyonesse. He should be quite tough competition for Artorus in the final.”

  “Thanks,” said Wyrd. “Remember, he hasn’t beaten me yet.”

  Sir Ector said nothing. He just patted Wyrd on the arm, with a commiserating expression.

  “I can’t see a thing in this helmet,” said Wyrd. “I think I’ll take it off.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” said Sir Ector. “Apparently he likes to aim for the eyes and neck.”

  “I’m no good if I can’t see him,” replied Wyrd. “Any last tips?”

  “Concede defeat early,” advised Sir Ector, “and then he won’t have an excuse to cut your head off.”

  “Is all prepared for the second round?” King Otto’s voice boomed out from the side of the circular, single-combat arena. “Get set! Fight!”

  Wyrd’s plan from the outset was to bide his time, try not to get knocked over and protect himself with his shield until the elven count started to tire. Unfortunately, after several minutes of warding off blows with his shield but being unable to launch any attacks of his own, Wyrd could feel no diminution of Fingolfin’s efforts.

  The crowd around the arena, which was predominantly Atlantean, was oddly quiet, as though waiting for their champion to suffer the inevitable, quite probably mortal blow. Wyrd retreated around the ring and tried to size up any deficiencies in his opponent’s technique. He’d just decided that there weren’t any, when he noticed that the elf had a tendency to leave his left shoulder exposed when thrusting forwards with his right arm. No sooner had Wyrd noticed this, however, that he was felled to the ground with a mighty blow to his left ear.

  Wyrd half-expected to find his ear beside him on the ground and was gratified to discover that it was still attached to his head, though bleeding profusely. He looked up to find Fingolfin standing over him.

  “Will you concede defeat?” drawled the elf. “Or do I have to finish you off?”

  Wyrd was tempted to give in, but something in the elf’s arrogance made him refuse to take the easy way out.

  “I think you’ll have to finish me off,” said Wyrd, rolling away as the elf’s sword smashed down on where his neck had been.

  “And aren’t you meant to wait for me to get up?” gasped Wyrd.

  “Weren’t you up?” asked Fingolfin, insincerely. “I do apologise.”

  “Aren’t these weapons meant to be blunted?” asked Wyrd. “That last blow of yours nearly took my ear off.”

  “Stop complaining and fight, human,” said the elf, with a venom that Wyrd hadn’t seen before in him.

  “Very well, elf,” replied Wyrd. “Come and get me!”

  This time he was ready when Fingolfin swung at his neck. Wyrd aimed his mace at the elf’s left shoulder and brought it down with all the force he could muster. Unfortunately for the elf, just at that moment he lost his footing, and Wyrd’s blow caught not his shoulder but the top of his head. There was a cracking sound, and Wyrd watched appalled as the elf slumped to the ground with a gaping hole in the top of his skull. The elf knelt for a moment on his knees, then toppled forward, dead.

  Wyrd dropped his shield and raised his left hand to his mouth. He hadn’t intended to do the elf that much harm. In fact, his aim had been to survive, rather than win.

  “And Sir Uther WINS!” boomed King Otto, as a couple of Fingolfin’s fellow elves tearfully dragged their hero’s corpse from the arena.

  ***

  “You’re looking a bit green,” said Morgana, arriving next to Wyrd as he threw water over his face before the final round of the Triple Combat.

  “I feel a bit green,” admitted Wyrd.

  “Did you mean to kill that elf?” asked Morgana.

  “Of course not!” said Wyrd. “It was just a lucky blow – or unlucky for him. I was aiming for his shoulder, but he slipped and I hit him on the head.”

  “Was that your first tournament kill?” asked Morgana.

  “Yes,” said Wyrd, “and I pray that it will be my last.”

  “It probably will,” said Morgana. “You do realise that Artorus wants to kill you?”

  “Why would he want to do that?” asked Wyrd. “I know he’s never liked me, but…”

  “It could be something that I just told him,” replied Morgana.

  “What?” asked Wyrd.

  “Well, you must have seen how he’s carrying on, flaunting himself in front of all the women,” said Morgana, “and he’s insufferably conceited because of winning everything, so I thought I’d tell him something that would bring him down to earth.”

  “And what was that?” asked Wyrd.

  “I’m pregnant,” said Morgana, whispering in his undamaged right ear, “and you’re the father.”

  “I can’t be,” said Wyrd.

  “You are, actually,” said Morgana. “And Artorus isn’t pleased.”

  Wyrd looked down to discover his hands were shaking.

  “How do you know it’s mine?”

  “I’m two months’ pregnant,” said Morgana. “It could only be yours.”

  “Oh no…” moaned Wyrd.

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” said Morgana. “At least it shows how virile you are.”

  “Why did you have to tell him?” asked Wyrd. “Couldn’t you just have pretended the baby was his?”

  “I could have,” said Morgana. “But I preferred not to.”

  “Why?”

  “Just a whim,” said Morgana. “And I thought it would make him even more determined to kill you.”

  “Why do you hate me so much?” asked Wyrd.

  “You can’t have forgotten that you killed my mother.”

  “Look, we’ve been through this. I thought you’d forgiven me. She was a monster.”

  “And you think I’m not?” asked Morgana.

  “No! You’re beautiful,” said Wyrd.

  “Well, well,” said Morgana. “You’re quite the ladies’ man. I notice you’re wearing two favours.”

  “Oh. Yes,” said Wyrd. “One’s from Princess Melisande and the other’s from my friend Wenda.”

  “Ah yes, pretty little Wenda,” said Morgana, mischievously. “Is she your mistress?”

  “It isn’t like that,�
� said Wyrd quickly. “We’re… good friends.”

  “Lucky you,” replied Morgana. “She didn’t want to be my friend.”

  “Look, what are we going to do about this?” asked Wyrd, indicating the princess’s stomach, which as yet showed no sign of swelling.

  “I’ll have the baby, of course,” said Morgana. “Artorus won’t mind too much, as long as it’s a boy and you’re safely dead. He’s very keen on having a son and heir, and he won’t breathe a word about it being yours as long as I don’t.”

  “So, why are you telling me?”

  “I thought you had the right to know before you died,” said Morgana. “Artorus will kill you, you know.”

  “I know,” said Wyrd. “Unless I get incredibly lucky.”

  “Luck doesn’t enter into it. The reason I know he’s going to kill you,” said Morgana, with a mischievous smile, “is that I’m going to help him.”

  ***

  “What a witch!” cried Wenda, when Wyrd told him of Morgana’s words. “Why on earth did you have to sleep with her?”

  “I didn’t actually sleep with her,” Wyrd pointed out. “I was too busy… er… Anyway, you of all people should know what she’s like. She seduced me and I sort of… Well, one thing led to another.”

  “Which led to her being pregnant and you being about to die,” said Wenda.

  “Ssh!” said Wyrd. “No one else must know!”

  “Look, Wyrd,” said Wenda, “it was bad enough when this was a fair fight. With Artorus’s strength against you and Morgana’s magic, you really don’t stand a chance. Unless…”

  Her voice tailed off.

  “What?” asked Wyrd.

  “Unless… you’ve got someone even more magical helping you,” she said.

  “Who do you mean?” asked Wyrd. “Merlin’s not here, and Osprey wouldn’t lift a finger for me.”

  “I’m not thinking of them,” said Wenda. “I’m thinking about Mrs Scraggs.”

  “But she doesn’t like me,” said Wyrd. “I know she helped me against the giant, but that was a one-off. I still think it was more because she hated giants than liked me. I don’t know why she would help me again.”

  “She wouldn’t help you,” said Wenda, “but she might help me, if I really begged her.”

  “You’d do that for me?” asked Wyrd.

  “Of course,” said Wenda.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you remember?” Wenda’s eyes sparkled merrily. “Merlin once said that you had all the makings of a great mythic hero. We can’t let all that potential go to waste, can we?”

  “Wenda, you don’t have to become involved.”

  “But I am involved, whether you like it or not,” said Wenda. “Look, just get yourself ready for the jousting, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  As Wyrd trotted Callisto into the lists, he wondered if Wenda had managed to persuade Mrs Scraggs to help him. There was no sign of either of them. He could feel Callisto sweating and felt sure that he must be, too.

  “Ready?” asked Sir Ector, who seemed to have appointed himself Wyrd’s second.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” muttered Wyrd.

  “Good show,” replied Sir Ector. “Damn fine blow you landed on that elven chap.”

  “More of a cock-up, really,” said Wyrd. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “Oh?” asked Sir Ector, disappointed. “By the way, I’m pretty sure Prince Artorus means to kill you.”

  “Why do you think that?” asked Wyrd.

  “It was something he said to me. He said ‘I want to knock that bastard off his horse, cut him to shreds and chop him into little pieces’.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes, of course it’s practically impossible to cut someone to shreds and then chop him into little pieces, but he may not have meant that part literally. Have you done anything recently to annoy him?”

  “Not recently,” said Wyrd. “More like a couple of months ago. You’re right, though: he really does want to kill me.”

  If Wyrd hadn’t already been certain of this hypothesis, he caught sight of Artorus at the other end of the lists, drawing a finger expressively across his throat and mouthing the message “You’re dead”.

  Wyrd took one last look around the crowd before he put on his helmet. No sign of Wenda. But then he lifted his head and saw her on the castle battlements. There was no sign of Mrs Scraggs, but Wenda smiled and nodded. Wyrd was still wondering what she meant, when the King called the competition to order.

  “Are you ready?” called King Otto.

  Wyrd lowered his visor.

  “Set!” cried the King.

  Wyrd took a deep breath.

  “Tilt!”

  Wyrd galloped towards the splendidly attired Prince Artorus and tried to hold his lance steady. This would have been difficult anyway at speed, but suddenly Wyrd was aware of buzzing in his helmet. Wasps were flying in through the visor at such a rate that he was blinded and grabbed at his head to remove his helmet. In another moment, Artorus’s lance would have connected with his head, but suddenly a flock of bats flew across the prince’s line of sight, knocking him off balance. Without stirrups, Artorus never stood a chance. He crashed to the ground, without Wyrd having touched him.

  “Three points to Sir Uther!” called King Otto.

  Wyrd readied himself for the second round and found Sir Ector beside him.

  “Quite a stroke of luck, those bats,” said the knight. “Especially during daylight.”

  “Extraordinary,” agreed Wyrd.

  “You’ve got a three-point lead,” said Sir Ector. “He’s going to have to knock you out in order to draw level.”

  “Or kill me,” said Wyrd.

  “Or kill you, obviously,” the older man agreed. “So, what’s it to be? The mace again, an axe or a sword?”

  “A sword, I think,” said Wyrd.

  “Here it is,” said Sir Ector. “It’s blunted at the end, so you’re unlikely to cause him any lethal injury.”

  “What’s he using?” asked Wyrd.

  “He’s chosen a sword as well.”

  “Oh,” said Wyrd.

  That wasn’t good news. Wyrd had had dozens of sword fights with Artorus over the years and hadn’t won any of them. Wyrd wondered what type of magic Morgana would use on him this time and how Mrs Scraggs – if it was Mrs Scraggs defending him – would resist it.

  “Are you ready for the second round?” King Otto’s voice boomed out from the side of the circular, single-combat arena. “Get set! Fight!”

  Artorus charged at Wyrd with a ferocity that suggested that, for the prince, revenge was a dish best served piping hot.

  Wyrd managed to sidestep the charge but looked down to discover a snake winding itself round his feet. No sooner had he hopped away from that, placing the tip of his sword on the ground to steady himself, than he noticed hundreds of red ants swarming up the blade.

  “Ow!” he cried, as the first of the ants ran over the hilt and sank its tiny fangs into his hand.

  Dropping the sword, he shook his right hand to rid himself of the ants. He looked up to discover Artorus nearly upon him. Wyrd sank to his knees, trying to use his shield to ward off the blows. Artorus slashed away at the shield until it was useless. Wyrd bowed his neck, waiting for the mortal blow.

  It was at this point that a cow fell on him.

  There was a certain amount of controversy afterwards, as to where the cow had come from. Some argued that it must have been dropped by some huge winged creature, possibly a dragon. Others believed it might have been blown there by some freak tornado invisible to the human eye. A few muttered darkly that there was magic at work. However, it caught Wyrd a glancing blow; and the outcome was clear enough.

  Wyrd was knocked out by the cow an instant before Artorus could a
dminister a death blow. While Wyrd was unconscious, the result of the second contest was adjudged a knockout, scoring three points for the prince. The score made him level with Wyrd. From the prince’s expression, however, it was clear that he felt that the cow had robbed him of the ultimate victory: slaughtering his opponent.

  In the event of a tie, there was a third round to negotiate; but after Wyrd had regained consciousness, thanks to Wenda emptying a pail of water over his head, he agreed that he was fit enough to continue. The third and decisive round was to be hand-to-hand combat, with no weapons apart from bare hands.

  “Are you all right?” asked Wenda, anxiously.

  “Well, I’m a bit wet, obviously, and slightly stunned,” confessed Wyrd. “I wasn’t expecting the cow.”

  “I had to improvise,” said Mrs Scraggs. “I thought they might produce a snake, but the swarm of ants took me by surprise. Sorry if the cow took you unawares.”

  “Not at all,” said Wyrd. “It saved my life. The prince was about to cut my head off.”

  “That’s what I thought,” replied the old witch, absent-mindedly spitting on her hands and rubbing them together. “Ready for Round Three?”

  “Not really,” Wyrd admitted. “What do you think they’re going to throw at me this time?”

  The answer came a few seconds into the third round. Rats. They came scurrying at Wyrd from all directions and ran up his legs, aiming for the bare skin of his neck. Wyrd forgot all about Artorus coming at him and started dancing about, pulling the rats off and throwing them away.

  “Stop right there!” boomed King Otto, striding into the arena.

  He gestured for Artorus and Wyrd to meet him in the centre.

  “Now lookee here,” he said, “I smell a rat.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Wyrd.

  “I was willing to overlook the bats, the snake, the ants and even the plummeting cow,” muttered King Otto, “but I draw the line at rats. I don’t want to see any more livestock around the place. I don’t know which of you is responsible for this mischief, but I want to see a fair fight from now on, with no magic. Understand?”