About thirty riders headed up the winding forest trail in single file. At first Ned had been in the rear, but after a while he spurred his mount forward, overtaking the others until he rode alongside the leader. Squinting up from his saddlebag, Fang was able to recognize Tristan, the giant who’d suffered sex with Nyneve. A sword joggled at his side. It was sheathed, so Fang could not see the wonderful blade.
Tristan glanced askance at Ned. “Ah, Ned. You look as though you could do with a good wash. This is an important battle coming up, you know. We must look our best.”
“What are your plans, Tristan?”
“What do you mean, plans?” asked the other, annoyed. “What plans to I need? We’re going to do battle with the baron, aren’t we? It’s a simple enough proposition. What’s this nonsense about plans?”
“Are we doing battle today? Time will be getting on by the time we reach Castle Menheniot. Should we camp for the night and attack at dawn? We just wondered what your intentions are, that’s all.”
“I intend to play it by ear, Ned.” Tristan’s tone was impatient. “Return to your position, please.”
However, they were emerging from the forest onto the bare fringes of the moor, and the orderly file was breaking up into a loose rabble. Men began to canter ahead, yelling with enthusiasm. It now became apparent that most had brought their dogs, and these began to dart about barking, unsettling the horses. A large, evil-looking brute suddenly spotted Fang’s head and began to leap up at the saddlebag, snarling. Fang ducked out of sight. Paws crashed against the thick leather.
“Down, you bastard!” he heard Ned shout.
“Who the hell gave permission for the dogs, anyway?” Tristan’s voice was harsh with annoyance. “My God, what kind of an army is this? We look as though we’re out after rabbits. This is hardly a force to cow the baron into submission.”
They were village dogs, with all that implied. They were not groomed and pampered dogs of the kind one might encounter in the halls of Castle Menheniot. They were dogs of all shapes and sizes, veterans of many a vicious battle, of many an ill-matched mating. They shared little in common, even down to the number of legs. They lollopped and yelped around the rabbit-infested forest fringes, filled with a simple delight at this unexpected outing. They were a joyful rabble, oblivious to the shouts of their owners.
“The dogs were Governayle’s idea,” somebody said.
“I thought we were looking a bit thin on the ground,” came the voice of Governayle. “I thought it might help swell the numbers a little. I see now it was a mistake.”
“Governayle,” said Tristan coldly, “you have made us look like a bunch of peasants.”
“I realize that now, Tristan. But I should point out this will have the effect of lulling the baron into a false sense of security. We will reach the castle walls before he realizes we aren’t just a village vermin hunt.”
“True,” admitted Tristan thoughtfully. “Although I rather liked the idea of the baron seeing a well-disciplined army advancing remorselessly across the moor. We must impress on him that we mean business.”
“One step at a time, Tristan. We need training. We need to get the women weaving suitable banners. If we’re talking armies, we’re not just talking thirty men with good intentions. We should take the time to recruit members from farther afield.”
“We’re not exactly on good terms with our neighbors, Governayle.”
“What about the Irish?”
There was a thoughtful pause. “You may have something there.”
“When we get back to the village, we should talk about it.”
Sighing, Tristan said, “All right. We’ll look on today as a raid. We’re showing the flag and testing the strength of the opposition, and demonstrating that we mean business.”
“Without giving him the chance to show us he means business. He has a lot of soldiers at the castle.”
It was late afternoon before the army of Mara Zion topped the rise that brought Castle Menheniot into view. The sprawling stone structure was situated at a bend of the wide river Tow. It commanded a good view up and downstream and across the rolling downs to the east of the moor. It was sheltered from the worst of the weather by the moor itself, and was altogether a pleasant place to live.
A moat, connected to the river, was spanned by a single drawbridge. This gave access to an opening usually barred by a heavy portcullis set in high walls topped by battlements enclosing the bailey. Within the bailey were the soldiers’ quarters, the storehouses, bakery, butchery, and a large compound for animals. The keep—a massive, circular building with slit windows—stood at the far side of the bailey, up against the river.
“The whole complex looked as though it had been there for several centuries, and intended to hold its ground for a few centuries more.
Tristan reined in his horse, which immediately dropped its head and began to graze. “Halt!” he shouted.
Awed, the hosts of Mara Zion stared down at the castle.
“Just look at the thickness of those walls,” somebody said.
“They’re not expecting us,” said Tristan in satisfaction. “The portcullis is open.”
From their high moorland viewpoint they could see over the castle walls. The whole fortress was dozing in the late afternoon sunlight. A few people moved to and fro among the clutter of cottages tucked in the corner formed by the south wall of the castle and the river. Further north, a lone shepherd drove his flock down a track to the village. The tiny, active shape of his dog herded the stragglers.
“So what do we do now?” asked Ned. “Charge?”
“This, Ned, is when we start making our plans,” said Tristan patiently. “Now we can see the lay of the land. Now we can judge the enemy’s strength. Clearly there’s little point in a frontal assault. And we must face the fact that we are probably outnumbered.”
“I could have told you that before we left the village!” somebody shouted. “They’ll cut us down like reeds!”
There was a muttering from the ranks. “We can’t stand here all night,” came a voice.
“Let’s go home.”
“We’ve made our point.”
“Shut up, all of you!” yelled Tristan. His horse, startled from its grazing, reared up and almost unseated him. “Remember the beach!”
They stared at him, puzzled. “What beach?”
“The beach where we defeated the Irish!”
“What about it?” asked Ned. “It’s just a beach.”
“I mean the occasion, you bloody fools! We were victorious then, and we can be victorious again!”
“You’re right, Tristan,” said Torre. “We can’t just leave matters like this. At least let’s ride down there and challenge them. With luck, the knights will be off fighting somewhere else. I haven’t seen anyone inside the castle. They could be totally unprepared!”
“Challenge them,” repeated Tristan thoughtfully. “That’s an idea. We won’t simply storm the castle. We’ll halt at the drawbridge and issue a challenge.”
“What kind of a challenge?”
“Any challenge will do. Just a challenge that the baron will feel obliged to reply to. Otherwise, he’ll lose face.”
“Tell him to send out his best swordsman,” suggested Ned, “and you’ll fight him man to man. Tell him that rather than have a heavy death toll that nobody can afford, we’re prepared to risk everything on a single combat. If the baron wins, we continue to pay fealty for evermore. But if not—and you’ll have the advantage of Excalibur, Tristan—the forest of Mara Zion is released from obligation.”
They all looked at Tristan.
“That’s not a bad idea, Ned,” he said grudgingly.
“And you don’t even have to mention the properties of Excalibur. Let that remain our secret weapon. Simply defeat their champion and gloat a little, as though you’d done it all by yourself.”
And so it was that a short while later Baron Menheniot himself, summoned by his guards, strode to the castle e
ntrance and confronted the men of Mara Zion.
“What do you want?” he shouted across the drawbridge.
Tristan explained the purpose of their visit.
The baron roared with laughter. “You must think I’m mad! Now go back home, all of you, and take those dogs with you! Otherwise,” he drew his sword, “I might even take it into my head to run you off myself!” He was a large man with a mop of curly black hair, bearded, muscled like a Clydesdale.
“What’s the matter?” Ned called. “Do we frighten you, Baron?”
“Just walk this way, Palomides, and I’ll show you how much you frighten me!”
“I wasn’t thinking of me, exactly,” said Ned hastily. “Our champion is Tristan.”
“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” The baron stared at his adversaries. They stared back, a motley rabble of villagers with an assortment of weapons, wearing armor that looked as though it had rotted from the bodies of a heavily defeated army. Those without swords carried pitchforks. They sat on sorry-looking variants of the equine species including three mules and a donkey. Their leader, Tristan, was possibly the most impressive of the bunch; at least he looked clean and presentable, although the effect was spoiled somewhat by a pair of dogs copulating vigorously beneath the belly of his steed. “I admire your courage,” said the baron grudgingly.
“Then send out your champion!”
The baron came to a quick decision. “By God, I will! You will face Sir Mador. Then you will return to your homes one man short, and continue to pay fealty as before, while you reflect on the futility of this day.”
“He’s just trying to scare you, Tristan,” said Governayle.
“I know that. Who is this Mador, anyway?” Tristan eyed the departing figure of the baron in some puzzlement. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Some Frenchman, I expect. It makes no difference. The French never could stomach the sight of cold steel.”
“I’ve known some skillful Frenchmen,” said Tristan, who had spent several years on the far side of the Channel. A lively discussion on the merits of the Gallic race followed, until the clear notes of a trumpet announced the arrival of Sir Mador.
His armor shone like a sunlit mere, his helmet bore a crimson cockscomb, his shield carried the eagle and wolf crest of Menheniot, his mailed hand grasped a gleaming lance, and his armored steed was hung with bright trappings, beneath which could be seen legs like spring steel.
“Looks like a well set up kind of fellow,” observed Ned.
“Pretty as a picture,” said Tristan skeptically. “Excalibur will soon chop him down to size.”
“Listen, Tristan,” said Torre nervously, “are you sure you heard the old witch correctly? I mean, there wasn’t any kind of catch, was there? Often there’s a catch with these magical gifts.”
Tristan’s reply was lost in the clatter of armor and hooves as Sir Mador and his equipment charged.
The forces of Mara Zion scattered. Fang, peeping from his saddlebag, was reminded of the way the forces of gnomedom had scattered when faced with the runaway Sharan. But—and here was the difference, he noted bitterly—Tristan stood firm.
This caught Mador by surprise, because he’d incorrectly assumed that his opponent was the biggest man there, who happened to be Torre. Now, faced with the pumping buttocks of Torre’s fleeing horse, he realized he’d been charging the wrong man. His impetus carried him on. Suddenly he found another, slightly smaller Mara Zion man riding alongside, wielding a sword of excellent workmanship. Hastily he threw his lance away and drew his own sword. Unfortunately Tristan rode on his left, and Mador was unable to bring his weapon to bear. Heavy blows smote his helmet and his head rang.
“Halt, you coward!” Mador shouted.
“I’m trying to keep up with you!” returned Tristan, swinging vigorously.
Mador reined in his mount, adding weight to Tristan’s last blow, which knocked him sideways in the saddle. In trying to recover, he dropped his sword. The weight of armor proved too much for him and, listing slowly like a stricken battleship, he toppled from his horse and clattered to the ground.
Tristan, relatively unemcumbered, dismounted nimbly and held the tip of Excalibur at his adversary’s throat. “Yield!” he cried.
By now the men of Mara Zion had regrouped and they cheered lustily. “Excalibur!” they shouted. “Excalibur!”
“I yield,” came the muffled voice of Mador. “Help me up, will you?”
“Certainly.” It took both Tristan and Torre to get Mador upright and on his horse. They escorted him back to the drawbridge and allowed him to ride disconsolately into the castle. “You saw that, Baron Menheniot?” shouted Tristan. “Your champion is beaten. Our village is free.”
The baron looked down from the battlements. “One of my champions is beaten, yes,” he agreed. “But your village is not free. For so long as I hold superior forces in Castle Menheniot, I intend to exact fealty, as the king himself empowered me to do. You’re wasting your time, Tristan. When next I come to your village to collect my dues, the question of indebtedness will not be settled by debate or by champions in combat. It will be settled by whoever has the most swords. And that is me, as you very well know.”
“And I thought you were a man of your word,” shouted Tristan bitterly.
The baron laughed. “I didn’t get where I am by being a man of my word. Grow up, Tristan. We’re not children playing games around our mother’s skirts. This is real life, and in real life might is right—as I intend to prove, if you so much as raise a whisper in dispute of fealty.”
Torre, losing patience with Tristan’s appeal for fair play, yelled, “And you might get more than you bargained for! We’re not weaklings, as you might suppose. We have allies, and we have Excalibur!”
“Excalibur!” shouted the men of Mara Zion automatically.
“‘Excalibur’?” The Baron looked puzzled. “Who in hell is Excalibur?”
Committed, Torre explained. “The magic sword. With Excalibur in his hand, Tristan cannot be defeated.”
“That’s enough of that balderdash.” The baron lost patience. “Now get back to the village this minute, or I’ll turn the guards on you.” So saying, he turned away and disappeared from sight. Emphasizing his words, the portcullis rattled down and hit the ground with a crash. Armored guards appeared behind it.
“You heard the baron!” one shouted. “Bugger off!”
Tristan gazed sheepishly at his men. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing much else for us to do, is there?”
Hanging their heads, the raiding party rode slowly home.
The Umbra approaches
“I could have told them it would be a fiasco,” said Ned the following morning. He hacked a crust from a loaf and set it before Fang, who sat on the table. “I suppose gnomes do eat bread.”
“Yes, thanks.” Fang was too polite to explain that this was much coarser than gnomish potato bread, and would probably give him indigestion. With difficulty, he tore a piece off and began to chew.
“And milk? You drink milk?” Ned passed Fang a thimbleful.
Fang would rather have had beer. His sleep had been interrupted by terrifying dreams in which huge armored knights had galloped around him, threatening to crush him. The violence of Tristan’s encounter with Sir Mador still seemed to echo through his head.
“And now Tristan’s talking about journeying to Ireland to raise an army,” Ned continued. “Well, he doesn’t fool me. His real purpose is to see that girl again—Iseult.”
“Iseult?”
“She’s the daughter of Marhaus the Irishman, and Tristan has the hots for her. And I can’t say I blame him,” admitted Ned, “because she’s a pretty piece of horseflesh. But what I do object to,” and Ned’s tone became unctuous, “is that he should deceive us all with this story about raising an army. Well, if he comes back with more than half a dozen men plus the girl, then I’m a Frenchman!”
“I like Tristan, when he’s not swinging th
at sword of his.”
“You’re just a gnome, and gnomes are not familiar with the finer points of human behavior. Hurry up and finish your breakfast, Fang, and we’ll start our quest for the unicorn.”
Fang sipped unhappily at his milk. His night of stamping hooves had been relieved by periods of wakefulness when he worried about the Sharan. He was uncomfortably aware that he’d underestimated Ned. The leather purse was a perfect prison. The drawstring was far too stiff for a gnome to force open, particularly when his hands were imprisoned inside the purse. Ned popped Fang into the bag whenever he needed to take his eyes off him. For all his pretense of friendship, Ned was taking no chances.
He was a devious character. And Fang was unaccustomed to dealing with such people. There were no devious characters in gnomedom. The Miggot was probably as devious as a gnome could get, but at least the Miggot was honest.
Fang was beginning to suspect that Ned was untrustworthy. When they found the Sharan, Ned would have no further use for him. He would dispose of him immediately, allowing Fang no chance to spirit the Sharan away. And when Ned found that the Sharan could not, after all, produce life-forms to order, he would hand the Sharan over to the villagers.
And the Sharan would be roasted on a spit over a large open fire, and her fat would sizzle in the flames. So there was only one thing for it. Fang would have to escape from Ned at the very first opportunity, Sharan or no Sharan. But how could this be accomplished? He began to consider the possibilities.
“Why are you looking like that?” Ned’s voice broke his train of thought.
“Like … like what, Ned?”
“You had a cunning look. I was watching your nasty little face, Fang, my dwarfish friend. And I saw a scared look that turned into a cunning look. You wouldn’t be thinking of running away, would you?”
“Absolutely not, Ned!”
“Into the bag you go. I don’t trust you.” Ned knotted the drawstring more tightly than usual and stood. “I’ll saddle up the horse and we’ll be on our way before you get any more funny ideas. The quest has begun, Fang!”
Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth) Page 19
