Gene Wolfe - The Wizard

We did so.

“Squires, your right hands.”

Though the distance was a good bowshot, I saw the hand of Loth’s squire shake.

That pursuivant who had repeated the Nykr King’s words lifted a clarion to his lips and blew. I settled into my saddle, and tightened my grip on my lance. Should we engage right side to right? Left side to left (as in jousting)? Or mount to mount? These questions, which for a moment filled my mind, came from Cloud. I answered, Left to left.

The clarion sounded the second time. At my side Wistan murmured, “Thunor’s blessing, Sir Able.”

It may have been ill omened, for no sooner had he spoken than so dark a cloud veiled the sun that it seemed the dead knight and I engaged by night. Loth seemed to grow larger in the gloom. His white shield and white surcoat floated spectral above a charger almost invisible.

The clarion sounded a third time; I had no need to clap my heels to Cloud.

Loth’s lance broke on my shield. Mine took him through the chest and plucked him from the saddle. I withdrew it as I rode; and it may be that most of those who watched did not realize what had happened.

He should have been slow, yet he was not. He remounted as Cloud wheeled, and drew sword. My point slipped from his helm, our mounts met chest-to-chest, and his was ridden down. Wheeling again, I charged a third time. I saw him standing like a ghost, the ichor of decay seeping from his wound, and tried to impale him again, thinking to leave my lance between his ribs to obstruct him, and to cut him down before he could free himself. It was a good plan, but none of it worked. His shield turned my point. His sword did what I would have said no sword but Eterne could, hewing my lance as a woodsman fells a sapling.

Then I feared for Cloud. In tourney, no true knight strikes the mount; in battle it is otherwise, and seeing that fell blade poised I knew what blow he intended. Cloud would have trampled him, and showed me so clearly I almost agreed.

He will take off a forefoot, I told her, and you will be as good as dead.

I slipped oft her back, and met him toe-to-toe.

His sword split my shield so deeply that it was the mail on my forearm that stopped the edge. Turning as swiftly as I could, I wrenched the sword from his dead hand. My ax bit his helm, and he fell.

Fallen, he moaned aloud. All death was in it, lonely graves in winter, the wind that leaves beggars’ bodies on the streets of Kingsdoom, and the howls of the wolves that tear the slain.

I turned and walked away, and seeing the Nykr King of Arms, with the pursuivant who assisted him, I told them that my foe claimed gentle right, which I would accord him.

Wistan came then with a new shield for me, one we had taken from Redhall, it having still its covering of cloth so that Ravd’s golden lion could not be seen. I took it, and seeing that Loth’s squire would by no means leave his place to rearm him, told Wistan that he must raise him, and give him some new weapon.

“I have none to give, Sir Able, save my own sword.”

“Give it,” I said; and when he ran to obey, I with the pursuivant’s help took Loth’s blade from my shield, although it was tightly wedged in the layered willow. Wistan raised and rearmed Loth. White-faced and shaken he returned, and I gave him the sword that had been Loth’s, a brand of watered steel. “This is yours,” I told him. “See if your scabbard will hold it.”

Returning to Loth, I made ready to continue the fight. He stepped back, raised the sword that had been Wistan’s, and cried out again. Long ago I had heard fishermen hallooing from boat to boat, and though this was sad and that was not, I felt the purpose was the same, that he saluted others and called them to help him.

I thought little of it, or thought only that I had to close quickly and dispatch him before his help arrived. I tried to, and soon found that my ax had put out an eye and he was hard pressed to defend himself when I kept moving to my right. Yet he fought as skillfully as any live man, taking blows that would have killed a living man, and fought on in the darkness and flying snow, and although he lost the arm that had held his sword, he dropped his shield and snatched the sword from his own right hand, while his arm crept over the snow to close its hand on my ankle.

They came, the dead he had called, whether from the grave or tombs above ground I do not know, some new-killed, some so long dead that Morcaine could scarcely animate them. The onlookers fled, although I paid that little mind.

For I had thrown aside the ax and drawn Eterne; and my own help came, galloping out of the snowy sky. The cloud passed and the sun shone again, making the new snow sparkle, and dead contended with dead for the honor of a living queen. Wistan and Pouk and Uns fought beside me, and Cloud kicked and trampled my foes and would have gored them, save that her horn was still too small, and Gylf raged among them, greater and more terrible than any lion.

The sun was still high when the fight ended. I wiped Eterne’s blade with such stuff as I could find, and cast the stuff away from me, for it reeked of the grave, and sheathed her at last. Arnthor sat his throne unmoved, with Gaynor fainting in his arms and Morcaine smiling beside him. Five knights with swords drawn stood before them; and I took note of them, for they were the bravest Thortower boasted, as was proved by what they did that day—Marc, Lamwell, Gerrune, Rober, and Oriel.

Morcaine called, “You have triumphed, Sir Able, and my sister-in-law with you. I own it, and her innocence.” Her lips smiled, and her eyes held a dark and terrible lust.

Arnthor nodded. “You will share meat with us tonight? I would speak with you.” His eyes, too, were the storm-black of dragons. I dropped to one knee. “Gladly, Your Majesty.”

Uns had been stabbed; the wound sucked air until we bandaged it, and he seemed weak. “I’se awright, sar. I’se awright.” That was all he said before his eyes closed. I could not heal him without betraying the Valfather, for I had pledged myself to do no such thing. Still I was sore tempted, and crouched by Uns and laid my hand on his head; and it may be that a little healing went out from me. I hope so.

We carried him back to the inn and left Pouk there to nurse him while Wistan and I made ready to dine with Arnthor and Gaynor, washing ourselves in water we heated on our fire and putting on our best clothes.

Wistan spent a long time examining his new sword, whose blade he wiped again and oiled, and whose jeweled pommel he held to every light, first to the declining sun and afterward to the fire and candles. When we were in the saddle, clean and sweet-smelling, he said, “When I’m a knight, I’ll tell my squire how I fought the dead in the Great Bailey.”

I nodded, and urged Cloud to trot.

“And how I fought the Angrborn in Jotunland in company with Aelf, and gained much wealth thereby.”

“With more by betting,” I said. “Those who ran today will be back tomorrow, and you can collect your bets.”

He nodded absently.

“Pouk will collect for Uns, I suppose, as soon as Uns is well enough to leave alone for a few hours.”

“I’ll tell him about all this, and he’ll think I’m the greatest liar under Skai.” Wistan laughed.

“He’ll soon grow older and wiser. How old are you?”

“Nearly eighteen. I’ll be a knight soon, or hope I will.”

“You’re a knight now. It’s only that no one calls you so, Sir Wistan.”

“You said something like that to Toug.”

“I did. Toug is a knight, though he doesn’t want to be. It’s not really a matter of choice.”

Wistan nodded, but did not speak.