Gene Wolfe: The Wizard

“It was retaken in the Forest Fight and returned to us.” A little shakily, Arnthor stood and unbuckled his sword belt. “You say you bring a gift. We’ve none to give here. But we return what is yours and reclaim our honor.” Suddenly he smiled. “The scabbard is nicely decorated. And the hilt, though primitive, is beautiful. We could not judge the blade, because we were never able to draw it. Did you not wonder why no one described the spirits of men long dead fighting beside us?”

I could not have spoken had I wished to. He handed me Eterne; and I felt that part of me, long lost, had returned. My hands acted of themselves.

Then—oh, then! Ben, Ben, how I wish that you could hear what I heard: war cries no live man knows, and the hoofs of chargers dust a thousand years. The whole pavilion, big as it was, was thronged with fell men in armors of antique mold, knights with shining faces and eyes to make a lion cower. They knelt to Arnthor, and one said, “Do you learn in this hour, O King, why the span we cross is called the Bridge of Swords?”

“We do.” For an instant Arnthor, even Arnthor, seemed to hesitate. “You may not speak the secrets of Hel.”

They nodded.

“We ask a question, even so. We hope its answer will not be among them. Though we could not draw it, we too bore the blade. Is it possible we may join you?”

Phantom voices whispered, “It may be—it may be.”

“Sheath it,” Arnthor told me.

I did and the knights faded, their deep voices still whispering, “It may be...” when nothing else remained.

“You owe us no boon,” Arnthor told me, “and we owe you many. We ask a boon nonetheless, for that is the privilege of kings. Centuries ago, an ancestor of ours wished to honor a certain knight above all others. He had already given him nobility, broad lands, and riches—so much that he refused more. They exchanged swords, the king wearing the sword that had been that knight’s forever afterward, and that knight wearing the sword that had been his king’s. We have not given you our sword. It was your sword, the sword we took from you, the sword you won from a dragon if the tales are true. Yet it’s the one we’ve worn since the Forest Fight returned it, and you have it. Will you give the sword you wear now?”

I saw then how Parka shapes our fates, and took off my sword belt, and the sword Baki had found for me. “This is the gift I intended to give Your Majesty. I give it gladly. Wear it tonight, and I’ll be honored above all others.”

He took it from me and put it on. “May we draw it?”

“You may.”

He did, and the brand gleamed in his hand as it never had for me, filling the pavilion with gray light.

“It thirsts.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. “We have heard of such things. We never thought them true.”

“Most often they are not, Your Majesty.”

“Yet it does,” he said. (I doubt that he had heard me.) “It walks in the desert and dreams of a lake of blood.

Wistan and Yond had found two points at which the river could be forded, although only with difficulty. The west crossing was the better of the two; I gave it to Arnthor, as well as the best fighters—the nobles and nearly all the knights, and Smiler and his Dragon Soldiers. I planned to take the east crossing, charging on Cloud (who would scarcely wet her belly). Toug and Rober were to ride behind me. After them, such wounded men-at-arms as could draw sword, the peasants, the Free Companies, and such Aelf as might be. We would attack first and draw the Caan’s strength.

It was a sound plan. Arnthor had agreed to wait until our attack had begun before he began his, and his men would be in the rear out of sight, giving us about fifteen minutes more. I told him that under no circumstances would we fight before sunset. In point of fact I meant to attack sooner, feeling that the more pressure I put on myself the more likely I was to succeed. It is always good to have a plan before battle, so I have found; but once battle is joined, the plan is liable to vanish like morning mist. So it was in the River Battle.

Although Arnthor’s force was to assemble out of sight of the river, I thought it prudent to station sentries along the bank, particularly at the fords, in case the enemy tried to cross; Sir Marc had charge of these. He was inspecting his men when a captain of the Osterlings shouted some insult. Rather than letting it pass in silence, Marc returned one of his own. The captain waded into the river, challenging Marc to meet him. Marc did, the captain’s men attacked him when their captain fell, Marc’s sentries ran to support him, and the fighting spread.

All that I learned later. At the time, I heard shouts and the clash of weapons; Etela ran to tell me the Osterlings had reached the south bank, where Arnthor and his knights had met them. “We’ll cross the river,” I told her, “to take them from behind. Get to safety.”

She did not, although it was some time before I knew it.

I asked Cloud to crouch so I could mount.

She looked Skaiward instead, pricking her ears to catch the voice that rolled upon Mythgarthr. I heard it too, and when she sprang into the air, cantering up a faint breeze, no thought of mine came to trouble her. I could have tried to turn her back; I knew it was impossible and did not try.

I should have taken a horse. I did not, but waded out alone. Arrows struck my hauberk. More whistled past my ear. I had been holding Eterne out of the water; I drew her.

They came from all directions, or so it seemed to me, faint to the eye but loud to the ear. Their blades could not yet kill—we were in full sun, although the sun was low. But it was no small thing to feel the bite of those swords, no phantom touch or tickle. I heard the screams, and saw men drop their spears to clutch wounds that did not bleed.

More substantial help followed: Toug and Rober mounted, with the wounded men-at-arms behind them also mounted. After them, the outlaws and peasants, running and shouting, all on foot. I had been afraid both groups would hang back, and had done all I could to support leaders who seemed eager for war; both fought far better than I expected.

Wistan and I were at their head, by no means shamed by our men. Men and women, I ought to have said, for although the women who had come with their men were not many, they fought bravely I shall come to that later, Ben, or try to.

The last of our mounted men had passed before I climbed out of the river, soaked to the waist with my boots full of water. I had meant to lead them in a wide semicircle, and to take the enemy in the rear, as I had told Etela. Now they had Toug and Rober to lead them. Both were brave, and even Toug, young as he was, had some knowledge of tactics. They might do as I had planned; but if they did not, there was nothing I could do about it.

As for me, I had this ragtag band on foot, and had to do the best I could—get Celidon a victory as cheaply as might be. For us no semicircle was possible. I decided to move left along the bank, roiling up any Osterlings we met and hitting the flank of those fording the river.

We had crossed without much opposition, in a mass that was on the way to becoming a mob. I halted it, and got them to form ranks as they had been trained to. The archers had of course held their bows above water and kept their strings dry. I put them in a line on our flank, where they could keep off slingers and bowmen. The charge of a dozen horsemen would have scattered them like starlings, but no such charge came. The horsemen had work enough already.

I put those with the best shields in front, with pikes behind them to thrust between the shields. The rest were massed behind the pikes, with Wistan to keep order and see that someone picked up the pike or shield when a buddy fell. I stayed six paces ahead, marching boldly and turning every few steps to shout orders or encouragement. We needed flags. We needed trumpets and drums. We had none, but someone (I could guess who) got the women in back singing and shouting and clapping, and maybe that was better than trumpets and drums. “Step out!” I told them. “Step out lively there!”