Gene Wolfe - The Wizard

“In short, they would conquer Celidon for him. It would become a vassal kingdom, paying an annual tribute in treasure and slaves. His Majesty hopes to enlist Sir Able to organize and lead this army.”

“Nobody wid him!” Uns reported, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Not nobody a-tall ‘cept fer his horse, sar!”

“But he’s a knight?” the Knight of the Leopards asked. He glanced at me, expecting me to show more interest; but I was fitting a head that had been a dagger blade to the short lance I had shaped, and did not look up.

“Gold armor, sar!” Uns shaded his eyes to peer down the pass. “‘N a gold sun onna shield, sar!”

“This I must see,” the Knight of the Leopards muttered, and scaled the rocks as Uns had.

Heimir came to sit by me. “You don’t like me.”

I shook my head. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m too big.”

“How can a man be too big? He can be too big for this or that purpose, perhaps. Too big to get through a narrow door or too big to ride a donkey. But nobody can be too big or too small in general. It would be like saying a mountain is too small, or a tree too tall.”

“You like my new father better.” It was a challenge.

“I love Bold Berthold, and I love your mother because he does. Loving is different. Do you like me, Heimir?”

“Yes!”

“And I like you. Why should we quarrel?”

I offered my hand; Heimir took it, and though his was twice the size of mine he did not try to crush it.

“I’ll fight him for you,” Heimir said.

“You can’t.”

“Yes, I can. I’m not a good talker.” Heimir nodded his own affirmation. “Hela says so. But I’m a good fighter.”

“He’s alone, Heimir. There may come a time when I’ll need you to fight for me, but this isn’t it. This is my time, the time I’ve waited for.”

Heimir was silent; then, as if uncertain of what to say, he muttered, “I’ll get your horse.”

“Cloud is getting herself,” I told him.

A long bowshot above us, Uns knelt and caught the hand of the Knight of the Leopards, helping him up. Panting, the Knight of the Leopards thanked him.

“Glad ta, sar.” Uns pointed. “Thar he be, sar. Not trottin’ like wen I first seen him.”

“He doesn’t want to tire his charger,” the Knight of the Leopards murmured. “It may mean that he knows Sir Able’s here, or at least that he knows someone’s here. But what’s a lone knight doing riding into...?” The words trailed away.

“How’d he know, sar?” Uns peered as if the answer were on the pennant fluttering at the end of the newcomer’s lance.

“We see him, surely he sees us. He’s wearing his helm.”

“Yessar. Dem do make hit hard ta see, I be bound.”

“I didn’t mean that. Did you see him put it on, Uns?”

Uns sucked his teeth. “Don’t hit go da regular way?”

“I’m sure it does.” The Knight of the Leopards looked thoughtful. “Have you seen his face at all?”

Uns shook his head. “Had hit on first he come, sar.”

“Sir Able has a helm.”

“Yessar, he do, sar.” Uns was more puzzled still.

“You must have handled it, cleaning it or taking it when you unsaddled his horse. Was it heavy?”

“Oh, yessar. ‘Twas dat heavy I like ta dropped hit.”

The Knight of the Leopards nodded. “So is mine. That’s why we don’t wear them constantly. When danger’s constant, we wear the little helm—the helmet, as it’s called. It’s generally an iron cap with a cape of mail to defend the neck, and we wear it because it’s much lighter and still gives a good measure of protection. The helm, weighing three or four times as much, is put on just before battle, and only then. You say this knight’s worn his since he came in view?”

“Yessar. I’se dead sure a’ dat, sar.”

“Because he doesn’t want us to see his face? It’s the only reason I can think of, but who could he be? And why’s he trying to hide it?”

“Wal, sar, dat’s sumpin else p’cular ‘bout him, ain’t hit? ‘Sides bein’ alone like he is.”

“He’s not alone. Look down there, just coming into view. Isn’t that man leading another horse?”

Uns studied him. “Got a spear, ta, I’ll be bound, sar. Ain’t he one a’ dem squires? Like ta ya Valt? Dere’s more behind, ta, mebbe.”

“This is going to be interesting,” the Knight of the Leopards muttered; and more swiftly than he should have, began the climb back down.

“Know ye!” his herald proclaimed, “that this pass is held by two right doughty knights. They are my master, Sir Leort of Sandhill, and Sir Able of the High Heart.” He stood in the middle of the War Way with his clarion positioned to display the seven leopards of its pennon; and if the Knight of the Golden Sun or his great fallow horse impressed him, there was nothing to show it.

That knight leaned forward in his war saddle. “Am I to choose the one I engage?” His golden helm rendered his voice hollow and almost sepulchral.

“That is your right, Sir—?”

“I choose Sir Able,” the Knight of the Sun declared, and wheeled his mount to make ready.

I was in the saddle before the Knight of the Sun reached the point from which he would charge. The Knight of the Leopards caught Cloud’s bridle. “Do you know who he is?”

“No. Do you?”

The Knight of the Leopards shook his head. “It might be well to refuse until he names himself.”

“What if he refused, and rode forward?”

“We’d engage him together.”

“Winning much honor.” I shook my head, and spoke to the herald. “He waits your signal. So do I.”

The silver notes of the clarion sounded. I couched my new lance and readied my shield, things I had done in Skai a thousand times. In the moment—the empty split second before the head of my opponent’s lance struck my shield—I wondered whether the Valfather watched. Certainly he would know of this before an hour passed.

My lance struck the golden sun, and the shock seemed an explosion. Cloud staggered under the impact, and the knight to whom that shield belonged fell horse and all.

I turned Cloud, reined up, and removed my helm.

The herald was bending over the Knight of the Sun. “Yield you, sir knight?”

“No.” He struggled to free his leg from the weight of his charger. “I claim gentle right. Let me rise and rearm.”

“It will be accorded you,” the herald said. The fallen charger regained its feet and limped away.

Its owner adjusted his helm. That done, he rose—a man of great size—and appeared to search the ground for the lance he had dropped; the herald motioned to Hela, near whom it lay; she picked it up like a straw and returned it to the Knight of the Sun.

He bowed. “Fair maid, thank you. It was kindly done.”

Hela colored but said nothing.

His charger came at his whistle; he mounted, vaulting into the saddle with the help of his lance.

I had returned to the point from which I had charged. “I myself rode a lame horse to battle once,” I called, “but having no other I had no choice.”

“Nor have I any,” the Knight of the Sun told me.

“Your squire will be here soon.” I pointed with my lance. “It appears he’s leading a second charger.”

“He has a second mount for me, as you say.” The hollow voice from the golden helm was without inflection. “I have no choice but to ride this one.”

The Knight of the Leopards joined us. “You’ve engaged Sir Able. If you will not yield, you must engage me.”

“I have engaged Sir Able,” the Knight of the Sun said. “When he yields, I will engage you if you wish it.”

Catching his bridle, the herald drew the Knight of the Leopards aside. After a moment he shrugged and nodded.