Gene Wolfe - The Wizard

“This case is rather different. We have knights chosen not by King Arnthor but by chance. We must oppose them with champions we ourselves choose by chance. Your acquaintance with the sons of Angr cannot be great, Lady Idnn.”

“No, Your Majesty. It isn’t.”

“We thought not.” With a grunt of effort, Gilling rose, depositing Mani upon a shoulder that might as readily have held a panther. “Our magical kitty, for which we thank you again, likes to ride on our shoulder. As you see. Perhaps he rode on yours as well.”

Idnn made a small, strangled sound. “He did, Your Majesty. That is quite correct.”

“We thought so. Have you, yourself, ever ridden on the shoulder of a son of Angr? There’s plenty of room, you see.”

“No, Your Majesty. I—I would prefer not to.” The look Beel gave Idnn was almost savage.

“Nonsense. You’ll enjoy it.” Gilling grinned. “What’s more, your view of our little trial by combat will be as good as our own. But first, chance shall choose our champions.”

He looked around at the assembled Angrborn. “The lot will fall on those in presence alone. Anyone who fears to face these knights may leave now.” Not one stirred.

Gilling strode to the laden mules; it was all poor Toug could do to stand his ground.

“This little creature still labors under his entire burden.” Gilling had halted at the last mule, which shied nervously. “Let us relieve it.”

Thick fingers snapped the pack ropes like string, and Gilling reached inside. “What have we here? Why this is prime! A dirk of useful size, with a hilt of gold? Is that correct, Lord Beel?”

Beel bowed. “Your Majesty is never otherwise.”

“A sparkly purple stone of some sort on the pommel.” Gilling held the dirk up. “All sorts of pretty gems on the sheath. Agates, or so we judge them, and tourmalines, and Vafthrudnir himself could not say what else.”

“Red jasper, Your Majesty,” put in Thiazi.

“We will allow it,” Gilling declared, “and a dozen more, all pretty and some few valuable.” He waved the dirk aloft. “He who catches this shall face the knights from the south.”

His throw carried it so high it struck the ceiling, from which it fell like a comet. Every Angrborn sprang to his feet, and a hundred huge hands grabbed for it. (For a moment Toug felt that all those hands belonged to one monster, one beast with a multitude of heads and arms and glaring eyes.)

There was a mad scramble in which it seemed Beel’s party might be crushed. Idnn would have fled, but Gilling caught her up like a doll and raised her to his shoulder.

Wistan caught Toug’s arm, saying, “We’d better saddle their horses.”

“Here’s a nice brooch to hold whatever kind of clothes you fancy,” Gilling announced as the two squires hurried out. “It’s got a big bad bear on it, all worked in gold. Whoever catches it—”

Together the two squires found the stables, upbraided the blind slaves there for the way the horses had been treated, and readied Garvaon’s charger and Svon’s Moonrise. But when they tried to lead them into the courtyard, they were turned back by Thrym.

“No horses! They fight on foot. Those are the king’s orders.” Seeing the bow-case and quiver Toug carried, he added, “No bows neither.”

Wistan argued, but Thrym shouted him down. “Take those rabbits away or I’ll kill them. Them and you.”

“I’m senior squire,” Wistan told Toug hurriedly. “Take the horses back. Tell the blind men to unsaddle them, and get yourself back here as a quick as you can.”

Toug did. The courtyard (when he was able to slip between the thick legs of Angrborn) was lit by a few torches in brackets, and seemed bright after the filthy darkness of the stable; yet it was badly lit in comparison with the great hall in which Gilling had received Beel, and the few stars that gleamed fitfully through the streaming cloud combed by Utgard’s towers did less than the torches to warm it.

Gilling was standing in the center, with Idnn on his shoulder and Mani on hers. “—our borderers. We knew them, and they served us. You knew them as we did, many of you. Now they lie dead, slain by these two and their friends.”

His listeners growled; and Toug felt, as he had in the banquet hall, that they were in truth but one great beast.

“They’re good fighters,” Gilling continued. “Don’t be fooled by their size. As we were coming out here, Skoel and Bitergarm promised us they’d gut them like salmon. If they do, we’re well rid of them. But if they don’t, we mean to take them into our service.”

There were angry protests, and Gilling thundered for silence. “We can use good fighters, especially little ones. How many of you want to serve the crown in the hotlands?”

No one spoke.

“We thought so.” Gilling pointed to Beel. “Are the knights you brought us ready?”

Master Crol stepped forward. He was wearing his tabard, with Beel’s arms embroidered on front and back, and had his silver trumpet tucked beneath his arm; even by torchlight his face looked white. “Your Majesty.” He bowed. “Sir Garvaon and Sir Svon wish to protest the terms of combat.”

For as long as it took Toug to fidget, Gilling glared; yet Crol stood his ground. On Gilling’s shoulder, Idnn, whose head was something higher than Gilling’s own, stooped to whisper into his ear. He shook his head violently.

“They ask to be permitted—”

“Silence!” Gilling raised his hand. “You accuse us of cheating.”

“No such thought crossed my mind, Your Majesty” There was a tremor in Crol’s voice, slight yet noticeable.

“That we will not permit. Who brings the accusation? You yourself? The little fellow King Arnthor sent?”

“No one, Your Majesty. No one at all!”

Gilling smiled. “All of you, then. Let us explain. We could’ve pitted our best against your knights. It wouldn’t have been fair, so we didn’t do it. You saw us choose. Man to man, with the same arms. That would have been fair—fair to everyone. Man against man and sword against sword. Some of you deny that we’re men.”

In his heart Toug said, “Yes, some of us do, and I’m one of them.”

“So we allow your knights armor to compensate for their small stature and puny strength. Now you want more. Well, you won’t get it. Thiazi!” Thiazi hastened to Gilling’s side.

“Stand here. When you hold up your rod, both sides make ready. When you drop it, the battle starts. Is that clear?”

Crol took a step forward. “We seek Your Majesty’s solemn assurance that there will be no interference by spectators.”

Gilling’s fist, as large as a man’s head, struck Crol down. For a few seconds he trembled; then he lay still, his heavy, middle-aged body twisted, quartered lamiae and lilacs seeming to writhe upon his back.

“Heed this!” Thiazi raised his staff as if nothing had happened. “When I strike the ground, let the combat begin.”

Toug whispered, “I brought your helm, Sir Svon.” He held it out. “Don’t you want it?”

Svon shook his head. His sword was drawn, its blade glinting in the torch light. “You’ll win,” Toug whispered. “I know you will.” Svon did not reply; his eyes were fixed on Crol’s body.

Gilling’s voice echoed and reechoed from the icy stones, drowning the whistling wind. “Everyone prepared? Speak now, or Thiazi’s staff comes down.”

To Toug’s surprise, Svon spoke. “To kill a herald is to cast aside every usage of war.”

The watching Angrborn laughed, and Gilling joined them as Thiazi’s golden staff struck the stones.

Skoel and Bitergarm lumbered forward, Skoel wielding his huge weapon with one hand, Bitergarm swinging his with both. Shoulder-to-shoulder, Garvaon and Svon advanced to meet them. A moment later, Svon’s shield blocked a blow that knocked him to his knees.