Gene Wolfe - The Wizard

“You know my master’s name—Sir Leort of Sandhill. I have declared that I act for him who overmatched him, Sir Able of the High Heart. I would know your own master’s name and that of his manor, for with so much gold at his command he cannot but have one, before we speak further.”

But speak further they did, with that overcareful avoidance of rancor characteristic of heralds, before the herald of the Knight of the Leopards returned to me.

“His master he styles the Black Knight,” the herald explained, “and will not name him. Nor will he state his master’s business, nor denote his castle.”

I stroked my chin.

“A manor I called it, though I’d seen the broad pennant. I hoped to sting him, but it availed nothing.”

“He is a knight banneret?”

“Or greater. He offers twenty gold pieces.” The herald cleared his throat. “I examined them. He insisted on it.”

I waved the gold aside. “He may not pass. Tell his herald . . .”

“What is it, sir?”

“That if his master wishes to ride north, he must engage me or go by another road.” I paused. “I was thinking of Sir Woddet’s herald. What was his name?”

“Herewor, sir.”

“He left four days ago. Did they meet him on the road?”

“They did not. He may have met with mishap, sir. Let us hope they came by a different way.”

“We must ask them when the fighting’s over. Your master has not returned?”

“No, sir. Should I send a hobliar after him, sir?”

“I doubt that it’s needed.” I cupped my mouth as the Knight of the Leopards himself had not long before. “Sentry! To the north?”

“Your servant, Sir Able!” The sentry’s mailed arm caught sunlight as he waved. “What do you see of your master?”

“Ridin’ slow with the traveler!”

I nodded and waved.

“Tell the Black Knight I’m ready to engage him.”

The herald was visibly unhappy. “I must speak before you do, Sir Able. First the gold—”

“I don’t want it.”

“Twenty pieces of eastern gold, broad and fair, every one of them. I bit two, sir, and they were soft as leather. The head of some caan on every one.”

“Does Sir Woddet know him? Or any of Woddet’s party?”

“I don’t know, sir. Shall I ask?”

I nodded; Uns, who had come up while we were speaking, said, “I’ll do hit, sar. Right smart ta.”

“I’ll go with him in a moment, by your leave, sir,” the herald said, “Sir Woddet may not like talking to such a hind. But first, sir, I must tell you this Black Knight fights to the death and only to the death. He accords no gentle right, and thus—” The herald took a deep breath and plucked up his courage. “You’re not bound to engage him, as I see it. To fight to the death is war, and no proper trial of arms.”

I smiled. “Sir Woddet was of this knight’s mind also. Does that not seem strange?”

The herald began to speak, thought better of it, and hurried away.

Cloud took three steps forward, and I saw in my mind’s eye my own image charging with couched lance. “Nope,” I whispered, “nor should I tire you like this with my weight.” I dismounted, and side by side Cloud and I advanced until the Black Knight’s herald was in plain view, and the Black Knight also, waiting a long bowshot off beside his black charger.

“He has a skull for a crest,” I explained to Cloud. “That’s a human skull.”

Gylf, who had followed us, grumbled, “Cat pride.”

“It’s boyish,” I agreed. “We should get on well.”

“To scare you.”

“Of course. Only I’m not scared. Do you remember how I told you not to interfere when Sir Woddet and I engaged? You’re not to interfere in this either. Would you like me to have Uns chain you up?” I turned to whisper to Cloud. “You’re not to treat this knight as you treated Sir Woddet.”

In my mind, Cloud stood riderless, her head down.

The Black Knight’s herald was waving. “Sir Able! My master is ready to engage. Are you?”

“Soon, I hope!” Uns and our own herald were returning. As I watched them,l caught sight of Idnn and the Knight of the Leopards. I waved, and both waved in response, she with a white scarf.

“Dey’ll aw talk, sar.” Uns arrived first, breathless and panting. “‘Cept fer him ‘n he won’t look me inna face.”

“I see.” I had a hand on the pommel and a foot in the stirrup. “What do the others say?”

“Nothin’, sar. On’y dey say hit ‘n he won’t.”

“They know nothing of a Black Knight, sir,” announced our herald. “So they say, and I credit them. Sir Woddet surely knows, but he’ll no more tell me than Uns here.”

I mounted. “I’ll ride to that rock that crowds the road, and turn. When you see me lift my lance, I am ready.”

Awaiting the signal, I searched my memory. The Black Knight was known to Woddet; that was certain. Woddet had ridden untold leagues to defeat me, so that I would not have to face the Black Knight. Woddet was a friend, but who was this knight he’d feared would kill me? I tried to recall the knights at Sheerwall. I could remember only the knights who had been my companions in the Lady’s hall, the knights in the Valfather’s castle. Sir Galaad, Sir Gamuret...

No. Woddet had been willing to kill me if necessary to keep me from fighting this Black Knight.

Clarion and trumpet sounded, their clear, shrill notes echoing from snowy rocks. I couched the lance I had shaped from spiny orange and heard above the thunder of Cloud’s hooves the whistle of wind in the carved dragon on my helm.

The Black Knight’s point, directed at the eye slits of that helm, dropped at the final moment, striking my shield with force enough to stagger Cloud. My own point struck the pommel of his saddle, and the black charger was overthrown, crashing to the roadway.

I reined up, dismounted, and gave Uns my lance. The Black Knight lay motionless, and I noticed (in the way you notice a hare between two armies) that the skull had broken, losing part of an eye socket.

Then our herald was kneeling beside the Black Knight and asking again and again whether he yielded.

The black charger struggled to its feet; even with its pommel half torn away, its war saddle held the Black Knight still, though he drooped in it so that he was sure to fall. I tapped the herald’s shoulder. “Enough. He’s wounded or dead. Let’s help him if we can.”

Woddet and Hela were at my elbow by then, Woddet with eyes wet with tears. The three of us lifted the Black Knight from his saddle and laid him on the frozen roadway. Although he could scarcely talk, Woddet managed, “Will you remove his helm, Sir Able? Or should I?”

I shook my head. “Will you, Hela? A favor to us both?”

She did. “He is not slain, good knights. See his eyes flutter? Life stirs still.” The Black Knight’s face was pale as death, and his hair and beard were white: Woddet and I fell to our knees beside him. Berthold was groping the fallen knight with his stick. Hela told him, “He is as old as you, Father, and a noble face.”

His herald began, “Know you that my master is none other than—”

The Black Knight completed the thought in a voice stronger than anyone could have expected. “Duke Marder of Sheerwall.”

“Your Grace.” I bowed my head. “I did not know.”

“Nor were you meant to, Sir Able. Are you landless still? And penniless, too?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You need not—Sir Woddet? What are you doing here?”

“He rode ahead of Your Grace,” I explained, “fearing I might kill you.”

“You overcame him.” Marder tried to sit up, and with Hela’s help succeeded. “I wished to test you, Sir Able. To see if you could be tempted, mostly. You passed both tests.” He coughed. “I myself failed the second, alas.”