Gene Wolfe - The Knight

A cook sitting near the maid said, “Do we get to choose the man-at-arms we want?”

“Stand up.” I gestured. “The rest can’t hear you.”

The cook rose, somewhat embarrassed. “You said that each two or three of us would have a man-at-arms to teach us. Do we get to pick which one?”

“Or an archer. No. They get to choose you.”

The servingman who had stood up first stood up again. “I just want to say I’ll fight, if you’ll give me weapons.”

I said, “When Lord Beel heard I’d killed an Angrborn, he asked how I did it. I told him with arrows, and he wondered how I could see to shoot, since we’d fought them at night. I explained that they’re so big that they could always be seen against the night sky—so big I’d have found it hard to miss.”

I held up my bow. “I made this. I didn’t make all my arrows, but I made the best ones. There are trees here, trees tough enough to bend under the mountain winds and stand up again when the wind dies. The Angrborn took a lot of the treasure we had, but they left us a lot in the way of iron grates and pots and bronze fittings for the pavilions. The man who shoes our horses and mules can shape those things into arrowheads, and you’re sitting on more rough stones to sharpen them with than you’ll ever need.”

I shut up to let them think about that. The sun had nearly set, and the grave markers on the hilltop cast long shadows that seemed to reach toward us like so many fingers.

“Some of you may be helped by the Fire Aelf,” I said. “I hope so. If you are, listen carefully to everything they tell you. They’re good metal workers.”

The mountains had dwindled to hills before I camped, high brown-and-yellow hills whose sand-colored stones were masked by dead grass. I had ridden—and walked while I led the limping stallion—until the sun was down, hoping for water and wood. The water hole I finally found held water nearly as thick as mud, but the stallion drank it thirstily.

I tied him to his own saddle, spread his saddle blanket on the ground, and laid another blanket over it. A fire would have been nice, but a fire might have caught the dry grass and burned half the world. That was how it seemed, anyway: a barren land that went on and on like the sea.

Besides, there was no wood.

After that, for what felt like hours, I lay shivering, wrapped in my cloak and the other blanket, looking up at the stars and hearing only the slow steps of the grazing stallion and the soft moaning of the wind.

It was late summer. Late summer and warm weather at Duke Marder’s lofty gray castle. Warm weather in the Bay of Forcetti. There would be no ice in that bay for months.

Sweltering late summer in the forest where I had lived with Bold Berthold. The bucks would have begun to grow antlers for the mating season; but those antlers would have a lot of growing to do still, weapons of gallant combat still sheathed in velvet. Knowing that summer lingered along the Griffin had brought me little comfort, and my mail even less. I was on the northern side of the Mountains of the Mice now, far north of the downs, and I believe at an elevation a good deal higher than that of the smiling southern lands.

Waves crashed against a cliff, and I leaped and sported in them, together with the maidens of the Sea Aelf, maidens who save for their eyes were as blue everywhere as the blue eyes of the loveliest maids of Mythgarthr, fair young women who sparkled and laughed as they leaped from the surging sea into the storm that lit and shook the heavens.

That lit and shook Mythgarthr. Why had I not thought of that? I rolled over, seeking to close blanket and cloak more tightly about me.

Garsecg and Garvaon waited on the cliff, Garvaon with drawn sword and Garsecg a dragon of steel-blue fire. The Kelpies raised graceful arms and lovely faces in adoration, shrieking prayers to Setr; they cheered as a gout of scarlet flame forced Garvaon over the edge.

He fell, striking rock after rock after rock. His helmet was lost, his sword rattled down the rocks with him, and his bones broke until a shapeless mass of armor and bleeding flesh tumbled into the sea.

I woke shuddering. My sea was this rolling expanse of dust-dry grass, lit by a fading moon lost among racing cloud. The cliff from which Garvaon had fallen was the Northern Mountains now, mountains my stallion’s hooves had somehow transformed into southern mountains; and the Kelpies were nothing more than a shrieking wind.

Shivering worse than ever, I tried to sleep again.

The Armies of Winter and Old Night advanced across the sky, monstrous bodies lit from within by lightnings. A flying castle, a thing no larger than a toy, barred their way—and barred their way alone. From its walls a thousand voices pleaded: Able! Able! Able ...

But I slept upon the downs while these greater Angrborn brandished spears of chaos and bellowed hate.

I woke, and found my face wet with rain. Thunder shook the sky, and white fire tore the night. A wave of driving rain wet me like a wave of the sea, and another, and another.

There was no place to get away from the rain, no shelter anywhere. I tightened the studded chin-strap of my helmet and covered my head with the hood of my cloak, blessing its tightly woven wool.

I could not see. It might be night, it could be day—I had no way of knowing. The chain around my neck was held by a staple driven into a crevice in the wall. Once I had tried to pull it out, but I did not do that any more. Once I had shivered. I did not do that any more either.

Once I had hoped some friend would bring me a blanket or a bundle of rags. That the seeing woman who had been my wife once would bring me a crust or a cup of broth. Those things had not happened, and would never happen.

Once I had shivered in the wind, but I had disobeyed, and would shiver no more. I was sleepy now, and though the snow brushed my face and crept up around my feet, I was not uncomfortable. There was no more pain.

Something rough, warm, and wet scrubbed my cheek; I woke to see a hairy, familiar face as broad and as brown as my saddle peering into mine. I blinked—and Gylf licked my nose. “Time to get up. Look at the sun.” It had climbed halfway up a cloudy sky.

“Found him.” Gylf wagged his tail with vigor. “I can show you. Want to go?”

“Yes.” I threw off my blanket; I was dripping wet but only moderately chilled. “But I can’t, not now. I have to delay the Angrborn—and clean my armor and talk to you.”

“All right.” Gylf lay down. “Sore paws anyhow.”

“But first of all, I have to find my horse. He seems to have strayed during the night.” I got up and looked around, my hand shielding my eyes from the sun.

“Upwind. I smell him.”

After half a mile, the track of the dragged saddle was so plain that even I could follow it. Snarling and snapping, Gylf held the stallion until I could grab its tether.

Back at the water hole, I pulled off helmet and hauberk and got rags and a flask of oil from a saddlebag. “I didn’t have these when you and I were lost in the forest,” I told Gylf, “but I’ve learned since. Being a knight’s like being a sailor. You pay for the glory and freedom by oiling and scrubbing and patching and polishing. Or you don’t get to keep them.”

“Those were the days.” Gylf rolled in the wet grass, rose, and shook himself.

“You liked it on the ship?”

“In the woods. I liked that. Just you and me. Good smells. Hunting. Fires at night.”