by Mike Ashley
Quests ridden on, and sweated and bled for, and peradventure perished in, are as multitudinous as the stars. They have been of dreams, vanities, love, ambition, hate, whiffs of temper and idle whimsy; for the Fountain of Youth, the Phoenix’ nest, unicorns with golden horns, dryads and nymphs and yet more elusive beauties, the Questing Beast which ran with a noise in its belly as of a pack of baying hounds, and was chased by King Pellinore and others of renown; and latterly the Holy Grail, which was sought by many and achieved – quite obviously with the assistance of the celestial hierarchy – by exemplary Sir Galahad.
Almost all questers rode singly, and won their places in song and story as solitary champions, but a few shared their quests and went in couples, and of these were old King Torrice of Har and his young Irish grandson Sir Lorn Geraldine. Once met, only death could break that fellowship or divide its mad adventures.
For more than a sennight they had followed tracks which had come to nothing, day after day, save narrower and rougher tracks. It was fifteen days since their last dealings with a farrier or any other kind of smith; and now, what with broken shoes or no hoof-iron at all, every horse was lame; and every man, whatever his degree, was on his own two feet. King Torrice was in a fretful humor, for pedestrianism was as foreign to his spirit as it was to his feet, and irked his soul equally with his corns. But young Sir Lorn maintained his habitual air and appearance of baffled thought and pensive abstraction, walking equably and unconcernedly. In truth, it was only when violently employed with spear or sword that he seemed to know or care how many legs were under him and at his service. Ah, but he knew then, never fear, and made the most of whatever number it happened to be!
“We’ll be carrying them on our backs before we can win clear of this cursed wilderness,” complained the King.
Next moment, one of the squires cried out and pointed a hand.
“A smithy! Look there under the great oak. Forge and anvil complete, by Judas!”
All came to a dead stop and looked, like one man and one horse: and there it was, sure enough – a rustic hut with an open front disclosing forge and bellows and anvil.
“But no smith, of course,” said the King. “He’s gone off in despair – and small blame to him! A fool he must be to look for trade where there’s no population – unless he counted on the patronage of unicorns and wild cattle.”
“Nay, sire, look again!” cried the same squire. “At the forge. Stirring the fire. But I’ll swear there was no blink of fire a moment ago!”
All except Sir Lorn gasped and gaped in astonishment, and even he looked interested; for there, for all to see, was a human figure where naught but wood and iron and the leather bellows had been visible a moment before. A lively figure, at that, with the right hand busy at the red glow in the blackness of the forge, and the left raised high to the upper beam of the bellows: and while the travelers still stared as if at a warlock, the bellows creaked and exhaled gustily, and the fiery heart amid the black coals pulsed and expanded. A piece of white-hot metal was withdrawn in the grip of long pincers and laid on the anvil and smitten with a hammer, and sparks spurted and flew.
* * *
Then King Torrice bestirred himself; with a mutter in which irritability was somewhat tempered by awe, he turned left into the ferns and brambles, and advanced upon the smithy stiffly but resolutely, with his hoof-sore charger stumbling after, and did not halt until his whiskers were threatened by the sparks. Then he spoke in a loud voice, but the tone was constrainedly affable.
“Greetings, good Master Smith! Well met, my fine fellow!”
After six more hammer-clangs of cold iron on hot, the din and sparks ceased and the smith looked up from the anvil. He too was of venerable appearance and whiskery, but most of his snowy beard was tucked out of view and danger into the top of his leather apron, whereas Torrice’s luxuriant appendage flowed broadly down his breastplate even to his belt.
“So here you are!” said the smith. “Well and good! One score and three completed, and this one will fill the tally.” He nodded toward clusters of horseshoes of various sizes dangling from spikes in a wall, then thrust the cooling iron in his pincers back into the heart of fire.
“What d’ye say?” the old King-errant gasped. “Irons ready for six horses? Even so – and I don’t believe it! – they’ll not fit my six!”
“I’ll attend to you in a minute,” mumbled the smith.
The bellows creaked and snored, and the fire glowed; and soon that piece of iron, again white as noonday sun, was back on the ringing anvil, and the sparks were flying again like golden bees. King Torrice stood silent, gawking like a boy, until the iron was beaten exactly to the smith’s fancy, and pierced for nails, and finally plunged into a tub of water with a hiss and jet of steam. Now the smith was at his horse, and old nails and fragments of old shoes and hoof-parings fell simultaneously.
“He must have six hands!” muttered the King.
Now a little hammer went tapping as fast as the sedate charger could lift and lower his feet.
“Next!” cried the smith
Sir Lorn’s great white horse came next, then the squires’ hackneys, and last the two packhorses led by grooms, but all so fast – for every ready shoe fitted – that the King and the squires began a suspicious inspection. The smith straightened his back, tossed his apron aside and uttered a cackle of laughter.
“You are wasting your time,” he said, and fell to combing his whiskers with a golden comb that appeared in his hand as if by magic. “All is as it seems, if not more so,” he added, and cackled again.
“In all my life I never saw anything like it,” said the King.
“You could forget a few things in that length of time,” said the smith.
Torrice stiffened and asked loftily: “What do I owe you, my good fellow?”
“I’ll name you a special fee, a mere token price, having taken a fancy to Your Worship,” replied the smith. “What d’ye say to paying for the nails only, and never mind the shoes and the labor? One farthing for the first nail, a ha’penny for the second, a penny for the third, and so on?”
“I can afford to pay what I owe,” said Torrice, with a royal air, “and am accustomed to paying more, so you will oblige me by stating your charge and having done with it.”
“Not so fast!” cried the squire who had spotted the forge. “What d’ye mean by ‘and so on,’ old man? Tuppence for the fourth nail and fourpence for the fifth, is that it?”
The King exclaimed fretfully: “Enough of this vulgar talk of farthings and pennies! Pay him what he asks, good Peter.”
“Nay, sir, mauger my head!” cried the squire. “I learned that manner of computation from a farrier at St Audrey’s Fair, in my youth, an’ would still be in his debt – and I had but one beast, mark ye! – if I hadn’t settled the score with my stout cudgel, there an’ then.”
The smith laughed heartily, patted Squire Peter’s shoulder and chuckled: “Spare the cudgel, friend, and I’ll be content with a horn of ale.”
“I don’t get it,” muttered Torrice. “All this jabber about nails. But let it pass.” His voice and brow cleared. “But ale you shall have, worthy smith, and a share of our supper, and three silver crowns for your pouch.”
“Gramercy,” said the smith.
The horses, all firm of foot now, were soon unsaddled, unloaded and hobbled in a nearby glade of sweet grasses to which the smith had led the way. But now the sun was behind the westward tree-tops. A small pavilion was pitched; a small keg was broached; and a fire was made of deadwood from thickets of underbrush. By the time the black pots were boiling, the smith’s horn had been replenished twice, and a white star was glinting in the east.
It was a simple supper of boiled corned beef and bacon and wheaten dumplings, barley scones and cheese and honey; and for drink there was malt ale for all, and mead and usquebaugh too for the knights and squires and thirsty guest. The smith ate and drank more than anyone else, and at the same time, did most of the ta
lking. The King, who had been taught never to drink with food in his mouth, and never to speak with his mouth full, was horrified at the simultaneous flouting of both rules of behavior: and at last he cried out a protest:
“There’s plenty of time, friend! Have a care, or you’ll choke!”
The smith laughed, and said: “I apologize for offending your quality, of which I cannot pretend ignorance, for this is not our first meeting. I would know you anywhere and at any time for what you are, no matter how small your retinue and how restricted your commissariat at the moment. But don’t misunderstand me. Your present company makes up in character and promise what it lacks in strength. This young knight is suffering from a misadventure, but the fact that he survived it with nothing more serious than a gap in his memory and a grievous void in his heart is proof that he is destined for great things.”
“What do you know of that?” Torrice interrupted, loudly and with a violent gesture.
“What I see,” replied the smith coolly.
“And what’s that? There’s nothing to see!”
“Nothing for dull eyes, you mean. But as I was saying, this is the first time I have known the munificent Torrice of Har to lack a few flasks, at least, of French or Spanish wine.”
“So you know me?” the King cried, “But I was never in this forest before!”
“Nor was I,” the smith chuckled; and while all save Sir Lorn gaped in wonder, he added: “Are you so old, my friend, that you no longer recognize the master-touch?”
The King clapped a hand to his head, and sighed and muttered:
“Merlin! I should have known it at the forge! But you were not so helpful at our last meeting – on the contrary! But that was long ago.” He stood up and did the correct thing, though still dazedly. “Duke Merlin, this is my grandson Lorn Geraldine – an Irish grandson. And these two gentlemen are our squires Peter and Gervis.”
Sir Lorn stood up and louted low, cap in hand, but no slightest flicker of eye or twitch of lip paid the tribute of recognition to that potent name. But the squires’ reaction was entirely flattering. Standing bare-headed and bowed double, Peter and Gervis regarded with awestruck eyes and blanched faces the person who had so lately shod their horses; and the uncouth fellows at the far side of the fire sat with podding eyes and hanging jaws, powerless to stir a muscle. The great magician looked around with a gratified smirk.
“Gramercy, friends,” he said. “You have heard of me, it seems – and only good, I’m sure. But sit down, gentlemen, I pray you. Let us be at ease together again.”
King Torrice said to his squire: “Peter, be so good as to fetch that flask of green glass you wot of.”
“Good Master Peter, by fetching all four flasks you wot of, two green and two brown, you will spare yourself a deal of footing to and fro,” said Merlin dryly.
“Quite,” said the King resignedly; whereupon Peter moved off hastily toward the stacked baggage.
Those treasured flasks contained potent foreign cordials, and not wine at all. The squires took their shares of the first one, then slept where they lay. The young knight went on to his share of the second flask, then retired to the pavilion on wavering legs but with unabated dignity. This left the two ancients tête-à-tête; and the talk, which had been anecdotal, changed in its character.
“A fine young man, your grandson, despite what happened to him,” said Merlin. “Bewitched, of course! His case suggests the fine and merciless art of – but why name her? She goes by more names than Satan, and has done so since before Stonehenge was set up, like as not: Lilith, Circe, Queen Mab, la Belle Dame sans Merci, the Maid of Tintagel, the Lost Lady of Caer Loyw, Fair Fiona, Dark Essylit, Weeping Rosamund, the Damosel of the Tower and as many more as I have fingers and toes, but all one and the same perilous and indestructible witch, in my opinion. There are other and lesser enchantresses abroad; and as one can never be quite sure of one’s ground in such matters, a man is well advised – aye, even such a man as myself – to avoid them all. I have taken chances, naturally – but as you see, without serious consequences.
“But my case is beside the point, considering the fact that my power of wisdom – call it magic, if you like – is greater than that of any known or recorded wizard or witch, and I doubt that I would have suffered more than a slight and temporary emotional disturbance even if I had ever fallen into the clutches of Lilith herself, under whatever guise or name. But your case, friend Torrice, is different; and I must confess that your respectable mentality – I say respectable for want of a more precise term – surprises me somewhat, after all your years of errantry. I am sure it has been by good fortune rather than by good management that you have escaped the attentions of one or more of those mischievous ladies.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said the King, unstoppering the third flask and replenishing both cups. “In my quest of Beauty, which I have followed devotedly, save for occasional domestic interludes, ever since winning my spurs, I have had many contacts with ladies, many of whom were mischievous; and I am not at all sure that some of them were not witches. I have never consciously avoided that sort of thing, but in the interests of my high quest have sought it, and even now I would not avoid the most disastrous of them all.”
“Stout fellow!” exclaimed Merlin merrily, but on a note of derision.
He laughed, but briefly. He leaned toward his companion in sudden gravity and wagged a finger at him.
“Have a care, my friend,” he cautioned. “Don’t be too cock-a-hoop about your powers of resistance and survival. You’ve been lucky, that’s all. I admit that your luck has held a long time, but I warn you that it will not last forever. That you have encountered many enchantresses in your long and comprehensive quest I’ll not deny, but I tell you – and I’ll stake my reputation on it – that every one of them has been entirely human. There wasn’t a witch in the lot. Just daughters of Eve, all of them; and even they have caused numerous deviations from your quest, and not a few considerable delays.
“Don’t think I don’t know what I am talking about, old friend, for I have followed your extraordinary course with interest ever since chance first brought you to my attention, though you have been blissfully ignorant of my surveillance most of the time. And I’ll tell you now when that was. It was a great day with you, poor Torrice – young Torrice, then – the day an old woman in a red cloak gave you a little crystal vial containing two ounces of what she claimed to be the Elixir of Life. You have not forgotten it, I see.”
“Certainly not!” cried the King. “Why should I forget it?” he demanded, with a defiant gesture in the course of which he drained and refilled his cup. “I drank it, didn’t I? And it was a long, long time ago, wasn’t it? And here I am!”
“True, my friend, here you are, and a marvel of spirit and physical fitness for a man of your age. Aye, or for one of a quarter your age. But what you swallowed that day was not the real thing – not the magical liquor you believed it to be. It was but an experimental step in the development of the true, the pure, the perfected elixir. But even so, it was not without merit, as you have proved. It has served you well so far, my friend: but it is my duty to warn you that the virtue of the stuff you drank on that May morning of the first year of your – ah, if you’ll forgive the expression, your delightfully latitudinous quest – cannot be depended upon indefinitely.”
“It was the Elixir of Life! And I am as good as I ever was!”
“Nay, not quite.”
“Not quite? What do you mean by that?”
“Calm yourself, old friend. I speak for your own comfort and guidance. I mean that the old woman in the red cloak gave you a liquor that was not the perfected article, and that you are showing signs of—”
“Not so! I’ll prove it on your person with spear or sword, horsed or afoot, if you promise to keep your unholy magic out of it! And what the devil do you know of my traffic with that old hag?”
“I abstain from all armed encounters, for the very reason that I could not
keep my advantage of magic out of them even if I would: and my answer to your question is: I was that old woman.”
Sobered as if by a bucketful of cold water, Torrice hung his head in silence. Merlin also was in no mood for further speech at the moment, but refilled his cup and sipped with a contemplative and compassionate air.
The King was the first to resume the conversation.
“But what of you? You have drunk of it.”
“Yes, when I had perfected it, I drank it,” said Merlin.
“Then I may still drink of it,” said Torrice hopefully.
“Nay, old friend, or you would live forever,” Merlin replied gently.
“Why not? You will live forever. Then why not both of us?”
“I have my wisdom to support me – magic, to you, but the greatest in the world, by any name – to strengthen and console me. You have none of it.”
“I could learn it.”
“Nay, good Torrice of Har, not in a century. Nor in a millennium, for that matter. You lack the necessary – ah! – you are not the type for that sort of thing, dear old friend.”
“Never mind the magic, then, but give me the elixir.”
“No. I don’t want to be the object of your curses throughout the ages. You have discovered a grandson and companion-at-arms. Do you want to outlive him? Consider that prospect, my friend.”
The King considered it, sighed deeply and shook his head. He stared and sat blinking at the red embers of the fire.
“How long have I left to go?” he whispered.
“Long enough,” said Merlin cheerfully. “I can’t be more exact than that,” he added: and the lie was cheerful too.
“And the end?” whispered the King anxiously.
Before replying to that, the magician pressed a hand to his brow as if in an extraordinary effort of foresight.
“I see it. Hah! Well done! Nobly done! . . . Ah, old friend, I envy you.”
“Gramercy! And the lad? What of his – How fares he – at the last?”
“Nay, I cannot see so far.”
The Smith is Gone but They Hear of a Pilgrim