Swan Knight's Son

by John C. Wright

  Forth from the pine trees now came a woolly mammoth white as snow, and on his back was a tower where a throne of white glass was erected. On the throne was a figure in a dark mantle. His mask was a featureless visor of white metal, and his crown was a rack of antlers.

  All about his person strange lights like St. Elmo’s Fire or Will-o’-Wisps were seen. He raised his black scepter, and, at that motion, a chariot pulled by a polar bear and carrying the banner of the white wolf rolled forth into the empty field between the two armies.

  The king in gold and green raised his hand, and the chariot pulled by the lioness and carrying the banner of the lioness likewise came forth.

  A youth in white standing in the chariot of the bear winded a semicircular trumpet of brass and called out in a clear voice, “The High King of Winter, Imperator of Elfinkind, Erlkoenig of Evergreen, hath decreed that the cold and dark shall descend upon the cities of men before its season this year, the first snow to fall on the Feast of Martin, and the crops be poor so that the wealthy nations of the earth wax fat and proud while the poor quarters starve in despair and misery, given over to envy. Such is his decree!”

  The herald in the lioness chariot winded his trumpet and called, “The King of the Summer Country, Alberec of the Leaves, calls rogation and defiance and says the winter snow shall not fall until Candlemas, that the warmth of the world shall grow and the cities of men suffer floodwaters. All plagues and bugs and pests that thrive in the overwarmth shall be unleashed on mankind, much to their hurt, that they may blame their benefactors, that ire and hate, riot and tyranny, descend upon the fools.”

  The youth in white called out, “Then His Imperial Majesty Erlkoenig of Evergreen, the High King, calls insubordination, breach of peace and insolence upon His Majesty, Alberec the King, and will prove the same by force of arms; no untoward nor uncouth practice shall be permitted here, nor chanted spell, nor sleight, nor miracle of the dark arts, but feats of arms alone! Let he who cannot hold the field yield him gracefully and without reserve!”

  “So be it! Summertide accepts the terms!”

  “The wood and wind, running stream and starry welkin are the witnesses! Look to yourself, thou wicked and stubborn-hearted King!”

  The horses neighed, and lions roared, and bears growled, and all the chivalry of the gathered elfs sang and chanted a paean of war.

  The two lines of knights readied themselves, and, at the signal given, charged. The lines met. Horses reared. Spears broke, showering sparks of moonlight. Riders were thrown headlong. The warriors drew their great swords, maces with heads like comets, or slender axes with long necks, and lashed with grace and fury. Blood and ichor flowed from steed and cavalier, and all was uproar.

  Gil climbed a tree to get a closer look. Nerea crouched near the bottom of the tree and called up in a soft voice, “Now you have seen the knights of the seelie court and the unseelie. Come away now! I had not known the kings would be here!”

  Gil was staring avidly, astonished at the spectacle. The bear-riders had broken through the line of chivalry at one point, and swift riders with crests of holly whose spearpoints shined with moonlight rushed in the gap, turning left and right to take the knights crowned in the flowers and feathers of summer in the flanks.

  The chance of battle pushed the melee to one side of the field, and now it was practically under Gil’s feet. Had he dared, he could have leaned down and touched the brilliant plumes of the struggling warriors.

  Nerea climbed quickly up the branches and clung to the far side of the bole, not daring to look out, as the shouts and screams, beast-roars and clash of metal sounded just below her naked feet, and the dreadful, clear-voiced singing of the elvish knights, who chanted paeans and poems as they slew.

  7. The Knights of Rose and Mistletoe

  One stalwart knight, he who had been in the front rank and bore the heraldry of the red rose, came charging in, but had his horse slain under him. A knight adorned from head to spurs in gold and bearing the crest of the she-lion in his helm, came to the aid of the rose-red knight and levered him free from his horse, all the while striking left and right with a mighty sword, and no knight in the pale and sable of the Winterking dared approach. The rose-red knight came to his feet and fought on foot and rushed against one of the bear-riders.

  They were close enough to where Gil hid that he heard their words. The rider on the bear had a mistletoe on his shield and an ermine studded with white diamonds rearing from the peak of his helm. He called out to the rose-red knight, “Withdraw! There is no shame for an unhorsed rider to stand away from battle!”

  The rose-red knight called back, “I defy you! Face my blade, which is named Perledor!”

  The first called, “That name is known to me: a valiant blade. And yet with ease might I charge and trample thee, Knight of the Roses.”

  “Who treads the rose shall feel its thorns, Knight of the Mistletoe!”

  The Knight of the Mistletoe laughed and dismounted and lightly tossed his spear aside, instead drawing his own sword, which was made of black metal, in which silver runes curiously wrought caught the lantern-light and shined. “You are brave, sir! Then let us meet blade to blade, equally, that if you fall none will demean my name.”

  “Well spoken, sir!” said the Knight of the Roses and saluted his foe with his sword.

  The two clashed, their blades ringing like bells, and the moonlight reflected from their silver armor grew brighter. Their shields were soon marred and dented, coats slashed, mail shirts torn, and copious ichor, brighter than mortal blood, steaming with heat, flowed from many wounds.

  The Knight of the Roses dealt a ferocious blow to the helm of the other. The Knight of the Mistletoe staggered and fell to one knee.

  “Gentle right!” called the kneeling Mistletoe Knight. “Will you grant me the gentle right?”

  The Knight of the Roses was blowing and panting and did not answer but staggered with weariness. Another of the Winter Knights, crowned in a wreath of holly, seeing all this, galloped forward on a doe, lance ready, singing a death hymn, but the Knight of the Mistletoe called out, “Avoid! Avoid! This fight is mine!”

  The Holly Knight reigned back his steed so sharply that she reared on her hind legs. The Holly Knight called, “Are you mad? He will defeat you! You are fallen! Forbid me not!”

  “Back!” called the bleeding, kneeling knight.

  “Proud folly!” shouted the Holly Knight. “The shadows will claim you this night!”

  The Rose Knight called to the Mistletoe, “What is your name, Sir Knight?”

  “I am Balin of Darkmere, youngest son of Bolverk. This sword is Woebrand, and it was forged by Weyland in Ultima Thule.”

  “I am Callidore son of Coll. You are of gentle blood. Rise. I will not strike until you have found your feet.”

  The Mistletoe Knight stood, pale ichor dripping from his arms and legs, leaning on his black sword.

  Sir Callidore called, “Look to yourself!”

  Sir Balin called, “I am ready!” and with a great groan lifted the black sword on high. But Sir Callidore of the Roses smote so fiercely the blade was dashed from his hands, and, falling, smote a stone, and broke in two pieces.

  “I shall not yield!” called Sir Balin.

  “Folly!” shouted the Holly Knight.

  But Sir Callidore put his own blade, pale and shining Perledor, across his forearm and proffered it hilt first to his foe. “Sir, if you will not yield, nor will I disgrace you by granting you an unasked mercy. Take my blade, and we shall continue.”

  The Holly Knight said, “Ask for quarter, Son of Bolverk! Yield yourself, Sir Knight, for his might is greater than your own, as is his prowess!”

  But instead Sir Balin of the Mistletoe took up the white sword. “I vowed to my father neither to retreat nor beg quarter this night. I cannot take back my word. Yet will you battle with nothing but a misericorde in your gauntlet, Sir Callidore?”

  Gil saw that Sir Callidore had drawn a long knife from h
is belt and was prepared to do battle with it.

  At this, the Holly Knight dismounted from the deer he rode, and came, and knelt, and proffered his sword to Sir Callidore. “I see you are a true knight of noble blood! Let it not be said that a Knight of Erlkoenig fought a man armed only with a dirk. This blade has no name, but after this night, poets shall call him Deathgift.” The sword was adorned with holly leaves about the hilts and rubies shaped like holly berries in the pommel.

  So the fight continued. Other knights looked on, but none interfered. By strange mischance, it was Callidore who fell, struck through the heart. He called out, “I am undone! Mine own blade takes my life which so long defended it! Sir Knight! To you I yield my steed and sword and armor, as is yours by right of victory. Other goods and lands, have I none. Sir Knight, see to my widow, Pastorella. I leave her in penury.”

  Sir Balin knelt and cradled the dying man’s helm in his lap. “Let the stars witness mine oath unbreakable! Never shall I feast when she is in want nor call two coins mine own save one is in her hand. So swears Balin of the blood of Bolverk! And may all shame until the end of time be mine and my blood if I am forsworn!”

  And he doffed his helm, and removed that of the dying man, his enemy, and kissed him on the cheek a peaceful kiss. Callidore breathed no more. And Balin sobbed.

  Knights now came forward, awed and silent, and laid the corpse upon their spears, knights in green and gold upholding the right side, and knights in silver and sable upholding the left, deadliest foes putting aside their quarrel to honor the fallen.

  And slowly they walked from the battlefield, bearing the dead knight gently aloft, and the floating lamps of gold or black, gleaming ruby or emerald, followed after.

  8. The Discovery

  Where the procession passed, battle was halted, clang of sword and battlecry fell silent. Friend or foe alike solemnly flourished lance or sword before his eyes to salute the dead, or lifted his visor on the backs of his fingers, or doffed his plumed helm entirely.

  The lanterns that descended to follow the procession were now low enough to cast light into these open helmets.

  For the first time Gil saw the elfin features. Their faces were those of youths, but fairer and nobler, unblemished and without spot or mole, with eyes shining with cruel wisdom. A strange and wild spirit hung about them like an inaudible music. Some were fairhaired, or dark, or had hair of blue or green, hues not found among men. Many were sharp-featured, with high cheeks and pointed chins and ears.

  Not all had human faces. Gil was puzzled to see the face of a red-whiskered fox with a pointed muzzle and white teeth peering from the helm of one knight; another had the brutal features and blue cheeks of a baboon. Some who removed their helms had horns or antlers Gil had thought were part of their helmet crest.

  Unfortunately, as the lanterns floated down to stream through the air after the procession, they passed near the tree where Gil sat, and the fighting in that quarter of the battlefield had ceased and was silent. So it was that when one sharp-eyed knight pointed at the tree and gave a cry, it was loud in the silence, and many eyes turned toward Gil, and the beams of the lamps of green and scarlet turned toward him, too. He was transfixed, as if with a dozen spotlights.

  “Whoops,” he whispered.

  Nerea slid from the tree to the ground with acrobatic grace and began running with lithe, swift steps downslope toward a nearby stream. Gil came down from the branches more clumsily but just as swiftly when the tree branch to which he clung suddenly sagged and gave way. The branch broke, and he dropped.

  There came a harsh cry from behind him. He saw one of the Winter Knights, a shape in silver armor mounted on a polar bear, bearing down on him, deadly lance-head pointing toward Gil’s chest, with all the speed and weight of the charging beast behind it. Gil still had the branch in his hand, a long and stout length of wood. He parried the lance head, knocking it aside just enough so that it passed to one side of his body without piercing him.

  Then, remembering his lessons, he played dead and flung himself on the ground. The rider, startled, reined up short.

  Gil leaped to his feet, waved his treebranch overhead, and shouted an earsplitting shout. The bear steed reared up, shocked. With the branch, Gil smote the bear at the tender part of the neck just below the jaw, with all the force of his body, shoulders, and arms, just like a batter’s best homerun swing. The bear-steed stumbled and threw the rider, who fell over the bear’s head into a thornbush, and yowled.

  Gil knew it would be wiser at this moment to run, perhaps to outdistance the bear on the steep downward slope leading toward the stream (for they were no longer in the flat meadow where the battle had been), but he did not run.

  Instead, he tightened his grip on the stout branch in his hand and stood his ground.

  The bear was rearing up on its hand legs and roaring. The elfin knight called on the thornbush to release him, and the branches moved and thrust the knight upright.

  He faced Gil. In one hand was a shield painted with the image of a leafless tree, and in the other a pale sword. In the moonlit gloom, the eyeholes of the helm seemed as empty as the eyes of a skull.

  Of a sudden three more knights crashed through the brush toward them. One was mounted on a horse; the second rode the strange deer-headed steeds of the elfs; the third, a ram. The steeds and men wore matching livery of silver and azure with the image of a winged gold cup. But each shield bore a different charge along the upper border: the first a crenellated label, the second a crescent, the third a star.

  The first spoke, “My brother Sir Lamorak! My brother Sir Dornar! Behold a wonder: Sir Grimnir of the Dry Tree honors this ruck of common clay by dismounting to fight him afoot. The noble courtesy of Sir Bolverk so recently displayed has inspired this clownish mock!”

  The second said, “Well spoken, Sir Aglovale: for I see the son of dirt repays the courtesy by assisting him dismount!”

  But the third spoke in a bitter tone, “Jest not. This wretch and villain must be enchanted now or slain, for he uncouthly and knavishly smites the mount, not the man.”

  Gil shouted at the third rider, “Who calls me knave I call a base liar! I struck that bear fair and square! He was part of the attack!”

  The third rider said, “Dare you address me thus, baseborn son of a whore?”

  Gil stepped forward and struck the ram-faced steed in the skull right between the horns like an axman who cleaves a log in two with one stroke. Despite the armor protecting its head, the animal staggered and reared. The third rider wrestled with his reins, trying to bring his nervous, dazed steed under control.

  The third rider shouted something, but Gil shouted louder, “Sir! Dare not to speak ill of my mother, who is the finest and noblest woman of the earth, lest you be made to pay for your foul tongue with your heart’s blood!”

  But the second rider said, “Who is this boy? He speaks not like a mortal man.”

  The first rider said, “What boots it, Sir Lamorak? By chanted spells let him be cast into sleep, and locked in the heart of an oak to grow up around him, and slumber until the day when all the seas cast forth their dead to judgment.”

  The third rider, who had regained control of his steed, shouted, “Thine is too mild a punishment for mortal insolence, Sir Aglovale! Let darker songs be sung, his limbs to shrivel to palsy, his hands and feet to swell, the pest and worm to torment his innards!”

  Gil raised the tree branch again and called, “Who is this who uses tricks and spells to undo his foe? Knights trust in their arms and might, their courage and force! Are there no true knights among the hosts of Alberec and Erlkoenig?” For he had heard the heralds say these names not long before.

  The Winter Knight, Sir Grimnir of the Dry Tree, chose that moment to sling his lance aside, draw his sword, and attack. He ran toward Gil, his shield high before him, and elbow high and sword behind his back, ready for the stroke.

  But Gil recalled what the bear had taught him, so he struck the shield midmost with t
he butt of his tree branch and brought the branch overhead to block the downward stroke of the blade. The knight was strong, and the blade bit into the wood.

  In one motion, Gil twisted, yanked, and struck. The blade was caught between two branches and forced out of the knight’s surprised grip just as the branch came down and struck the knight on the side of the helm with such force that the Winter Knight staggered, his proud plumes broken.

  The bear steed now roared and lunged, but Gil was quicker. He dropped the branch, knocked the shield aside, and stepped breast-to-breast to the dazed knight. Gil pinned the other man’s arms in a vast hug, just as he had been taught. Then, Gil swung the other man’s whole body toward the oncoming bear’s jaws. The bear reared, confused, and raised its forepaws but could not strike for fear of striking its master.

  The Winter Knight writhed in the hug, kicking his legs, and sought to draw his dirk from his belt, but Gil tightened his grip until the rings of the mail groaned and shattered. The elfin knight was as helpless in his handgrasp as a child.

  The third rider, the one who bore a star above the winged cup on his shield, now lowered his lance, but Gil put his back against a nearby tree. The knight charged nonetheless, perhaps hoping to run his spear through Sir Grimnir and through Gil as well, but the bear-steed reared up to protect its master, roaring, and the ram-horned steed shied aside.

  A cloud of black mist now came suddenly with a great noise of wind from the open meadow into the thicket of trees and parted Gil from the three knights. The mist turned white and then transparent, and here on a huge black horse sat a kingly figure in green and gold. His shield was adorned with the image of the lioness. In his other hand, a truncheon of gold set with pearls. “Halt this strife! Who mars the melee of the elfin kind with the gaze of mortal eyes?”