On the Banks of the River of Heaven

by Richard Parks

I’m beginning to see why knights have servants.

  It was a bit tricky, but he did manage the small breastplate and elbow and knee guards without assistance. He had seen what were apparently more prosperous knights with even heavier, more complete plate than Sir Gillan had worn, and Malthan wondered how they ever managed. He thought perhaps it had something to do with the fact that they were always on horseback, and didn’t have to carry it all.

  Malthan had no mount, and wasn’t likely to get one; Ghouls were not noted for their horsemanship. Still, it amused Malthan to think he might one day learn. As a last touch he put on the surcoat and belted on his sword. He studied the effect in a nearby pool.

  This will never work.

  Oh, the armor fit well enough, chain mail being rather forgiving and Sir Gillan being no small man to start with. The surcoat wouldn’t give Malthan away, since Sir Gillan had followed the current custom of knight-errants and wore a blank surcoat and carried a blank shield, so there was nothing to identify Malthan as someone he was not and possibly bring unwanted attention and questions. No, the problem was—and as he knew it would be—his face. There was just no getting past the fact that a ghoul in human armor was still nothing but a ghoul.

  Unless . . .

  There was one piece of armor left, one that Sir Gillan hadn’t even put on until the time came for his final battle. Malthan unwrapped Sir Gillan’s helm. It was a heavy thing of thick steel, but it covered the entire face, leaving only slits for the eyes and a series of holes around the mouth area. Malthan lowed the helmet onto his head, buckled the strap, and gazed back into the pool.

  For a second he thought Sir Gillan had come back to life. With the helmet on, it was impossible to tell the size of Malthan’s eyes, the pointed teeth, the squat nose. It was the perfect disguise and much more comfortable than the humans apparently found it, else why not wear it all the time? Malthan rather liked it, but then he was used to tight, confined places with bad air. Wearing Sir Gillan’s helmet was almost like coming home. As a bonus, the eye slits cut down on the sun’s glare.

  Malthan smiled. Now what?

  The sensible thing, Malthan knew, would be to take the armor off, bury it in a deep hole, and go hunting carrion with Gurgash. Malthan of did no such thing. He walked off into the woods, whistling as well as his long teeth allowed.

  “You shall not pass!”

  The person speaking to Malthan was a human knight dressed in bright green trappings and standing on the far side of a rather nondescript stone bridge along the woodland path.

  Malthan stopped, more from surprise than anything else. “Why not?” He started to add, “Is it because I’m a ghoul?” but he managed to stop himself.

  The knight drew himself up to his full height, which was only a little shorter than Malthan himself. “I have sworn that I shall let none pass this bridge unless they first defeat me in combat.”

  Malthan thought about this for a moment. “Why?” he asked. It was more than strange. Malthan had considered himself something of a student of human behavior, and was a little chagrined to be baffled so early on.

  The knight just stared for a moment. “Are you simple, Sirrah? A true knight would have accepted my challenge on the spot.”

  Challenge. That was something Malthan understood. “Well,” Malthan said, “I am a true knight, so I of course accept. You startled me, that’s all. I didn’t expect to find another knight in these woods.”

  “We are not very thick on the ground here,” the knight conceded. “I’ve met only one other such in a fortnight.”

  “Did you challenge him, too?” Malthan asked.

  “Of course I did!” The stranger nodded at a nearby tree, where hung a rather nice set of armor. Malthan sniffed the air but it was clear there was no in it, just empty armor. Malthan wasn’t sure what this meant, but now his caution had overcome his curiosity, and he didn’t ask. The stranger’s suspicions were nearly aroused as it was.

  “As challenged, you have your choice of weapons.” The knight looked Malthan up and down, and sniffed. “I assume it will not be a passage of lances. What happened to your mount?”

  “Died, poor beast.” Malthan said, quickly. “Sword and shield will have to do.” In truth, those were the only weapons Malthan had.

  “So be it.”

  The stranger took up his own shield, magnificently painted with a green phoenix on a silver background, and drew his sword. He took a stance at the center of the bridge and waited. Malthan drew his own sword and, his mind full of the things he had seen on the human’s practice field, went to meet him.

  The fight got off to a slow start. The stranger seemed to be testing him at first. Throwing blows with little force behind them, quick but not very dangerous. Malthan was quick with the shield; the weight of it was next to nothing, so far as Malthan was concerned. He had studied the way the men-at-arms used it to counter blows and knew roughly what to do, though he knew it could not be so simple as it seemed at first.

  He’s testing to see what I will do. What if I don’t do anything?

  Malthan had his answer soon enough. The timing of the stranger’s attacks changed, his stance changed; he seemed to lean back slightly so as to present a less upright target, and his sword blows became more forceful. Plus, where before there had been single blows, now they were coming swift combinations, and it was all Malthan could do to keep himself covered. Soon the stranger aimed a high blow that forced Malthan to raise his shield, blinding him for just an instant, and the stranger immediately changed direction on the blow and brought the sword edge down. Malthan stepped back instinctively but was still stung by the stranger’s sword tip across his thigh. A few moments later the stranger did it again.

  That hurt!

  Malthan glanced down. The mail across his thigh was torn in two places, and a patch of blood had appeared. Malthan thought it was perhaps time to give the stranger something to occupy him other than the best way to kill Malthan. The ghoul knight snapped a blow right at the stranger’s head. He countered easily but the force of it sent him staggering back a step.

  “Well struck, Sir,” said the stranger, grudgingly.

  “And you,” Malthan answer, trying to find the politeness that the Ancient had so recently accused him of. He realized that a little time watching a fight was not the same as being in one. He knew how to fight as a ghoul would, indeed he was very good at it, but he was unsure how to apply that here. Malthan was at a disadvantage, and the next glancing blow, this time on his arm, just emphasized this.

  The stranger’s blows were painful, and Malthan had seen enough of battles to know what a really well-landed blow would do to flesh, even tough ghoul flesh. His breath came a little faster but, even though Malthan knew he should be at least a little afraid, he was not. He had a more immediate concern.

  This is silly. He’s going to ruin Sir Gillan’s armor at this rate.

  The stranger pressed closer, seeking an ending and Malthan, feeling the pressure, reacted. He punched his shield hard against the stranger’s, thinking only to push him away and give himself some space. Malthan was a little surprised when the stranger was lifted bodily off the ground to fly through the air and land several paces beyond the bridge, flat on his back. He didn’t move for several moments, clearly stunned, and when he did move it was a vain attempt to rise. Malthan reddened slightly, unseen behind his visor, worried perhaps that he’d violated some unwritten rule of combat, until he remembered.

  I’ve seen them use the shield to strike before. It’s not against the rules.

  Actually, as he thought about it, in a skirmish very little seemed against the rules. This was a more formal combat, though, and Malthan still had to worry. He thought perhaps he should apologize.

  “Are you hurt, Sir?” he asked. The stranger just twitched, gasping hard for breath. Malthan sighed and stepped over the bridge. His opponent was clearly going to need a hand up.

  Apparently his opponent misunderstood his intent, since he immediately released hi
s sword, up till now still gripped tightly, and spread his hands, gasping, “I yield, Sir.”

  Malthan stopped. “That means I’m not supposed to kill you, yes?”

  The stranger just stared at him for several long moments, and Malthan added. “Of course it does. A poor jest. I accept your . . . your yielding.”

  He reached down and grasped the stranger’s hand, pulling him upright. For a moment he had to hold him there, until the stranger managed to find his breath and his footing again.

  “Well . . . well fought, Sir. I haven’t met my match in some time.”

  The knight reached up, unbuckled the strap on his helmet and pulled it off. He took several deep breaths while Malthan studied him impassively. The stranger was certainly no Sir Gillan: his teeth were crooked and his hair was dark and unruly. Yet he did have the advantage of still being alive.

  The man frowned. “Why don’t you remove your helmet? I’d like to see the face of the man who bested me.”

  “Ummm . . . I cannot.”

  “Cannot? Why is that? Have you taken a vow?”

  Malthan latched onto the straw the man had given him. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I’ve taken a vow . . . ” Malthan thought quickly, then added, “not to show my face to any human being . . . until I’ve returned home after doing deeds worthy of renown.”

  The stranger nodded approvingly. “A worthy vow indeed. May I not at least know your name?”

  “Certainly. It’s Mal—” Malthan stopped himself. He wasn’t sure how well ghoulish names mixed with human and quickly thought of another. “Malthus,” he said finally. “Malthus of Darktomb . . . it’s rather far from here; you wouldn’t have heard of it.”

  “I wager I might, if it produces more like you. I’m Sir Dald of Westshire.” The knight held out his hand and Malthan grasped it, carefully, so as not to break any bones.

  Sir Dald started to remove his armor. “As the victor, you now have the spoils. My armor and mount belongs to you, as I do not have the means to ransom it just yet.”

  “Thank you, but I have all the armor I need just now, and no way to carry it.”

  “You’ll have my horse,” Dald said, frowning.

  Malthan didn’t really want the beast, but couldn’t think of a polite way to decline and decided to change the subject. He nodded at the empty armor hanging from the tree. “Who was the knight you bested? I wager it was a fine fight.”

  Dald smiled. “And so it was; it was a near thing I admit. Still, I did rather hate to send the poor fellow off without his armor, and his lady now devoid of proper protection.”

  Malthan blinked. “You mean you took their things and sent them off into the woods alone?”

  “Certainly not,” said Sir Dald, a little affronted. “I let the lady keep her mount, of course. Having bested her champion, I would have offered to escort her myself, save for my vow.”

  “You couldn’t leave the bridge. I understand,” said Malthan, though in truth he wasn’t sure if he did understand. It was the knight’s silly vow to hold the bridge that had put the lady in peril in the first place. It occurred to Malthan that this ‘honor’ business that knights were so fond of was not as simple thing as it appeared. “I’ll make a deal with you: give me the mount and armor you took from the lady’s knight, and you may keep your own.”

  “Well . . . as you have bested me I don’t see how I can refuse you. But why that horse and armor and not my own? Mine is better.”

  “I’m sure of that,” Malthan said, though the armor seemed identical and, except for coloring and size, one horse looked pretty much like another to him. “But it’s a whim of mine. And, since you did win this horse and armor in combat and they were thus yours, you could say I’m taking your armor and horse now. Isn’t that what the custom dictates?”

  Sir Dald couldn’t see any flaw in that logic, so he helped Malthan bundle up the spare armor and secured it to the unknown knight’s big dun warhorse. Dald waited expectantly when all was done, holding the reins, and after a moment Malthan had the horrible feeling that he knew what was expected.

  He assumes I’m going to ride that thing.

  Malthan felt a moment’s panic which he quickly suppressed. He reached out for the reins, not knowing what else to do, and the horse shied away. Dald may have been fooled, but clearly the horse was not. The beast knew what Malthan was and was plainly terrified. Fortunately Dald had a good grip on the reins and the horse didn’t bolt. Malthan quickly reached out and took the reins and pulled the horse’s head forward. He appeared to be soothing the beast as he stroked its neck, but in reality he just wanted to lean close to whisper a few words of the common tongue in the beast’s ear.

  “Behave yourself or I’ll break every bone in your worthless carcass.”

  All animals understood the common tongue—as did all ghouls, who were beasts themselves by all practical definition—but very few spoke it. Horses, being rather stupid creatures, were not among that number. Yet they did understand it well enough, and after hearing what Malthan said the beast appeared much more docile, and Sir Dald nodded approval. “You do have a way with horses.”

  So it seemed. The beast didn’t so much as twitch as Malthan slowly mounted. He’d seen the process numerous times; he even managed to pick the correct side. When he was safely in the saddle he bid Sir Dald goodbye.

  “And to you, Sir Knight. May you find the great adventure you desire.”

  Just then Malthan considered figuring out the mechanics of horsemanship to be a great deed, or at least one far beyond his ken, but fortunately the horse seemed to understand what was expected of it. It broke into a brisk walk and continued down the only trail. Sir Dald and the contested bridge were soon far out of sight. As soon as Malthan felt it prudent, he dismounted.

  “I’m just going to return you to your owner,” he said to the shivering animal. “Run away and the wolves in this wood will get you, and if they don’t, I will. Do we understand one another?” The horse nodded once and made no attempt to flee, even after Malthan tied the reins loosely to the saddle. It just followed a few paces behind Malthan, looking downcast, as the young ghoul followed the forest path.

  Malthan kept to the trail partly because he knew the humans would, but mostly because his own senses told him it was the correct way. A ghoul’s sense of smell was almost as fine-tuned as a hound’s, useful for tracking its dinner, and in the tangle of scents along the trail two spoors stood out. One smelled of sweat and just a hint of blood; doubtless Sir Dald’s defeated challenger. The other scent was . . . strange. Like flowers but clearly attached to a person, and Malthan started wondering what the owner looked like. Malthan had seen human women before, of course, but usually not at their best and certainly not smelling of lilacs. The scent was intriguing and made him want to sneeze all at the same time.

  Malthan snapped out of his reverie; there was a new scent, a familiar scent, on the trail now, and it was very strong.

  “Hello, Malthan,” said Gurgash. “Do you have any idea how silly you look?”

  His friend was leaning against an oak tree in plain sight. He looked at Malthan with expressions ranging from bewilderment, consternation, and amusement. Malthan wondered if such a vigorous workout was tiring for Gurgash’s facial muscles; ghouls weren’t given to emotionalism as a rule.

  “Silly? In this armor I look just like a human; indeed, I passed for one just now!”

  Gurgash sighed deeply. “I know, and that’s what I meant. You’ve been too preoccupied to even notice, but I’ve been watching you for the last few days and following you for the past several hours. I’m trying to understand what you think you’re doing. I even, after much struggle, worked out a sensible theory; would you care to hear it?”

  “If you’d care to tell me.”

  “Knights challenge each other all the time; they kill each other as often as not. Disguised as a human knight, you could do the same . . . and make carrion for us, your father’s subjects. There’s a noble cause, a worthy cause, and so b
rilliant in concept I was quite awestruck. But what did you do? You defeated a human and let him live! So much for my theory.”

  “Gurgash . . . ” Malthan’s voice trailed off.

  “Gurgash, what? Weren’t you going to explain? Can you explain? I hope so, because I would really like to know the answer.”

  “So would I,” Malthan said, finally.

  Gurgash just closed his eyes. “Malthan, take that silly armor off and come with me now. There’s something dead in the woods; let’s go find it together and forget all this human nonsense.”

  “I can’t, Gurgash. I’m not human; I know that and you know that. But I’ve never been happy as a ghoul. Maybe this will make me appreciate my ghouldom; I don’t know. I’m still working that bit out, but I had to try . . . well, something. Anything.”

  “What makes you think you can be more than what you are?” Gurgash sighed. “When you come to your senses, I’ll be around.” Gurgash slipped off into the trees. Malthan watched him go, feeling sad for no reason he could think of. Then he remembered something Gurgash had said.

  There is something dead in the woods.

  Malthan hurried down the trail.

  It was the lady’s champion. Malthan had no doubt of it, for all that he asked and the dun warhorse’s nod confirmed it; the man was his former master. His gambeson still bore the traces of his armor’s straps, and the scent of the trail was still on him. The smell was changing, though. Blood now, but soon it would speak of nothing but death and decay.

  What happened?

  There were wolves about; Malthan smelled them. He was in danger now himself; the enmity between ghouls and wolves was longstanding, but he knew they would not attack until their numbers were better. Now and then he caught glimpses of movement in the trees and knew they had been drawn by the scent of blood, but only after the fact. The man hadn’t been killed by wolves or any other animal.

  The lay half sitting, half reclining against an elm no more than six paces from the trail, the limbs composed, the hands folded on the corpse’s lap. A small dagger lay nearby. Malthan read the signs and came to only one conclusion.