Quillifer the Knight

by Walter Jon Williams

  Sir Edelmir Westley seemed to suffer the greatest losses in the gaming, but he lost with such easy grace that the others were probably encouraged to win more off him.

  Stilwell’s former queen gave us a very fine dinner, and then, after nightfall, a supper made largely of game caught in Her Majesty’s own park. I heard talk going around the table of spending another day at Bonherbes, perhaps including a stag hunt in the park, but I’d had enough of this meandering, drunken adventure with a band of interlopers who would not treat me with civility, and so after the last remove I stood and called for attention.

  I raised my glass and offered a pledge to Queen Natalie, whose noble generosity and hospitality, I said, was matched only by the grace, excellence, and charm of her person. The others thumped the table and cheered. After we drank, I addressed the others of the party.

  “Gentlemen,” said I, “it has been an honor and a pleasure to travel in your company. But I have set out to kill a fire-drake, and as I have pending business in the capital, I purpose no further delay. I will set out on this quest tomorrow after breakfast, and I hope the rest of you will join me.”

  Sir Brynley Wilmot spoke up, his pale mustaches bristling. “Who are you, Sir Quillifer, to decide on behalf of this company?”

  “I do not decide for you, or for any of these gentlemen. I decide only for myself.” I bowed toward Queen Natalie. “I hope that Her Majesty will provide me with one of her huntsmen to serve as a guide.”

  Her Majesty acceded, though clearly both she and her ladies had hoped to enjoy our company for a few more days. I was early to bed, after telling Rufino Knott and the others of my following to have the horses and wagon ready by dawn.

  I encountered the other knights at breakfast. Many showed the ill effects of the previous night’s revelry, and none were in any humor to speak to me. I finished as quickly as I could, praised again the charms and hospitality of our hostess, kissed her royal ring, and made my way to the courtyard, where my minions waited with my horses and wagon. Sir Edelmir Westley had arrived ahead of me and was already in the saddle, supervising his sumpter horses as they were packed.

  It must be admitted that Sir Edelmir was a capable royal officer and had prepared his own part of the expedition with efficiency. He had brought along a half-dozen of his own henchmen from the royal stables, and they were accustomed to one another and to taking his orders, and did their work well and almost without speaking—and of course they had acted to save their chief from drowning.

  (“Henchman,” by the way, is an ancient title used by the grooms of the royal mews, though as these fellows are available and handy, they are used for other tasks as well. The term dates from the time of the Sea-Kings, and combines “man” with “hengest,” their word for horse. In exchange for this tidbit, you may pass the wine and kiss me.)

  Sir Edelmir gave me a jaunty wave as I jumped into the saddle. I looked about the courtyard, dark in the shadow of the great house even though the sky had grown light, and saw the other knights’ followers moving vaguely about their errands. I turned to Sir Edelmir.

  “Shall we move on, and let the others catch up?”

  “Her Majesty has not yet sent us her huntsman.”

  Doctor Smolt arrived first, padding into the courtyard in his black velvet robe. “I will cast spells for your success,” he said, “and it will take three days.”

  I thanked him civilly, and he retreated to his tower to begin his chanting. In time the huntsman appeared, a gray-bearded lean man astride a dun cob, but by then most of the knights were ready, and we waited for the laggards and then set out in a troupe. I put myself with the huntsman in the lead and set a steady pace until noontide, when I allotted an hour for a cold dinner and a watering parade for the horses. Then I was back in the saddle for a long afternoon’s riding.

  We were very much in the country, and there were no inns. Under the bright, cool sun of winter, the land seemed prosperous enough: Sheep spotted the pastures, orchards lay on all sides, and the farms were snug and tidy. The great storm of that summer seemed to have spared this country, tucked in the shadow of the Cordillerie. The roads were fenced with hedges, and sometimes were mere sunken tracks. We were obliged to ford the rivers, and by afternoon were in the foothills of the Cordillerie, the long folds of mountains and steep hills that formed the spine of Bonille. Here there were no great fields, but lynchets only, with terraces stepping up and down the hills.

  By this point the huntsman was out of his reckoning and regularly spurred his cob ahead to get directions. It seemed that the Princess Floria had greatly exaggerated the danger to her mother, for the worm was nowhere near Her Majesty.

  Before nightfall we pitched camp in a field, and the grooms took the horses off for water. Soon fires were kindled, wine was set near the blaze in pots and leather jacks to warm. Pottage was prepared, and sausages and smoked meats were grilled on skewers. My crew set up my tent beneath an awning of sailcloth, and in my old cheviot overcoat I was as warm as a cat by the hearth. Goodman Knott played his guitar and sang “The Queen of Albiz,” his fine tenor soaring over the camp.

  Brynley Wilmot’s eyes glittered firelight from the far side of the camp. “Sir Quillifer,” he said, “I wonder if you will carve this ham?”

  A warning note sang in my blood, clear as a trumpet call. I replied cautiously. “Do you not know how to carve?” I asked. “I had thought it was an accomplishment for all gentlemen.”

  “I practice rather at carving the enemies of Her Majesty,” said Sir Brynley.

  “A futile practice,” I observed. “For Her Majesty in her wisdom has married the heir of our greatest foe, and now she has not an enemy in the world.”

  He glowered. “Yet I think you are more suited to carve than I.”

  “Then I must teach.” I fetched a fork and a carving knife and walked around the camp to where Wilmot had draped himself in a folding chair by his own fire. One of his men had the ham on a skewer, with the trotter pointed skyward.

  “First we must find you a trencher, Sir Brynley,” I said. I cast about for a platter, or at least a slab of cheat bread, but then I saw the knight’s armor laid out on a blanket by his wagon, where one of his following was oiling and polishing it. I snatched up the backplate, and laid it on Sir Brynley’s lap. He gave a start and made to rise, but I put a hand on his shoulder “Not yet, Sir Brynley, for the lesson now begins.”

  I took the skewered ham from Wilmot’s minion and dropped it on the backplate. “Now rest you,” said I, “and pay attention, for I will slice you some fine collops.” I showed him my knife, passing it close enough to have thinned his yellow beard. “Now you must first of all have a knife of fine steel,” I said, “and keep it well sharpened. It need not be one of your thick heavy bilbos, for you will soon see that while my blade is thin and light, it slices very well. And for control, you must hold the knife with the thumb and forefinger steadying the blade.”

  I thrust my fork into the meat. “Now it is said that the trotter should be facing upward,” I said, and touched the trotter with my knife. “But I find that is not the universal rule.” I cut several long slices from the part of the ham closest to Wilmot’s nose. Fine sizzling portions fell into the backplate. The scent of saffron rose in the air, for the ham had been cured in that spice, and its rind was golden.

  When I had cut enough long slices to make a flat surface, I turned the ham so that it rested on the flat side. “Now you see I have made a fine rest for the meat,” I said. “It matters not how the trotter points. And we may now proceed without accident. For accidents”—and here I casually held the knife before his face, the point making lazy circles—“accidents are all too common.” I placed the knife against the meat. “Had this been warming longer before the fire,” I said, “I would cut along the shank end, thus—” I made some thin cuts down to the bone. “But the joint has not been on the fire long enough to be heated all the way to the shank-bone, but it is warm in the outer layer only. So I must make some thin cuts
along the surface. Cuts this thin take a fine eye and a steady hand, as you will observe.”

  All conversation in the camp had ceased. My lesson had become the object of all eyes. Goodman Knott’s song had fallen silent. Wilmot, I could see, was turning scarlet as the cooking fire, and he was gnawing his lip beneath his pale mustache. Words burst from him like bubbles at a slow boil. “What—!” he cried. “What is this—”

  “Be careful, Sir Brynley,” I said. “You may do yourself an injury.”

  Wilmot snarled. “You, sir, are nothing! You are a base—”

  I pointed the blade straight at his face. “Before such words as ‘cullion’ or ‘barber-monger’ pass your lips,” I said, “you should reflect that I have a sharp knife, and you do not. I advise you to sit still, and learn your lesson.”

  I cut a long series of collops. Steam and scent rose from the backplate. Wilmot trembled in every limb, like an angry boar trapped in a pen. I stepped back.

  “There you have it, Sir Brynley,” I said. “You have a fine supper, and I hope you will enjoy it.”

  I began the walk back to my own fire, and then there was a crash as Wilmot leaped to his feet and hurled the backplate and the ham into the dust. “I will end your sneering now, you butcher’s son!” He walked to where his armor had been laid out and drew his sword.

  “Sneering?” said I. I backed away, keeping Wilmot always in sight. I stooped by my fire and picked up a jack of hot mulled wine, from which I then took a sip. At need I would hurl it in his face as he charged.

  “I have not sneered,” I said. “You asked me to slice your ham, and all these gentlemen are witnesses to your request.” I pointed around the circle with my knife. “I obliged, and gave you a lesson in carving in the most civil way. Yet I am repaid with insults and threats. To this, these men are also witnesses.”

  I noticed, out of the slant of my eye, that the two sailors in my company had equipped themselves with whinyards, and that Rufino Knott had circled around just beyond the light of my fire, and that he carried a heavy falchion in his hand. If Wilmot ran at me, Knott could come in from the flank with a weapon weighty enough to take off an arm.

  I had never thought to find a staunch ally in a minstrel, but I was pleased to find in my retinue such a loyal supporter.

  Wilmot brandished his weapon. “Pick up your sword! I’ll fight you!”

  I was half-inclined to indulge him, for I was fed up with this clodpoll and his clodpoll friends, but I managed to restrain my temper, and reflected that murdering him would scarcely do me good outside the relief of my feelings.

  “You have a dragon to fight first, Sir Brynley,” said I. “And I, after you. An we both survive, and you wish to pursue a quarrel, I may oblige you. But until then, it seems we must endure one another.”

  The other knights stepped forward to calm Wilmot, and eventually he jammed his sword point-first in the ground and stormed off to his tent. Rufino Knott quietly put away the falchion and began again to play his guitar. I recognized the refrain to the Quillifer song, but Knott knew better than to sing it aloud.

  I drank the mulled wine, and ate my own supper, and went to my tent. I took my carving knife with me, in case I needed to defend myself.

  I was up at dawn for a cold breakfast warmed by a cup of brandy, but a rain squall struck us and turned the road to muck, and the party was obliged to wait a few hours for the lane to dry. During that time Queen Natalie’s huntsman struck out on his own, and found someone who agreed to guide us to the haunts of the great worm. So before we set out, the knights donned armor, in case the drake descended on us, and the others kept weapons near to hand.

  I rode my charger Phrenzy and wore the breastplate and burgonet I had worn at Exton Scales, with the dimples and creases where the usurper’s bullets had nearly struck me down. I had my broadsword in its scabbard, carried a pollaxe across my saddle-bow, and bore on my back the large shield recommended by the duke. I covered myself with a thick woolen cloak, which kept me warm, and which my supporters would drench with canisters of water were we menaced by the fire-drake. More draperies covered Phrenzy, and I hoped he would not grow too hot as we traveled.

  I took off my rings, put them in my saddlebags, and drew on thick leather gloves armored with articulated steel plates.

  Sir Brynley Wilmot spoke only to his servants and looked at the rest of us with cold hauteur.

  The squalls had passed, and the water-droplets that hung in the grass were turned to gems by the sun. We came upon shattered holly-hedges, which our guide said had been broken down by the dragon. The holly-berries were still bright red. Torn sheep lay in the fields.

  “It is a vicious worm, sirs,” said our guide. “For it kills for sport, more than it can eat.”

  We turned into a shadowed lane with rows of hornbeam on each side, the limbs of which had grown into an arch above us and gave the impression of a tunnel. The leaves had turned, and we were bathed in golden light as we advanced, but Phrenzy seemed to mislike the lane and rolled his eyes and snorted. I began to think he was scenting an enemy. Then our guide pointed out a place where one of the hornbeams had been knocked askew, and through the hornbeam hedge we could see the fire-drake itself, lying in a field spotted with its victims.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The dragon lay in the sun on a tawny field spotted red and white with murdered sheep. It rested on the grass in shimmering, tumbled coils, and it seemed to gleam with shifting colors like a fire-opal. I had seen that scintillation before, in that great serpent that rode the storm earlier in the year, and I knew it was a sign of the supernatural power that animated the worm. The drake was difficult to look at, and I did not care to look at it directly, but only from the slant of my eye, and even then I felt uneasy, and there was an eddy in my thoughts at the touch of the extramundane.

  The dragon’s head, which I judged to be as long as my leg, dripped red from its overlapping fangs. Its unwinking eyes were gold, and it had a feathery mane of scarlet.

  Wilmot, who had won the sortilege and was the day’s first sacrifice, let his servants douse him and his charger with cold water. His horse was a heavy-framed chestnut, a destrier of the sort that carried knights of legend, and Wilmot was armed cap-a-pie, encased in shining steel from his crown to his toes, with a surcoat in his colors of green and white. He carried a lance with a green-and-white pennon.

  Water streamed off him as he rode through the hedge and onto the field. There he paused to check his gear, then spurred his destrier toward the dragon. At the last moment he lowered his lance to pierce his target.

  The worm’s motion was so fast that I could not properly see it, but the beast lunged out fast as a whipcrack, and Wilmot was hurled from his seat to land in a crash of steel four or five yards away. The lance shattered into a hundred splinters, and the big horse was bowled right over, landing on its back with a scream, its legs flailing in the air. Then the drake was away, whipping through the grass fast as lightning. It swarmed between beech trees planted atop a march dike, and vanished in a blizzard of scarlet leaves.

  The rest of us stood stunned, and then Wilmot’s servants dashed out into the field to succor their master, and the rest of us followed at a more thoughtful pace, contemplating what we had seen. The worm was at least thirty feet long, and as big around as a wine barrel. It moved like a snake, in fast, smooth, sinuous curves, and we disagreed about whether we had seen legs. Nevertheless, the reality of the monster was far more formidable than it had presented itself in our fantasies, and as we crossed the field, we all dwelt in silence and cold introspection.

  When Wilmot’s servants drew up his visor, we could see his eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. Yet his pale mustaches fluttered with his breath, and it seemed that he lived, despite having been rattled in his steel suit like dice in a cup, and had only been knocked witless.

  The destrier was dying with a broken back and unable to rise. One of Wilmot’s men dispatched it with a pistol shot to the brain.

  Now that i
t seemed the knight was likely to live, we all looked toward the march dike, where the worm had disappeared. The huntsman carefully approached the dike, twenty yards distant from where the dragon had broken down the beech-hedge, just in case the drake lay in ambush by his own track. The worm had long gone, and the huntsman rode through the gap and followed the track. He came back after a brief time and reported that the beast was two fields away and had taken up residence in a pear orchard.

  We looked at Dom Lorenso d’Abrez. “Well,” he said in his Lorettan accent, “I must fight it then, yes. But I wonder how it is best to do it.”

  “Perhaps you should not ride at it directly,” I said. “And ride a horse more nimble than that great destrier.”

  Some other suggested that he not use a lance. D’Abrez brooded on the suggestion for a moment, then shook his head. “I may be able to strike it in the eye.” As he was a champion jouster, I supposed this was possible.

  “Take a heavy hand weapon,” I said. “Have you a pollaxe or a halberd?”

  He had not, but he had a variety of lances, a heavy broadsword, and a hand-axe. He wore his heavy tilting armor, without the “grand guard,” the extra concave steel plate bolted on the left side of the chest to serve as a kind of shield, and, viewing Wilmot sprawled on the grass, he decided to have his servants mount that steel plate. This was done in a few minutes.

  Wilmot did not recover his wits. His servants stripped him of his armor, wrapped him in a blanket, and carried him down to the lane, where they put him in his wagon and turned for the nearest town.

  Now we were ten.

  With caution, we followed the worm over the march dike, which was only three or four feet tall, and then we advanced to the next hedgerow. This too was an earthen dike topped with a row of beech trees, and our horses crunched over a carpet of fallen beech-nuts as we peered between the brilliant red leaves into the pear orchard with its trees still full of brown-skinned Winter Nelis. The drake, bright as a beech-leaf, was easy to find amid the trees, its shimmering coils thrown out wide. It was at rest again, though I could not imagine it was unaware of us, for surely it would detect the rumble of our horses’ hooves on the ground, perceived through the six or seven fathoms of serpent body stretched on the earth.