by A. L. Sirois
“Ah. And who would I talk to concerning this matter?”
“You’ll be wanting my master, Roland; at this hour, most likely to be found in the Boar’s Snout, back up the road, there,” the man said, and returned his attention to his sheet of lading. “Talk to him, if he’s not too drunk to speak. You may tell him that I sent you. My name is Hans.”
“Thank you, Hans.” Guilhem turned around and headed for the tavern.
The village’s rude street was no more than a muddy cart track, with filth strewn here and there. He picked his way carefully to the tavern, which had a painted sign hanging over the door depicting a wild pig with a prominent nose and huge tusks.
Even before he entered he heard streams of what were to him largely gibberish: regional language with a sprinkling of Germanic words, though spoken too quickly for him to get the gist of the conversations. Still, there were bound to be men of some education here who would understand Latin or French. Presumably Roland would be such a one.
When he entered the place it immediately fell silent. He walked confidently up to the bar, ignoring the stares, variously astonished and hostile, afforded him by the patrons. They were without exception a crude lot: dressed in homespun, and unkempt after their day’s labor.
There was no point in trying to pretend he was a personage of their class, so he struck as noble a pose as he could and proclaimed in Latin, “I seek Master Roland, keeper of the rafts.”
A large, dark-haired man pushed himself away from the bar. “Roland I am,” he said, replying in the same tongue but slurring his words. “What is it you want with me?”
“I require passage to Prague,” said Guilhem, approaching him and speaking in a lower tone. “I am given to understand by your man Hans at dockside that you may supply this if I am willing to help protect your cargo.”
Roland looked him up and down. “That’s as may be,” he said. “Though you have the look of a soldier right enough. What is your name?”
“I am Guilhem, ninth duke of the Aquitaine,” Guilhem said, not bothering to keep the pride out of his voice.
“Oh, aye? A duke, is it? And of the Aquitaine, you say. You’re a long way from home, my lord.”
Guilhem decided to ignore the skepticism in Roland’s tone. “That I am. ‘Tis why I must go to Prague, from whence I can arrange travel for myself.”
“Are you not dressed as a crusader, my lord?” asked one of the other patrons.
“I am,” Guilhem said. “And indeed, until recently I fought the Saracens beside the Black Sea.”
The man who’d questioned him nudged the fellow beside him. “And he left the battle unscathed and decided to stop here for some refreshment before heading on to Prague.” This elicited laughter.
Guilhem realized that he had spoken too quickly, but his rash remark couldn't be taken back now. “The point is,” he said, stepping forward and placing his hand negligently on the pommel of his sword, “I am a battle-seasoned warrior.” He fixed the man with a cold stare. “Would you test me?”
The skeptical man raised a placating hand. “Not I!”
Roland had watched the exchange without a change of expression on his broad face. Now, stroking his heavy chin, he said, “You claim prowess; many do who have none.” Seeing Guilhem bridle, he hastily added, “I mean no offense, my lord, but you must understand that I have interests to protect. Mm? Frauds and mountebanks abound in these parts. Therefore, I require some proof that you are what you say you are.”
Guilhem scowled. “That is not unreasonable, I suppose. What sort of proof can I offer?”
“Well, now,” said Roland smoothly. “There is an ogre hereabouts that has been terrorizing the countryside. The usual sort of thing, you know; kidnapping maidens, devouring knights, uprooting gardens.” He frowned. “What's his name, again? Nezamysl, Premysl…?”
“Kresomysl,” said a man at the bar.
“That’s the chap. I knew it was one of the ‘mysls.’ Can’t tell ‘em apart. They’re a bad lot, and this Kresomysl is the worst. Howsoever, duke, if you can rid us of this ogre I’ll be happy, I say, to take you on.”
Guilhem nodded. “Very well. Where can I find him?”
“He’s got a lair in the middle of a swamp up river a bit,” Roland said. “All you have to do is follow the path. There’s bones all along it, you can’t miss it. No one goes that way now for fear of him, mountain of mad flesh that he is.”
Guilhem turned to the door, and saw that it was now full night outside. “I’d prefer to wait for morning if you don’t mind,” he said.
“Certainly,” said Roland. He motioned to the innkeeper. “Give him a room for the night, and put it on my account. We must have our champion well-rested.”
“I am in your debt,” said Guilhem, bowing to the raft master.
“Not at all. Vanquish this blasted ogre and we shall be much more in yours.”
* * *
Guilhem slept little that night due to the six-legged inhabitants of the straw pallet on which he lay. He rose the following morning in a foul temper; perfect, as he told himself, for facing an irascible ogre. Stalking along the river path per the directions he had received, he soon came across the first of the bones Roland had mentioned. They formed a veritable trail leading to the swamp in which Kresomysl made his home.
“Why do these misbegotten creatures always have to choose such wretched places in which to live?” Guilhem muttered as he picked his way through a stand of briars overgrowing the path, which had dwindled to almost nothing. “Surely if they—ouch!—sought out more comfortable places they wouldn't be so ill-tempered.”
Beyond the brambles he saw a rude hut of stone, surrounded by many other bones and less pleasant-looking debris giving ample and poignant evidence as to the nature of the ogre’s diet. A ferocious roar interrupted Guilhem’s inspection of Kresomysl’s grounds. Guilhem drew his sword as the ogre, a fat-bellied, broad-shouldered thing with long lank hair and the tusks of a wild boar, rushed out of his hovel in a fury. He clenched something like a pine cone in his mouth, but its end was smoldering.
Kresomysl stood all of nine feet tall at the least. Guilhem quailed at the first sight of him, then squared his shoulders. He had faced foes more daunting even than this, and knew that with his sword he’d be more than a match for Kresomysl. He prepared to engage the ogre, but Kresomysl came to an abrupt halt some few feet away, sniffing at Guilhem’s scent.
His broad, uncouth face creased in a wide grin that displayed more and sharper teeth than Guilhem cared to see. He took the smoldering pine cone thing out of his mouth and blew out a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. “Fairy friend!” Kresomysl said in a thick, suety voice.
Guilhem took a step back as the ogre’s horrible body odor wafted into his nostrils along with the scent of whatever it was he was smoking. Why must all these beasts of Faerie smell so bad? Aloud, he said, “Attend me, creature—I’m here with my sword and we’re going to fight because you’ve been raiding that village near here. They want me to kill you.”
“Don’t be silly,” said the ogre, sitting down on the ground. He stuck the burning thing back into his mouth and sucked on it. Smoke dribbled from his nostrils. “If I were to fight you and end up doing you harm, do you have any idea how hard it would go with me if word got back to the fairies? I’d be ostracized!”
“You’re already ostracized; from the village, aren’t you?” Guilhem, seeing that Kresomysl obviously had no intention of battling him (at least not for the moment), sheathed his sword. “I don’t see the difference.”
The ogre snorted. “I don’t care about the humans. To the pits with ‘em. You’re a fairy friend. One doesn't ignore that sort of thing, you know. I’d be banished from the revels.” He shook his head. “As it is, I’m on shaky grounds with Chernobog. I slighted his sister at a revel three centuries ago and he still holds that against me. It wasn’t my fault, though. I thought she was his father. You can’t tell them apart, you know.”
“I’m sorry about
your social difficulties, but they’re not my concern,” Guilhem said. “All I know is, I’ve been told you’re causing a lot of trouble for those villagers. Can’t you just go somewhere else for a while?”
Kresomysl tilted his head back and looked down his nose at Guilhem in disdain. “An ogre doesn’t abandon his post,” he said with dignity. “There aren’t enough villages to go around as it is, and I’m lucky to have got this one to terrorize. Now you ask me to give it up for your sake?” He snorted again. “Not bloody likely.”
“Look here.” Guilhem put his hands on his knees. “Am I a fairy friend, or not?”
“Of course you are, but—”
“And you fairy-types are supposed to be helpful to me, aren’t you?”
“Oh, be reasonable!”
Guilhem had a flash of inspiration. “Listen, Kresomysl, do this for me and I’ll owe you a favor, won’t I?”
The ogre thought about it, puffing out great clouds of smoke all the while.
Guilhem coughed. “What is that foul thing in your mouth?”
“Hmm? Oh, it’s a cigar. The fairies bring them from up the line.”
“Eh?”
“From the future, don’t you know. Apparently, they’re all the rage a few hundred years from now.”
“Eh? Well, never mind that; what about my proposition?”
“I don’t know…”
“Come, come. I’m supposed to either kill you or drive you off,” Guilhem said. “Suppose we do this: we have a battle, a real rouser, and you chase me somewhere near the river over by the village where everyone can see us. You take a fall, and I’ll slide my sword in between your arm and your chest, you see? Like this.” He demonstrated, holding his sword in place against his ribs with his arm. “It’ll look like a death thrust. Then you tumble into the water, and that way you can float away without anyone being able to examine you.”
The ogre scrunched up his face. “It sounds a bit dodgy to me.”
“Help me out here. I’m a fairy friend, right?”
“I wish you’d stop bringing that up! You’re asking rather a lot, don’t you know. In addition to the village, I spent a long time gathering all these rocks to build my hut.”
Guilhem scoffed. “You can find rocks anywhere. A strapping fellow like you should have no trouble. As to the village, they’re all on guard for you there, Kresomysl, are they not?”
“I suppose they are, rather. And it is getting a bit harder to find acceptable maidens these days.” He sighed. “I’ve almost depleted the supply in this region.”
“Then it’s settled.” Guilhem got to his feet. “Now, fetch your club and we’ll give these villagers a show they’ll never forget.”
“Do you suppose they’ll compose songs about it?” Kresomysl vanished into his hut. Guilhem heard him rummaging around inside.
“I promise you I’ll write a song myself,” Guilhem said. “I am not without skill when it comes to that.”
“Good. I’ll look forward to hearing it.” The ogre squeezed out of the hovel carrying a huge wooden club. He swung it experimentally a few times. “I’m a bit rusty,” he said in an apologetic tone. “They haven’t sent me a worthwhile opponent in ever so long.” He paused. “You will let me know about the song?”
Guilhem patted him on the arm. “I assure you, as soon as it’s done I’ll tell the first fairy I see to get word back to you.” He and Kresomysl took the path side by side toward the village, chatting of inconsequential matters.
Before long there remained but one turn in the path between them and Budejovice. Guilhem halted and turned to his uncouth companion. “Now, let’s make it look good for them, shall we?” He took a fighting position.
The ogre hefted his club, then paused. “You’re sure about this? Don’t want to reconsider?”
“Stop your foolishness. It’s all decided.” Guilhem waved his sword in the ogre’s face. “Come on, fight!”
“I don’t know if I can do it just like that.”
Guilhem blew out his breath. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I have to be in the mood. You know, sort of enraged or furious. Right now, I’m just not mad.”
Guilhem looked around in exasperation. Curse this ogre! “Well, what would make you angry?”
“I don’t really know.”
“For goodness sake, how do you manage when they send warriors after you?”
Kresomysl shrugged. “They usually stick me with their swords.”
“Very well.” Guilhem thrust his sword at the ogre’s abdomen but Kresomysl parried the blow.
Guilhem swore. “I can’t stick you if you won’t let me!”
“I’m not enough of a fopdoodle to let you poke your sword into me.”
At this, Guilhem lost his temper. “Stop playing about, you lump of foul deformity! Have at you!” And he slashed viciously at the ogre, who again blocked the blow. But this time Guilhem aimed a back-handed cut at Kresomysl and sliced a chunk of flesh from his arm.
The ogre bellowed. “That hurt, you miserable plague-sore!”
“Hah!” Guilhem danced back and forth in front of his opponent. “That’s the way! That’s the spirit!”
“I’ll spirit you!” The infuriated ogre swung his club and would have taken Guilhem’s head off had the duke not skipped back out of reach, making sure that he retreated toward the village.
“Come on, you coward! I’ll teach you to kidnap innocent maidens! What would your mother say about that?”
“You leave my mother out of it!” The ogre trundled along after Guilhem, who, remembering Henri’s tactic, ridiculed and insulted him every step of the way.
Glancing behind, toward the village, Guilhem saw that the noise of the fight was attracting the attention of the inhabitants. They came out of their homes to see what the commotion was. One of the onlookers was Roland the raft master/ He looked on approvingly as Guilhem danced back and forth, easily avoiding the ogre’s rather clumsy but undeniably mighty blows, any one of which would doubtless cripple or kill the duke, were it to connect.
Guilhem maneuvered Kresomysl until they were near the riverside. “All right,” Guilhem panted, while keeping up his defense. “This is a good place. Now, I’ll thrust my sword between your arm and your rib cage. Make it look good!”
But the slow-witted ogre, taunted beyond his tolerance, had lost all ability to think rationally and had reverted to a primitive, savage state. He swung wildly with his club. One blow struck the side of a dwelling, knocking a huge hole in it.
“Kresomysl!” Guilhem hissed, hoping no one could overhear him amid the noise of battle and the cheers of the villagers screaming in delight as their long-time nemesis faced an intrepid knight. “Stop it, slow down! I can’t do this unless you cooperate.”
The ogre bellowed in response. Guilhem’s heart sank. Though he was no coward, he faced a berserk and powerful foe whom he had goaded far past reason and was now determined to slaughter him. Worse, he had no idea what to do about it.
Worse still, the ogre’s attack was so furious that Guilhem, seasoned warrior though he was, was hard pressed and could give little thought to a new strategy. It was all he could do to deflect or parry the ogre’s onslaught. Kresomysl showed no sign of weariness, but Guilhem knew that he would soon begin to tire. The long sword was less heavy than it looked, but was even so a weapon requiring dexterity and strength to wield, especially in a fierce battle like this.
The duke tried to think of some way out of this predicament, but as far as he could see there was only one thing to do. He was reluctant to take that option but the situation had spiraled so far out of his control that he had no other alternative.
The ogre had no fighting style to speak of, no strategy: Guilhem had faced similar enemies before, ones who relied solely on their strength to overwhelm adversaries. They were generally so confident of their might that they gave little thought to keeping up a decent guard. All Guilhem had to do, therefore, was to wait for an opportunity.
Sure enough, within moments Kresomysl gave him one. The ogre swung at him so strongly that his entire body was carried part-way around by the weight of his club, rendering him momentarily unable to parry. The ogre was fast but Guilhem, alert for just such a chance, was faster. He leaped toward Kresomysl, raising his blade high and bringing it down on the ogre’s neck.
Kresomysl’s head rolled on the ground as his colossal body teetered for a moment before collapsing to the ground in a heap.
There was silence for a moment, then the villagers erupted in cheers.
Guilhem stood breathing heavily, streaked with sweat. He could hardly believe that the fight was over so suddenly. Please forgive me, friend Kresomysl, he thought, staring with regret down at the ogre’s lifeless body. You left me no choice.
In a pensive mood, therefore, he began cleaning his blade, ignoring the villagers who crowded around tugging on his garments and voicing his praises. As he sheathed the sword he looked up and saw Roland standing before him.
“Well fought,” said the raft master. “Well fought, I say!” He pounded Guilhem on the shoulder. “You’re earned your place on my raft right enough, my lord duke. Could you be ready to cast off this afternoon?”
“Yes, assuming no further tasks await me,” said Guilhem, lifting his eyebrows.
Roland did not respond to the irony in the duke’s tone. “None whatsoever. You have acquitted yourself most admirably.”
Presently, therefore, Guilhem found himself sitting on a log on the rear of the raft watching Budejovice recede in the distance. The Moldau flowed sluggishly along this stretch, requiring the efforts of the pole men fore and aft to manipulate the raft, a flat-bottomed craft about forty feet long with a slightly raised prow, out toward the center of the river where the current ran more energetically. At length, the raft rounded a bend and the village was lost to view.