by A. L. Sirois
Or one of Mojmir’s unknown guardians.
His hand automatically grasped the hilt of his sword. He kept it there as he set off to judge the extent of the stone corridor and its contents, if any. The curve was sharp enough to keep anything around its arc hidden by the inner wall. The glowing fungus seemed ubiquitous and Guilhem spared a moment to wonder if Mojmir had magicked it into existence to provide light. What would the sorcerer be expecting to see down here?
A few paces farther on a set of shackles came into view, secured to the inner wall by iron bolts. Examining the rusted chains, Guilhem thought: So this is a dungeon after all. In itself, that didn’t bother him. He’d seen dungeons before, and indeed had one underneath his own castle. Even so, as he passed the shackles he drew his dagger from its sheath and held it at the ready.
Ahead he spotted another set of irons. These held a prisoner; rather, the remains of one. A skeleton sagged in the rusting wrist restraints. Guilhem examined the floor. A few smaller bones lay there, in a litter of rat droppings. Rats: that explained the fleshless condition of the body.
He continued his survey, passing more empty shackles dangling from the stone. Then a narrow doorway, with crudely cut steps leading up: further confirmation, as if he needed it, that he was on the lowest level of Mojmir’s keep. Rather than climb the stairs, however, he continued his circuit of the corridor. Best to fully reconnoiter, he said to himself. Act in haste, and all that. There were, he soon saw, additional sets of shackles—and another doorway.
This one boasted an actual door. It was closed, made of iron, and set tightly into the inner wall. A very small window, barely more than a slot, pierced the middle of the door about six feet above the flagstone floor. A strange symbol or sigil stood out from the surface of the corroding iron. He examined it more closely, as best he could in the ghostly fungal light. The sign seemed to have been attached to the metal in some fashion. As near as he could tell, it was made from pieces of leather arranged in a pattern he did not recognize.
A voice from the other side of the door startled him. It was deep, grinding, and soaked with malice. “Who’s there? Is that you, Mojmir? May your guts rot!”
Along with the rumbling voice, a hideous stench wafted out of the slot in the door. Guilhem stepped back a pace, chewing his lips. He knew the stink of fey. Whatever was trapped within was not human. His eyes narrowed as the sigil’s purpose became clear to him: it was obviously an enchantment meant to prevent the escape of whatever infernal creature lay within.
If Mojmir, a sorcerer, had reason to fear the captive, Guilhem, a mere mortal, would be prudent to shun the thing. He forbore, therefore, to reply.
“Answer me, curse you!” The voice made the door vibrate.
“I am not Mojmir,” Guilhem said, hoping to placate the thing.
The voice became wheedling in tone. “Ah! Good sir! Are you a captive here, like me?”
Guilhem licked his lips. “I suppose you could say that,” he said. “I’m certainly not here of my own volition.”
“In truth? Then we have much in common! I have been detained here for long years with nary a glimpse of sky or—wait. Wait!” From within the chamber came a sound of indrawn breath.
Guilhem closed his eyes. Oh, bugger. The thing had caught his scent.
“You are what the sprites of this part of the world call a ‘fairy friend,’” said the bestial voice.
“Yes,” Guilhem said in resignation. “Tell me: why has the magician incarcerated you?”
A thick growl came from inside the cell. “He drains me of my power for his own nefarious purposes. These include rendering this tower impregnable to attack from without. He also uses my energy to produce ghostly guardians and creatures who do his bidding.”
“So you are the source of his magic? Like an amulet or talisman?”
“Aye. And in the process, I dwindle and will soon be no more.” It snorted. “And then he will have to seek another such as I. I hope it takes him a thousand years.”
“What manner of spirit are you?”
“I am an ifrit.”
Guilhem drew back. During his time in the Holy Land he had heard of such beings. They were a type of fire elemental, regarded by the Saracens as dangerous, strong and sly, if not particularly intelligent. They were largely inimical, or at best indifferent, to humans. He stared at the strange sign attached to the door. Its power must be potent indeed. How had Mojmir come to ensnare such a mighty monster?
“Know you of my tribe?” The voice sank to a purr. “I am become a near wraith. Ah, had you but come upon me in my prime!”
“No doubt.” Ifrits, a sort of djinn, were, Guilhem had been given to understand, enormous winged monstrosities capable of the most severe atrocities and cruelties. That Mojmir had trapped one and was exploiting it for his own benefit spoke eloquently about his skills as a sorcerer.
Guilhem closed his eyes, momentarily levying a curse on Onfroi for getting him ensnared in this Bohemian mess.
“Again I emphasize that we have goals in common, you and I,” said the captive ifrit. “Let us work together to overthrow this creature Mojmir. You have been designated fairy friend by the least wisp of a fey. Imagine having me as an ally, fellow! I, who can raise crystal towers from the desert sands! I, who could transport you a thousand leagues in the wink of an eye! What might you not accomplish?”
For an instant Guilhem was tempted. This Saracen spirit was in another class altogether from the silly little imps and pixies that had plagued him all his life. The ifrit was a warrior, a potent creature of fire and light, with abilities far beyond Guilhem’s experience.
And that, of course, as he well knew, was why he should have nothing to do with it. His contact with the various denizens of Faerie often went awry. If dealings with a mammoth horror like the ifrit soured, who could say what chaos and devastation might result?
On the other hand, it was clear that with the ifrit out of the picture Mojmir would become vulnerable to attack. Guilhem put his hands to his head, but did not tug on his hair. He wished he had the council of Brother Gabriel, or indeed anyone wise in matters concerning the Wee Folk and their ilk. Alas, he was on his own. Pondering his dilemma, Guilhem paced back and forth in front of the magically locked door.
In his extremity, he did not notice a faint wisp of orange vapor dribbling down from the slot in the door and flowing along the ground around the curve in the corridor. The first hint he had of danger came when a hairy, claw-handed thing leaped into view, snarling, talons extended.
“By Heaven!” His sword was in his hand before he realized he had yanked it from its scabbard.
Later, when he had had time to think about it, he berated himself for being so easily caught off guard. The beast had as good as told him that its emanations were no more than wraiths: insubstantial, evanescent. Startled as he was, however, he pressed back against the iron door—and loosened a portion of the patchwork sigil fastened thereon, disturbing its alignment.
He stepped forward, aiming a ferocious blow at the creature facing him. It vanished in a swirl of orange vapor through which his sword passed without hindrance. Guilhem’s jaw dropped. Before he could utter a word, the cell door behind him was flung open, knocking him to the side. The ifrit burst out and stood staring at him, its wings unfolding far enough to brush the curved walls to either side while still being able to open all the way. To some extent the monstrosity partook of both beast and man in appearance: a lumpen human-like head with burning eyes and two sets of horns, one projecting upward from its head and one curving down nearly to its chest, both sets larger than those of any cattle, and a flayed-looking, skeletal, human torso with the legs of a bull. Sections of its body seemed to change shape, shifting in and out of focus, in a most disconcerting manner. Small flames flickered here and there across its form as it roared its triumph. Guilhem flattened himself against the glowing slime on the wall. The ifrit turned to face him, its massive chest heaving.
“You!” it bellowed.
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br /> Guilhem, who had faced charging Saracens and battled the sharp blades of a dozen mighty knights, quailed. Would the thing rend him to gobbets? Pull his head from his neck?
“You have freed me from this filthy cell in which Mojmir has held me lo, these past years.” The ifrit squatted down to peer more closely at Guilhem.
The duke sought to control his trembling. He held his sword at the ready and was relieved that its tip did not waver. “What? I... how did I do that?”
The ifrit gestured to the door. “You disturbed the alignment of the restraining symbol,” it said. “The iron of the door hurt me, yes; but I could have forced my way out had Mojmir not utilized his magic to triple the metal’s strength. That sigil empowered the spell he used. When you knocked it askew, its influence failed and the spell collapsed.”
“I see. You—” Guilhem’s voice cracked. He cleared this throat and began again. “You do not seem particularly wraith-like, despite your claims.”
The ifrit glanced down at itself. “Ah, had you but seen me thirty years ago,” it said in a mournful tone. It shook itself. “No matter! I am free now, to do as I will.” Its laughter boomed around the circular corridor. “Without my energies, this tower will be defenseless.”
“Does... does that mean my men can conquer it?”
“Of course, you silly mortal. As soon as I leave, the place will revert to a mere pile of stones as the enchantment the thieving Mojmir has been protecting it with evaporates. I daresay that he realizes even now what has happened and is preparing a hasty departure.” It straightened and stood tall, flexing its clawed hands. “As well he might; for if I catch him, he will have great cause for regret.” The thing bowed to Guilhem. “Again, you have my thanks, mortal. And now, farewell!” The ifrit began spinning, faster and faster until it became a blur of motion before fading away like morning mist, leaving Guilhem standing open-mouthed. After a moment, he shrugged and walked along the curved corridor until he came to the stairwell. Sword at the ready, he took the steps slowly and carefully, alert for any hint of movement or whisper of sound.
After a quick search Guilhem determined that the upper floors of the magician’s redoubt were deserted. Above the dungeon at ground level were storerooms crammed with barrels and boxes and casks. Mojmir’s living area was on the next level: sleeping quarters and a small kitchen with a fireplace. These chambers showed Mojmir to be of tidy if not fastidious habits. The remaining two floors were a library, and, at the very top, overlooking the forest, one large circular room devoted to the wizard’s magical apparatus and work space. Papers and odd implements lay scattered about, giving mute testimony to the sorcerer’s abrupt flight, as the ifrit had predicted.
Peering out of a window overlooking the spit of land on which the tower sat, Guilhem saw his companions gathered around a prone figure. Even at a distance Guilhem recognized the heroic form and red hair of Sir Onfroi.
Then, before he could move, he felt the tower quiver. The words of the ifrit came back to him: As soon as I leave, the place will revert to a mere pile of stones. The creature, he realized, must have meant that literally. Unless Guilhem fled the tower immediately, he’d be killed when it disintegrated.
And it seemed ready to do just that.
Guilhem bolted down the stairs to the ground floor and raced around the tower’s circumference until he found the exit. Already the stones around him groaned and cracked as they lost coherence. Had the blasted magician cobbled the place together out of gravel? Pebbles and flakes of rock pelted Guilhem as he stumbled out into the open air and dashed along the narrow spit toward his companions.
Behind him the tower disintegrated, crumbling in on itself with a roar. A cloud of gritty dust blew past Guilhem, stinging his eyes and catching in his throat. The ground shook under his feet, then subsided. A few more steps brought him to the men, who stared at him in astonishment.
As he had seen from the tower, Onfroi lay stretched lifeless on the sand, his eyes wide open and staring, as blue and empty as the sky. Guilhem knelt by the fallen knight’s side. “What happened?”
“My lord, where have you been?” asked Dobrogost the archer. “You walked right out of that dust cloud!”
“Aye,” said Zbignev. He squinted suspiciously at Guilhem. “How do we know you are not a simulacrum, like the other creatures of Mojmir?” And he jabbed his pike, none too gently, into Guilhem’s side. With an oath, the duke slapped it aside. Zbignev grunted. “You’re solid enough, anyway.”
Guilhem waved at the ruins of the tower. “All of Mojmir’s magic was based on lies,” he said. “Even the tower was held together by spells and the like.”
“The last we saw of you, you had wandered off in to the woods to scry the sorcerer’s doings,” said Milosh. “You did not return. This morning Onfroi decided that we ought to approach the tower to gauge Mojmir’s response.”
Zbignev spat. “Some of us did not want to do it,” he said, with a sidelong glance at Milosh, who bridled but said nothing.
“As we approached, a horde of demons poured forth,” said Alecksandru, shuddering. “Horned things without eyes or even faces on their heads, some of them.”
“S’truth,” Nikola said, nodding. “Before we knew it, we were surrounded. Flames blew up around us as well. I have never seen the like.”
“We thought we were dead men,” Alecksandru said. “We fought as best we could but never seemed to land a blow.”
“My pole passed straight through the cursed things!” Zbignev said.
Guilhem nodded. “That’s because you were fighting phantasms... chimeras. Skilled as he is, this Mojmir is a charlatan at heart. But what befell Onfroi?”
“We know not,” Nikola said, his normally smiling face veiled in woe. “We begged him to throw his own magic at our tormentors, and he took a stance. We thought he was about to dispel the specters when he clutched his chest and fell over, never to move again.”
“He must have been a-frighted unto death,” said Milosh with clear contempt.
Guilhem examined the fallen knight’s corpse. “I believe you have the truth of it, Milosh.” He got back to his feet. “Nevertheless, it would do you well to remember that whatever his lack in terms of a sorcerer’s art, Sir Onfroi came here and faced the threat with the rest of us, poor devil.” He sighed heavily. “Well, it would seem that we have at least succeeded in our undertaking. The tower is destroyed and the magician vanquished.”
Alecksandru looked around fearfully. “But is he? Or has he merely fled the region, to take up his evil schemes again elsewhere?”
Guilhem placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Do not trouble yourself about that. What may happen at another place or time is not our concern. We have done what we were hired to do. Now may we return to Duke Bořivoj and collect what is owed us.”
“Do you think the Duke will take our word for it?” Nikola asked. “What proof do we have other than our word that we have accomplished our task?”
Guilhem withdrew a sheet of parchment from inside his jerkin. Scribbled on it were numerous crude symbols and Latin words. At the top was inscribed, in red letters, Ad congregandum daemoniorum. “’On the summoning of demons,’” he explained to the others. “I snatched this from Mojmir’s table. I think it’s clear what our adversary was up to. And, of course, we have no reason to be calling up such monsters, and therefore would not have such a blasphemous document paper about our persons. Fear not; Bořivoj will believe.”
* * *
As he did. The Duke of Bohemia was delighted to be rid of the thaumaturgic threat to his lands, even though he had not received his foe’s head on a pike, as he had wanted. The Slavnik threat to his rule was eliminated, and Mojmir had disappeared. For a laconic man, he was lavish in his praise of the mission’s survivors. He also promised to have a statue of the fallen Onfroi erected in the public square outside the castle in Prague. *
The duke’s gratitude and generosity extended to provisioning Guilhem for his return journey to Poictiers.
So it was that a year and seventeen days after he had left the familiar environs of his own castle, Guilhem IX rode under its portcullis into the courtyard, his vassals cheering and his wife and young children beaming at him from the doorway.
* Duke Bořivoj II was (almost) as good as his word. Many years later when Guilhem had occasion to return to Bohemia he inquired about the statue, which was not in the square as Bořivoj had promised. Instead, Guilhem learned, it stood outside a certain tavern in which Onfroi, so Guilhem was told by its patrons, had been wont to spend most of his time. The piece, executed by the great French sculptor Gislebertus, was, Guilhem felt, a fine likeness. The setting was nothing less than apt, given Onfroi’s proclivities. Guilhem came away feeling a fair degree of satisfaction and not a little amusement because of what he had discovered about Onfroi in the interim.
CHAPTER SIX
IN WHICH GUILHEM MEETS A FORMER ACQUAINTANCE
After sleeping for almost an entire day, Guilhem opened his eyes at last to see Phillipa sitting quietly in one corner of the room, busy with her spinning. She did not notice that Guilhem had awakened. He took a moment to study her.
Beautiful, with glossy brown hair flowing over her shoulders and down her back, clever and strong-willed, she was not a retiring wife. Guilhem had upon occasion found her exasperating, but the simple fact was that they worked well together—a thing he had not expected while courting her.
He smiled, remembering. She shared his determination to annex Toulouse to his holdings, but in her case, it was a family matter. Her cousin, Raymond IV of Toulouse, had had control of the lands since the death of her father. She considered herself the rightful heir, a claim Guilhem agreed with in part because of his ambitions. When Raymond set out on the First Crusade in the autumn of 1096, he left his son Bertrand in control of the region. Guilhem and Phillipa began drawing their plans against Bertrand, and in the Spring of 1098 took the city of Toulouse without losing a single life on either side. Phillipa proclaimed herself Countess of Toulouse, and their son Guilhem was born the next year; his elder sister Cateline was a year old at his birth.