King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  At the bottom of the hoofprint could be seen the bloody remains of a gnome.

  “Oh, God,” muttered Arthur. He took a dagger from inside his boot and began to dig. It didn’t take long. Soon the broken body of Tom Grog lay on the grass. Arthur took off his jerkin and laid it gently over the remains. He looked up at his men, tears in his eyes. “This must never happen again,” he said. “Never.”

  “It was an accident,” said Ned.

  “We will not take the chance of such accidents. If we must fight, we will fight where we know there are no gnomes. I gave an undertaking to these people, and it seems I’m not fulfilling it.” He stood, addressing the gnomes. “There are no words that can express my sorrow and regret. I can only tell you I will do everything in my power to make sure such a tragedy doesn’t happen again. We will leave you now. I expect you will want to deal with Tom’s remains in your own way.” He saluted. “Come on, men.”

  An abashed party returned to the place where they’d left their horses. They mounted and rode south.

  By the time they caught up with the battle, it was over. The Irish stood on the beach, a disconsolate rabble, eyeing the swords of Mara Zion nervously. “Now perhaps this time,” said Palomides, “we will rid ourselves of these scum forever. The late Tristan spared them, but he was weak. You will prove a strong leader, I trust, Arthur.”

  “It was not my battle,” said Arthur.

  The Silver Knight was addressing the Irish. “Go now, and go in peace. If you come again, come in peace.” His visor still covered his face, and the words had a compelling, echoing quality. “You will be welcome as allies. As enemies you will die. The choice will be yours, and we shall be ready for you.”

  Marhaus faced him. “We cannot be your allies so long as you are allies of the murderer, Baron Menheniot. But thank you all the same. We shall not come with warlike intentions again.” He led the Irish into their boats.

  Gawaine caught sight of Arthur’s group and approached them excitedly. “You should have seen it!” he cried. “That Silver Knight fought like I’ve never seen a man fight. He inspired us all, and …” He hesitated. “Maybe we needed some inspiring at first. He took the Irish on single-handedly, more or less. So then we had to join in.”

  “How many are dead?” asked Arthur in flat tones.

  “None that I know of. It was amazing. There was something about that Silver Knight that seemed to knock all the stuffing out of the Irish. After the first skirmish it was simply a question of chasing them to the beach.”

  The Silver Knight strode toward them and saluted Arthur. “I’m glad to have been of service.”

  “You’re wounded.” Now they could see that the forefinger of his right glove was missing at the tip. Blood seeped from behind the jointed metal.

  “It’s a pity,” said the Silver Knight, with an odd kind of regret in his voice.

  “Allow us to dress it.” The women were emerging from the trees. “Nyneve,” called Arthur. “Can you see to the Silver Knight’s wound?”

  “I fear it’s too late,” said the other, still in that strange tone. “My fingertip is lost forever.”

  “Well, yes, but at least we can stop you from bleeding to death.”

  “But you can’t restore me to perfection.”

  “Avalona can heal the stump,” said Nyneve. “I’ve seen her do that kind of thing.” She bound the finger tightly with a narrow band of cloth. “Shall I take you to her?”

  “I’ve heard of Avalona. She’s the witch in the forest, isn’t she? Yes, I’d like to see her.”

  Arthur said, “It was a fortunate chance for us that you came this way, sir. Where are you from?”

  “Oh …” The other waved a hand vaguely. “East. South. Everywhere. I’ve traveled through many lands, and now I’m here. I don’t know why, but this seems like my destination. I might almost say that something seemed to call me here. I have no idea where to go next.”

  “You’re welcome to stay in the village.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just one thing.” Arthur regarded the Silver Knight curiously. “As a stranger to these parts, you came across two warring groups. How did you know which side to choose?”

  The other pushed back his visor. His hair was fair, his eyes a penetrating blue, his mouth wide and smiling gently.

  “Instinct,” he said. “I am on the side of God and justice.”

  They watched in silence as Nyneve led him into the forest.

  8

  TOM GROG’S FUNERAL

  FOUR PEOPLE IN HUMAN FORM SAT AT BREAKFAST THE following morning.

  “What will you do now, Silver Knight?” asked Nyneve through a mouthful of gruel.

  The other swallowed before speaking, and wiped his lips politely. “Call me Lancelot,” he said, “since I’m not wearing my armor at present. As to your question, I’m going to accept Arthur’s offer of accommodation in the village. There is much for me to do in Mara Zion.” He smiled at them brilliantly. He wore a leather jerkin and pants, spotlessly clean.

  “So it’s Lancelot,” Merlin said with a grunt. “I might have known.”

  “My fame has reached Mara Zion?”

  “I was instrumental in spreading the word around,” said the old Paragon. “Me and Nyneve, that is. You fulfill a legend in these parts, Lancelot. You—”

  “That’s enough, Merlin,” said Avalona.

  “I wasn’t going to prophesy anything. I was just going to—”

  “Don’t. In any case, it is time you were leaving. The carriage is close by Penzance.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Merlin, if I say the carriage is close by Penzance, that’s where it is. Now get started on your journey or you’ll miss it. You may take the mule.”

  “The mule? The mule? Have you any idea what it does for my standing in the village, riding a mule? Why the hell can’t we ride horses like anyone else, that’s what I’d like to know!”

  “Mules are very hardy,” said Lancelot quickly. “They’re ideal for forest and moorland conditions. And they’re sterile.” He stood. “Thank you for healing my stump, Avalona. And for breakfast, beautiful Nyneve. Merlin, I’ll accompany you on the first part of your journey. It looks like a fine day for a ride on the moors.”

  “Do you have to be so bloody positive about everything?” Grumbling, Merlin pulled on a filthy coat and shambled to the door. Lancelot followed, bowed to the women, and the two men left.

  “He’s a bit too good to be true,” said Nyneve.

  “He is what he is. We all are.”

  “Where are they going?”

  “To Pentor. He is to meet a coach bringing Guinevere from Camyliard.”

  “What! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You could not have affected the issue.”

  “But why is she coming?” A sense of dread began to center around Nyneve’s heart like a pain. “Why the hell do you have to bring her here, Avalona?”

  “She is your friend. As I understand it, you invited her.”

  “Yes, but that was last year! That was before Arthur came! I would never have invited her if I’d known Arthur would be around. I threw out the invitation to be polite. You must have been in touch with her since.” She stared at the Dedo furiously. “What’s the real reason for her coming?”

  “You already know that. You told the stories. She must take her place beside Arthur.”

  “But the stories don’t have to come true in every detail!”

  “The part of the story that deals with Arthur and Guinevere must come true. It is an essential part of my plan for the human race. Starquin must be saved from destruction. Would you challenge the plan, Nyneve?”

  The cold eyes dwelt upon her and she shivered. “No. I won’t challenge the plan,” she muttered. “All the same, I thought things were going pretty well. …” Catching another glance from Avalona, she fell silent. It was intolerable that Gwen should arrive when she and Arthur were getting along so well. But then again …
She remembered the pale girl at Camyliard with the narrow, uninteresting face and the slightly vacant expression. Arthur wouldn’t fall for a girl like that. She, Nyneve, would look pretty good in contrast. Perhaps she had nothing to worry about. She stood, pushing aside her unfinished gruel.

  “I’m going to visit the gnomes. One of them was killed during the battle, and they’re having a funeral. I must be there.”

  “A gnome killed?” For once Avalona seemed to be taken aback. “Who was it?”

  “Tom Grog, their innkeeper. It seems a horse stepped on his inn in the heat of battle. It was terribly bad luck.”

  “Yes,” said Avalona thoughtfully. “We should never overlook the effect of chance on an otherwise well-organized happentrack. I didn’t expect this. I must examine the ifalong to ensure the effects are not permanent. Leave me now,. Nyneve.” She closed her eyes in dismissal.

  Soon afterward Nyneve, approaching the blasted oak, heard the drone of gnomish voices raised in dismal harmony. She found some three dozen gnomes sitting on exposed roots. Before them an open-weave basket lay on its side. Seven gnomes, all males, stood beside the basket. Their eyes were downcast, their shoulders slumped. From these seven came the harmonic drone.

  A little apart from them, near the open end of the basket, stood Pong the Intrepid. He was peering inside. “Oh, no!” he cried, as though the body were metamorphosing into something unthinkable. “Oh, no!”

  King Bison, seeing Nyneve at the edge of the clearing, left the group of seven and approached her. “Hello, Nyneve,” he said in sepulchral tones.

  “Hello, Bison. I feel really sorry about this. My people are responsible and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Nobody except the Miggot blames you. It just happened,” said Bison sadly. “When some people are much bigger than other people, somebody’s bound to get stepped on. Tom Grog was the unlucky one. Just when we’d gotten the inn all built too. He was going to serve the first brew of new beer tonight. It just shows, doesn’t it? You can’t depend on anything in this new world of ours.”

  “Oh, no!” howled Pong.

  “We have to make it up to you, Bison. There must be something we can do.”

  “It would be better if you told the villagers to stay away from gnomedom.”

  “I don’t have that much influence over them, Bison. I could ask Avalona to do something, but you know what she ’s like. She’d say it would interfere with some essential happentrack.”

  “Maybe we should accept Arthur’s offer and live in the village.”

  “Oh, no!” screamed Pong, staring into the basket, aghast.

  “Is something horrible happening in there?” Nyneve asked.

  “It’s just part of the ceremony. Pong’s the official crier, expressing grief.”

  “That seems an odd way to do it.”

  “We come from different cultures, Nyneve. What would a human shout if somebody died?”

  Nyneve thought. “Well, he might shout ‘Oh, no!’ but that would be at first. When the initial shock had worn off, he would probably just keen.”

  “Keen?”

  “Kind of a wailing noise. Or perhaps a whimper.”

  “We do that too. We have moaners. I’m part of the official moaning party today. But moaning gets automatic after a while, and we gnomes feel something more is required to reinforce the immediate grief. That’s where the crier comes in. After all,” Bison said sadly, “it’s hardly ever that gnomes die. And when one dies by accident, that’s dreadful. It’s so … so obvious. There’s a body, you see, all smashed up. Housemice take care of natural deaths, but this …” He shuddered. “We don’t often see bodies. Pong’s grief is real, you know. Every time he looks into that basket, he feels terrible.”

  “Even though he never drank beer himself,” said the Gooligog, joining them. “You notice there are no women among the moaners?” His tone was indignant. “That’s because they never really liked Tom. They say he led us astray with heady brews. I never liked Tom myself, as a matter of fact, but at least I can pay my respects in the proper manner.”

  Regrettably there were signs of a near celebration from the women as they chattered among themselves, paying scant attention to the moaners and the body. The hearty laugh of Lady Duck rang out, and Bison flushed in embarrassment. “They’re making a mockery of the whole ceremony,” he said. “My own wife too. We shall have to borrow your housemouse, Gooligog.”

  “You’re going to set it on your wife? That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”

  Bison uttered a cluck of exasperation. “We have to dispose of Tom Grog, Gooligog. We can hardly leave him here, can we?” He waved an arm at the trees where rows of shytes perched with hunched shoulders, peering greedily down at the basket. Under other circumstances they would have been driven off by outraged gnomes, but on this occasion they were welcomed. Their drab feathers and strangled cries, conveying an impression of almost unbearable suffering, were considered particularly appropriate to a funeral. Food was occasionally tossed to them, to keep them there.

  “Can’t you use somebody else’s mouse? I don’t fancy leading that bastard through the forest. He took a snap at my leg the other day. Getting impatient, he is.”

  “That’s precisely why we need him, Gooligog. He’s ready, if you know what I mean. I don’t mean you’re dying, or anything like that. But your mouse—don’t misunderstand me, Gooligog—always has an anticipatory gleam in his eye. He will have no difficulty disposing of the carcass, and it’ll get him off your back for a while too.”

  “That’s true,” said the Gooligog, brightening. “I’ll fetch him.” He hobbled off into the forest. A small covey of shytes detached themselves from the branches and winged after him.

  “The Gooligog’s days are numbered,” observed Bison with no discernible regret. “Fang is now our Memorizer, and the shytes are closing in. The birds sense it, you know.”

  “How do they know?” asked Nyneve.

  “They can see a little way into the future. We bred them that way, thousands of years ago, to keep the forest clean. The Miggot tells me they get a picture in their mind of something lying motionless on the forest floor. So they wait around in that spot—and sure enough, before long something comes staggering along and falls down dead there. So they clean it up before it gets unpleasant. Unfortunately they’re not good at distinguishing between death and sleep, particularly with old people. The Gooligog’s woken up several times from a light doze and found them all over him, selecting the choicest parts. By the Great Grasshopper!” Bison paled suddenly. “I shall have to make a speech! The moaners are getting hoarse, and Pong seems to have wandered off somewhere. This is the time when the leader speaks of the virtues of the departed. I don’t like making speeches.”

  “I thought you were good at it,” said Nyneve, puzzled. “Everybody says that’s why you’re leader of the gnomes.”

  “They don’t know the agony I go through.” Bison groaned. “The self-doubt. The paralysis of the mind. The trembling knees. Above all the fear that a circling shyte will let go on me and I’ll be laughed at. That’s why I let Lady Duck do most of the talking.”

  He continued in this vein for a while. It became obvious to Nyneve that he was playing for time. Eventually the Gooligog arrived with his housemouse on a leash, and Bison breathed a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said. “It would be unseemly to utter the sacred words before the innkeeper has been properly dispatched.”

  “You could get Lady Duck to utter the words, Bison.”

  He shot Nyneve a look of disapproval and suddenly roared, “Pong!”

  The intrepid one hurried out of the undergrowth. “Yes, Bison?”

  “It’s time to dispatch the deceased.”

  “Oh, yes.” Well drilled, Pong took the leash and walked the housemouse to the basket. The housemouse, scenting carrion, pricked up his ears. Pong unleashed him and he bounded into the basket. There was a lengthy silence while the gnomes strained their ears.

  “O
h, no!” cried Pong.

  But it was not the traditional lament of the crier. It was a warning that something was going wrong. The head of the housemouse popped out of the basket. Fierce little eyes scanned the assembly. The gnomes backed off nervously.

  Bison, safe under the protection of Nyneve, said, “The mouse seeks fresher meat.”

  The mouse made a scuttling run for its master. The Gooligog, with a skill born of a century of practice, delivered an accurate kick. The mouse rolled across the clearing, squealing. Nyneve stepped forward, seized it by the tail, and pushed it back into the basket, sealing it in with a nearby lid, apparently designed for the purpose.

  Relieved that his work had been done for him, Pong turned to Bison. “It’s time for your speech,” he said.

  “I need a beer.”

  “There is no beer. The innkeeper is dead and his inventory destroyed.” Pong, the teetotaler, spoke with some satisfaction.

  “By the Sword of Agni!” cried Bison, “gnomedom has come to a pretty pass. Never in gnomish memory has a leader been required to make a speech without beer.”

  “Speech! Speech!” shouted the women unkindly.

  Bison glanced around with a hunted expression. “We’re not all here yet!” he shouted back. “Fang should be here. I can’t make a speech without my deputy!”

  “Ah, Fang,” said Clubfoot Trimble darkly.

  “Find Fang!” roared Bison.

  “He’s probably still in bed with that woman of his,” said Elmera.

  “Oh, no!” shouted Pong, the words having become engraved on his behavioral patterns. “Not her!” he cried, to reassure himself his vocabulary was still intact.

  “I saw Fang in the moonlight,” stated Clubfoot Trimble.

  “What about it?” asked Lady Duck.

  “I saw Fang in the moonlight,” Clubfoot repeated portentously, because the right question had not been asked. The gnomes had gotten into the habit of deliberately not asking him the right question, and it was beginning to annoy him. Since the death of his wife he had taken to lurking in damp parts of the forest, uttering gloomy prognostications. The gnomes were learning to ignore him.