“I observe the seasons and the umbra, and the waxing and waning of the moons,” said Hal loftily, “and the comings and goings of the wild things.” Then he added, remembering, “If I spend a lot of time sitting in my home, it’s because the moor is infested by fogdogs of your creation.”
“That’s enough, you two,” said Fang. To Hal he said, “Where’s Nyneve now?”
“How would I know? Somewhere back there, I suppose. Why?”
“I need to talk to her. She’s a friend of gnomes.”
“Well …” said Hal reluctantly, “She did arrange to meet a large giant on horseback by the name of Galahad—where was it? On the path to her stepmother’s cottage, I think she said. At noon.”
Fang said, “We still have time. Let’s get going.” He dug his heels into the rabbit. “Away, Thunderer!”
The others raised a ragged cheer at this, and chased after him in a pack. Their spirits had suddenly risen. They had a definite objective in view. They all knew Nyneve, and they trusted her. She would not let them come to any harm.
Fang led them deeper into the forest until, by midmorning, he felt it was time to call a halt. They were all tired, and it was time for a bite to eat and a nap. They found a clearing where mushrooms poked out of the grass, and ate their fill. Then they crawled under bushes and went to sleep. Fang, unaccustomed to leadership, did not post a sentry.
“I tell you, Palomides, I don’t share your confidence.”
Fang awakened with a start to hear giantish voices bellowing, seemingly in his ear. Cautiously he peered out from under his bush. At least a dozen giants stood in the glade, holding their horses’ bridles. He recognized most of them as being Mara Zion giants whom he’d seen in the umbra. They were a huge and terrifying sight, surrounded by an aura of power and barely suppressed violence. Palomides slapped the speaker on the shoulder with a blow that would have flattened a gnome.
“You’ll be welcome, Will,” he said. “There’s a new attitude in Mara Zion. People are tired of Tristan and his crusading. They want a little peace and quiet. They want young men around the place. And now the baron’s in charge again, the situation is much healthier. He’ll welcome able-bodied men like you.”
“I’m worried the village people may see it as desertion,” said the first speaker. “After all, we rode off with Tristan on a quest. Now, after a week or so, we’ve come back, leaving Tristan alone out there. Sometimes I don’t feel so good about it myself. But Tristan was getting pretty tiresome.”
Palomides laughed. “People don’t see it as a quest. They see it as revenge. And don’t forget, Torre was a popular man, too.”
One of the men said thoughtfully, “You know, I never really believed Torre would cuckold Tristan. I still can’t believe it. I think there’s been some mistake, and Tristan jumped to conclusions. Or maybe the baron set Torre up. That way, he got rid of the two most powerful men in Mara Zion.”
“That’s nonsense,” snapped Palomides. “And you’d be well advised not to talk like that around here. That goes for the rest of you, too.”
There was a general mutter of resentment. “Wait a minute,” said the giant called Will. “Those are pretty strong words from a man who went chasing after imaginary beasts because he was scared to go to war.”
For a moment matters looked bad for Palomides, but there was a sudden diversion. As he backed away from Will, his horse took several stamping steps backward, too. There was a thin squeal of fright from the bushes as Hal o’ the Moor broke cover and scurried away from the hooves.
“It’s a gnome!” shouted Palomides. “After it!”
Suddenly the clearing was a pandemonium of pounding feet and crashing hooves and the gnomes were scurrying in all directions. Fang heard a snapping of twigs and rolled aside just as a hoof plunged toward him, then he jumped to his feet and ran. He hadn’t gone ten paces before a huge hand closed around him and a roar of triumph trumpeted in his ear.
“I’ve got one!”
“So have I! They’re all over the place! Jack—there’s one to your left, see? And another—over there!”
The gnomes didn’t stand a chance. Within minutes they were rounded up and deposited in a heap in the center of the glade, while the giants surrounded them.
“I told you there were gnomes,” said Palomides. “Nobody believed me.”
“They’re just like real people,” said somebody wonderingly. “Only much smaller. I can’t believe it. Just wait till we show them to the village.”
“They could be useful,” said another. “Just think of the things they could do.” The gnomes were picking themselves up, shaking with terror. These deafening voices were confirming all their fears, and soon one of the giants would suggest a barbecue. “They could go down rat holes … along thin branches …”
“It’d be fun to see then dance.”
“We must train them.”
“They won’t need much food, that’s for sure.”
“Can they talk? Tap one of them and see if he squeaks.”
“Put them in your saddle bags, men,” said Palomides, now fully in command of the situation again. “We’ll take them back to the village. I can’t wait to see people’s faces. You men can be sure of a welcome now.”
Fang was swept through the air and dropped. Somebody landed on top of him, then somebody else. Wailing with distress, the gnomes struggled in the stinking confines of the leather bags.
Then the flaps closed over them, and they were in total darkness.
Chivalry Accepted
Certain philosophers of the Dying Years held that there was no such thing as a true coincidence, insisting that coincidences were simply occasions when a Dedo was twisting events to suit her purpose. They pointed to the last meeting of Tristan and Iseult as proof of their theory. They said that every single occurrence during that pivotal event was essential to Avalona’s plan. Certainly the final meeting of Tristan and Iseult had more than a hint of fate about it. It happened like this:
After leaving Nyneve, Iseult walked north through the forest. From time to time she would hear someone approaching and would slip behind a tree and freeze there with thumping heart, until the traveler was out of earshot. It was not wise for a woman to walk alone in the forest these days. The baron’s men were not so chivalrous as Tristan’s. Added to which, there had been rumors of a huge beast near the village. Several dogs and even a horse had disappeared.
More paths joined Iseult’s until it became a broad road leading to the foot of the moors. Again she was forced to hide, this time as a large group went south on horseback. As she crouched behind a rhododendron, she heard the hectoring tones of Ned Palomides. Later she left the trees and began to climb onto the moor. Eventually, tired and out of breath, she sat down on the short grass in the lee of Pentor. She opened her bag and ate a small meal of crusty bread and goat’s cheese, and began to wonder what she hoped to accomplish by this journey.
For a start, she had no idea where Tristan was, or when he might be expected back. One thing was sure: she couldn’t let him walk into the baron’s arms. He had to be warned.
She climbed Pentor rock and scanned the rolling moorland. The sky was a steely gray and low clouds hurried overhead. Far in the distance, trudging across the breast of a rise, she saw a lonely figure leading a horse. He was northeast of her, and would reach her in about an hour. She began to fantasize that it was Tristan, and to imagine his arms around her, and his voice breathing forgiveness in her ear. There was nobody else on the moor, unless she counted a scattering of despondent sheep in the middle distance. -
The very sight of the expanse of moor had lent her some common sense. There was no point in walking all over Cornwall, searching for Tristan. That was a foolish idea, born out of her desire to prove to Nyneve that she was just as brave and adventurous as Nyneve herself. No—the sensible thing would be to stay at Pentor, where she could command a view of the countryside and the routes by which Tristan must return. She could spend the nights in the shelte
r of the forest and come up here at first light, every day, until he came.
No monitor of the Rainbow observed Iseult’s vigil, because the Rainbow had not been invented. No gnome observed her either, because the only gnome resident at Pentor had left. So the story of Iseult’s final meeting with Tristan comes neither from database nor from Memorizer. It is pure legend, built up from the words of the dying Tristan and the suppositions of the villagers. It supposes that Tristan came back to Mara Zion on the evening of the same day his men returned. …
Iseult had been watching the distant figure with a surmise which gradually became a certainty. There were certain mannerisms in the walk, and the way the body was carried. Then the knight dropped from sight below the rise of the hill on which Pentor stood. Iseult climbed down from the rock quite slowly, began to walk north across the grass, and before long broke into a wild run.
“Tristan!” she shouted at the empty, dipping ground.
She caught her foot in a root and fell, slamming the breath out of her lungs. Wheezing, she scrambled to her feet, possessed with a fatalistic fear that if she did not recapture the vision of that knight soon, he would disappear forever. The slope steepened and she stumbled on; then suddenly the valley was in sight.
The horseman had mounted, and was riding slowly along a goat-track which circled the mound of Pentor hill. She shouted again, and he looked up, turning to her a whiteness of face into which she could easily read Tristan’s features. He reined his horse in, dismounted and began to climb the slope toward her. For a few moments she saw the face of every man she’d ever known, rejecting each one with mounting joy, until she was left with the pure certainty that this was Tristan, and her impossible quest was over before it had really begun.
“Iseult.” He said no more, but took her into his arms.
She said nothing, but her tears said it all.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been a bloody fool. My men left me in the end, and that made me see sense. A bit late, I suppose. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course,” she managed to say.
It was late afternoon before they entered the forest of Mara Zion, and by then Iseult had recovered her composure sufficiently to bring Tristan up to date on the village events and the baron’s takeover.
“It’s my fault,” he said grimly, his hand unconsciously gripping Excalibur’s hilt.
“You can’t fight them all by yourself.”
“I can have a damned good try. And I think the village people will support me, once I get back.”
“Quite possibly,” said a smooth voice unexpectedly, as a group of men stepped from cover. “And that’s why we can’t allow you to get back, Tristan.”
Iseult was sitting behind Tristan, and her initial impulse was to kick her heels into the horse and urge him to flight, but almost immediately she realized Tristan would not thank her for that. So she sat, sick at heart, while the baron and his men confronted them.
“We’re alone,” said Tristan simply, holding his arms out from his sides. “We have no defense against you.”
“Throw down your sword,” said the Baron.
“No.”
“It may protect you, but it won’t help you.”
“Dismount,” said Tristan. “Order your men to stand back, and face me man to man.”
The baron laughed. “Why should I surrender my advantage? I’m not that big a fool, Tristan. And as for you—you’re a clever man and a dangerous one, and you have an unusual sword which has gained something of a reputation.”
“And you’re a man of some honor—or you used to be. I won’t be taken prisoner, you know that. So you five men will have to kill me and Iseult. That’s hardly a chivalrous act. I hope the story gets back to the village. It won’t do your reputation an good.”
Tristan’s words had their effect. The baron hesitated, frowning. Then he said, “You want a fair fight? So be it.” Surprisingly, he slid from his horse and drew his sword. “Don’t interfere, men. And Tristan—you did say man to man, didn’t you? Then leave your sword behind, and borrow one. Here.” He took a sword from one of his men and tossed it toward Tristan. “Pick it up, and let’s see how you perform in a truly fair fight.”
“Don’t do it,” Iseult whispered in Tristan’s ear.
Tristan handed Excalibur to her. “He’s given away his advantage, so I must surrender mine. Surely you don’t want me to discredit our code of behavior?”
“It’s a bloody stupid code!” cried Iseult aloud. And it puts you up against the best swordsman in Cornwall. What’s fair about that?”
Frowning, Tristan descended to the ground. “Thanks for your confidence, Iseult,” he said, picking up the sword. Then he swung round suddenly and hit his horse a blow with the flat of the blade. “Go!” he yelled. The horse, startled, took off like a bolt from a crossbow, Iseult hanging onto its mane, and was soon out of sight. Then Tristan faced the baron. “I’m ready,” he said.
The tales from the age of chivalry tell of many battles, but the contest which took place between Tristan and Baron Menheniot on that spring evening in Mara Zion was the greatest of them all. Both men were wary of the other’s prowess, and neither wore very much in the way of armor, despite the subsequent illustrations and mind-paintings which grew out of this encounter. Here and there they wore heavy leather, with beaten brass covering the vital parts. Each man wore a helmet extending over the ears to the neck, and the baron’s helmet bore a plume like a Roman chief’s but neither man carried a shield. For the main part they were dressed in the coarse cloth of the period, and before long they were both bleeding from their wounds.
The baron, tall and powerful, drove Tristan back against a great spreading oak which grew at the side of the path. Tristan, smaller but thick-set and more agile, avoided the worst of the blows, getting in a few of his own and opening up the first serious wound: a gash in the baron’s thigh.
Tristan, not wishing to be pinned against the oak, feinted left and stepped right as the baron swung at empty air. About to swing his own sword as the baron staggered off balance, Tristan caught his foot on a root and fell. The onlookers cheered in anticipation, but Tristan rolled out of the way of the baron’s thrust, and jumped to his feet again.
“Not yet, Menheniot,” he gasped.
“Stand and fight,” grunted the baron, swinging again.
Tristan leaped forward inside the blow, ducked under his opponent’s arm and thrust at his unprotected flank. The baron was just as quick, however, and twisted away. This time it was Tristan who felt the quick pain of the sword’s edge and he backed off, anxiously clapping his free hand to his side, but finding he had suffered no more than a flesh wound.
“Don’t you like the sight of your own blood, Tristan?” the baron taunted him.
The swords of the time were heavy and cumbersome, and Tristan soon wished he held the well-balanced Excalibur, which had always felt like a part of him in battle. His sword arm quickly grew tired and he took the opportunity to change hands, a fact which the baron noted with grim amusement.
“Getting weary, little man?”
But Tristan was equally dextrous with his left hand, and the change had the effect of confusing the baron, who took several deep cuts around the shoulder before he became used to defending himself against the new direction of Tristan’s thrusts. The fight went on. The audience was now quite, intently observing each move, partisanship forgotten as they appreciated the finer points of swordsmanship.
“Almost a pity one of them has to die,” said one man.
“So long as it’s Tristan who dies.”
“He will,” said the first man confidently. “The baron’s too strong for him. But he’s putting up a good fight.”
The forest rang with the clash of metal on metal; and in the distance people heard, and wondered. Iseult heard, lying on the ground where the horse had thrown her in its panicky flight. Dazed, she got to her feet, saw Excalibur lying nearby, and picked it up. Then she began to make her way back t
oward the din of battle.
Meanwhile, Tristan was tiring. On the defensive, he backed along the forest path. The spectators kept pace, stumbling through the undergrowth but never taking their eyes off the contestants. The baron surged forward, swinging his sword two-handed like a sledgehammer, forcing Tristan back by the sheer force of his blows. The end was near. Tristan was gulping for breath, scarcely able to lift his sword to defend himself.
“Yield, Tristan,” called one of the baron’s men, his sympathies with the underdog.
“Nobody yields in this fight,” snapped the baron, swinging and thrusting. Tristan had left the path and was standing, disoriented, knee deep in undergrowth, blood flowing from a score of wounds. Stepping back once more, he took a thrust deep into his stomach and fell.
The baron paused with sword uplifted. “You’re a good man, Tristan,” he said breathlessly, sweat pouring from his face. “I don’t enjoy doing this, but it’s necessary for the future of Mara Zion. Goodbye.” And he swung the sword.
“No!” The scream came from Iseult, who appeared from nowhere, throwing herself over Tristan’s body.
The baron’s eyes widened as he tried to check the swing of his heavy sword. The blade bit into Iseult’s neck. She collapsed over Tristan, spraying blood which soon slowed to a trickle. The breath sighed from her lungs.
“Oh, my God,” murmured the baron, his arms at his sides, staring helplessly.
There was a long silence. Tristan lay with closed eyes. It was doubtful if he knew of the death of his lover; the baron’s last thrust had been a mortal one. The baron stood still, tears in his eyes.
Somebody said quietly, “We should bury them.” It was a question of covering up their mutual guilt, rather than a practical suggestion.
The baron spoke at last. “Bury the girl. Tristan’s not dead yet. We must take him back to the village.”
“But they’ll see him as a martyr.”
“Perhaps he is.” The baron leaned on his sword. “I couldn’t help it. She was too quick for me, as God is my witness.”
Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth) Page 33