Knowing no better, Elroy behaved as he thought a knight should behave. He volunteered his time at the House of Healing, holding patients steady while the monks sawed away offending limbs, played stoolball with the foundlings at the monastery orphanage, and sat vigil with the dying at the nunnery. He spent his money, a pittance for a true knight but a fortune to him, in the taverns and bathhouses of the common folk, rather than at the gaudy balls and banquets of the rich.
Elroy took to his new role with relish. In some ways, his life was shaping up better than he could have hoped. But still, he longed for his Gilly. He hadn’t seen her since the dragon, hadn’t thanked her for saving his life. Truth be told, he thought he might walk away from Knighthood and all that went with it, if it meant he could be with her.
That’s not to say that life with Gilly wasn’t without its complications. For a human to consort with a water sprite was, of course, illegal and punishable by death. So too regarding elves, gnomes, nymphs, pixies, sylphs, and goblins, although who in their right mind would lay with a goblin, Elroy couldn’t say. But customs and ways that held for city folk didn’t always hold in the country. Discretion, Elroy learned, was key.
Elroy’s reputation grew, a true knight who was also a man of the people. Sir Elroy Wooden Sword, they called him, Knight of the People, and later, simply, the People’s Knight. One afternoon, enjoying a tankard in a tavern he’d come to frequent, Elroy heard a minstrel sing a ballad about a good knight who was beloved by all. Halfway through the song, Elroy realized it was about him.
But as many a dungeon dweller could attest, fame and fortune were dangerous possessions in the city. The King was a jealous creature. He did not like to share the center stage. The People’s Knight was becoming all together too popular for the King’s liking. He was, after all, nothing more than an up-jumped farm boy.
One morning, Elroy woke to find a strange woman sitting on the edge of his bed. He’d been drinking the night before, it was true, but he was quite certain that he’d gone to bed alone. She was beautiful, pale white, almost transparent, as though made of mist and air. Although he had never seen one, Elroy knew she was a sylph, a sky elemental.
“Who are you? Where did you come from? How did you come to be in my bed?”
The sylph remained silent. Her gaze was fixed not on him but on some distant point in space, as though, in her mind, she was far away. The morning sun shafted through the open window and the sylph shimmered like lake water. She was nude. Elroy moved to cover her with his blanket. With her gaze fixed at last upon him, he saw that she was crying.
“What’s wrong?” Elroy asked.
With a crack and a bang, Elroy’s chamber door burst open. A troupe of stone-faced guards marched into the room followed by the King himself.
“Sir Elroy Wooden Sword,” the King bellowed, “you are hereby charged with amalgamation and miscegenation most foul and unnatural.”
The sylph buried her face in her hands, a statue of ice weeping in the morning sun. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her tears smelled like storm clouds and summer rain.
*~*~*~*
While the People’s Knight, publicly denounced as a race traitor, languished in the deepest of the King’s dungeons, something remarkable was afoot in the great courtyard.
A mysterious woman arrived astride an enormous painted elephant wrapped in colored silks. Her hair was black obsidian and her skin burnished copper. She entered the King’s castle courtyard at the head of a procession of servants bearing litters piled high with exotic fruits, jewels, and spices. Trailing the procession, two more elephants pulled a wheeled cage containing a striped saber toothed beast that could have leapt from the pages of a storybook.
After a screeching fanfare a golden-cloaked herald announced the arrival of Queen Nayada the Wise and Beautiful. Queen Nayada, it was explained, hailed from faraway in the East and had traveled widely in search of a worthy King to share her wealth and maidenhood. Chests of gold were emptied upon the courtyard ground as tokens of the Queen’s wealth. Garlands of perfumed flowers were dropped on top of the gold as symbols of the queen’s considerable feminine assets.
She would, the herald announced, marry the King whose champion bested her saber-toothed Liger in mortal combat.
It was, of course, too good to pass up. Both an influx of money to jumpstart the beggared kingdom and a beautiful and exotic maiden to share his bed. Indeed, it was as though the answer to all the King’s problems had simply fallen from the sky.
But first, he would need a champion. The closed counsel bandied about names. Someone mentioned Sir Elroy Wooden Sword, but that was quickly dismissed. As the kingdom had no true knights available, they went down the lists of the Constable Guard.
They talked and drank, and drank and talked. The King, being the King, drank and talked more than anyone. Whenever his goblet was empty, his chamber slave would rush to refill it. The King’s chamber slave was a forest sprite. Her skin changed color every few seconds, first yellow, then orange, then red, then brown, then yellow again, as though she were the leaves of autumn. It was really quite dizzying to watch, had anyone actually bothered watching, but because she was a slave girl, she was ignored almost completely.
She set the King’s goblet on the table and, with a deftness few could match, pulled a small black pearl from behind her ear and dropped it into the King’s wine. The pearl dissolved instantly, but even if it hadn’t, the King would have likely swallowed it whole without noticing. He was a prodigious wine-drinker.
Before too long, the King was slurring drunk, however, what happened next couldn’t be explained by mere drunkenness. As they were discussing the merits of holding a tournament to choose a champion, the King stood up abruptly, knocked his chair to the floor and said, “Well it’s perfectly clear we aren’t going to find any champions in this rotting carcass of a Kingdom. I know what you’re all thinking, you’re thinking this is a job for the King.”
The council members squirmed in their seats and coughed in their hands. No one, of course, had been thinking anything like that. The King, while once a formidable presence on the tournament fields, was well past his prime. In fact, it was all he could do to battle a flight of stairs. Battling saber-toothed monsters seemed exceedingly ill advised.
“Ahem. Your Majesty, if I may,” the senior counselor said. “Doubtless you would defeat the beast, but perhaps that would send the wrong message. After all, a King is busy dealing with the important matters of the State, too busy by far to battle every beast that lumbers into the Kingdom. That’s why kings use champions.”
“Nonsense,” the King roared, splashing wine down the front of his doublet. “The people need to be reminded just who it is that rules them.”
“But your Majesty –”
“Silence!” The King shouted. “I’ll hear no more of this nonsense. Where are my squires?”
The city was abuzz. The news was trumpeted from every tower. The King himself was going to battle the gnarly beast and marry the beautiful and exotic Queen. It was easily the coolest thing happening anywhere and a welcome distraction from the daily grind so everyone, rich or poor, high or low, noble or common, flocked to the great courtyard to watch the show.
The King marched out in gilded armor. His long sword glinted in the sun. His jewel-covered crown added a stately and noble flourish to, had he not been short, fat, and visibly tipsy, what would have been a dashing figure. Slowly, the cage door was lifted and the enormous cat stalked out.
*~*~*~*
In the dungeon, the People’s Knight, head hanging between his knees, pondered the inscrutable nature of fate. To what purpose had he risen from peasant farm boy to noble knight, only to fall to this? Surely fortune’s vassals danced to some master tune. Perhaps not, he mused, perhaps it was all random after all. Perhaps fate was no more real a thing than a conjurer’s illusion, a trick of smoke and mirrors.
Elroy was, as far as he could see, the only human prisoner in the King’s dungeon. Most of his fellow
inmates were goblins. There were a few wood sprites, a gnome, and one individual so old and emaciated it was difficult to say for certain what he was, although he appeared too small to be a human man.
One of the goblins, a grizzled creature with a great hooked nose, was staring at him from a dank shadowed corner, eyes glowing dim red in the darkness. All at once, the hook-nosed brute stood up and started walking toward him.
“All right then,” Elroy said, readying himself for a fight.
The goblin stopped short, glared, and spewed a mouthful of water into Elroy’s piss bucket.
“What in blazes?” Elroy started.
The goblin raised his gnarled finger to his fleshy lips. Elroy hushed as he was bid. The goblin pointed to the piss bucket. The piss and water swirled as though stirred by an unseen ladle. A strange sheen of shifting color spread across the surface. It flashed as bright as flame, before fading completely. With the colored lights gone, Elroy could see a shape at the bottom of the bucket. It was a key. It hadn’t, he was certain, been there before.
Elroy wasted no time. He reached into the piss, snatched up the key, and sprinted to the dungeon door. He pressed his ear against it. Silence. Holding his breath, Elroy slipped the key into the lock. The bolt turned with a heart-thrumming squeak. The door pushed open. Beyond the door the jailer lay snoring on the flagstone floor. There was a goat’s bladder wineskin hanging from a nail by the doorframe and an overturned goblet on the floor beside the jailor’s head. Elroy tiptoed through.
The jailer’s chamber slave, a small wood gnome, sat smiling on a footstool. The gnome pointed at the wall to Elroy’s side. There, on a set of hooks, hung a wooden practice sword very much like the sword he’d earned his name by.
Elroy lifted the sword and tested its balance and heft. It felt good in his hand and despite all, his sprits lifted.
“You’ll need this,” the gnome said, tossing him the wineskin.
Elroy started to ask why, but the gnome bade him hush and led him through a series of dark and narrow passageways. Finally, they emerged into a long open space where Elroy was greeted with the familiar stink of manure.
“These are the Constable stables,” the gnome whispered, “at the far side you’ll find a small plank door. The door will take you to the great courtyard. From there you’re on your own.”
“Thank you,” Elroy said
“Just go!”
Elroy located the door in question quickly enough but he couldn’t open it. The wood was swollen tight inside the frame. It looked as though it hadn’t been used in quite some time. Elroy backed up a few steps, took a deep breath and threw all his weight at it. The door burst open and Elroy went careening, arms flailing, into the courtyard. He spun around in confusion, blinking his eyes at the sun.
He found himself surrounded by a roaring crowd. Huge painted elephants lumbered about the courtyard and a beast unlike any he’d ever seen or heard-tell of, was swatting a man about the way a cat swats a mouse. A dented crown rolled and bounced across the ground and stopped at Elroy’s feet. Elroy looked up in time to see the beast disembowel what was left of the King.
In the very next instant, the beast was charging. It was impossibly fast. Elroy threw himself to the side and rolled out of the way. By the time he found his feet, the monster was rounding on him again. Without thinking, Elroy threw the wineskin at the big cat’s head. The Ligra snatched the bladder from the air with a snap of its jaws and batted Elroy aside with a massive paw in a single fluid motion.
The wind knocked from his lungs, Elroy sputtered and hitched, trying to catch his breath. His vision dimmed. It was all he could do to push himself to his knees. Standing and fighting were well beyond him.
Leisurely, gracefully, the giant cat circled. Sensing its prey was past a struggle, it took its time. Elroy, his wooden sword broken, was resigned. I’m going to die now, he thought. Not a bad run though, for a farm boy.
The beast came in close, arched its back, curled up in a massive striped ball, and was still.
Now what? Elroy wondered.
As if in answer, the cat began to snore.
Elroy laughed. It hurt like hell, but he laughed just the same. Slowly, carefully, and with a great deal of pain, he pushed himself to his feet. Still clutching the hilt of his broken sword, he raised his arm to the crowd.
“It’s Elroy Wooden Sword,” someone shouted, “The People’s Knight!”
“We have our King!” someone else shouted.
“The People’s King! The People’s King! The People’s King!” the crowd chanted.
*~*~*~*
And so it came to pass that Sir Elroy Wooden Sword, the People’s Knight, became King Elroy Wooden Sword, or simply, the People’s King.
First there was a coronation, then a royal wedding, and then a great celebration. The streets were filled with revelry till the wee hours. Later that night, in the King’s chamber, alone together for the first time, Elroy sat down with his bride.
“I don’t even know you,” he said.
The strange woman threw her head back and laughed out loud. “Oh, but you do know me, silly boy.”
She rose, dropped her robes to the floor, and stood before him completely nude. Ere he could speak, her features began to change. The air around her shimmered and her copper skin blushed every color of the rainbow, settling at last on green.
Elroy’s jaw dropped. “Gilly!”
Gilly laughed again, wild eyes flashing. Beautiful and seductive, she walked to Elroy’s desk, where she made a show of bending over and opening the draw. She removed a rolled parchment and spread it across the desktop.
“And here,” she said, “King Elroy, is your first royal decree.”
Elroy followed her to the desk. Poorly lettered, he read slowly, sounding out the words as he went. Gilly helped him along when he had trouble, whispering the words in his ear, soft and breathy.
From this day forward humans and magical creatures, including but not limited to, sprites, elves, gnomes, nymphs, pixies, sylphs and goblins, shall be considered equal under the law.
No human may enslave any magical creature nor shall any human have the right to confiscate any magical creature’s possessions or lands, provided those possessions or lands were come by lawfully.
Furthermore, all contacts and transactions between humans and magical creatures including but not limited to marriage shall be considered legal and lawful.
Elroy looked up at Gilly and down at the parchment again. “Everything,” he whispered. “You made it happen.”
“Did you think you’d done it all yourself,” Gilly said impishly, “Elroy, Knight of the Dung Heap?”
“All for this?” Elroy said, rustling the parchment.
“What, you thought I was with you for that little worm between your legs?” Gilly said, snaking her arm around his waist. She lifted a candle from the desktop and poured a dollop of wax onto the bottom of the parchment.
“My Gilly,” the king whispered, and pressed the royal seal into the wax.
GEORGE R. R. MARTIN is the author of the international bestselling A Song of Ice and Fire series and the co-executive producer of the hugely successful HBO TV series based on those books, Game of Thrones. For a decade he worked in television, including work for Beauty and the Beast, Max Headroom and The Twilight Zone. He has written fantasy, science fiction and horror, but it is his stories of the Seven Kingdoms that have propelled him to international acclaim.
Find out more at www.georgerrmartin.com
In the Lost Lands
George R R Martin
You can buy anything you might desire from Gray Alys.
But it is better not to.
*~*~*~*
The Lady Melange did not come herself to Gray Alys. She was said to be a clever and a cautious young woman, as well as exceedingly fair, and she had heard the stories. Those who dealt with Gray Alys did so at their own peril, it was said. Gray Alys did not refuse any of those who came to her, and she always got them what th
ey wanted. Yet somehow, when all was done, those who dealt with Gray Alys were never happy with the things that she brought them, the things that they had wanted. The Lady Melange knew all this, ruling as she did from the high keep built into the side of the mountain. Perhaps that was why she did not come herself.
Instead, it was Jerais who came calling on Gray Alys that day; Blue Jerais, the lady’s champion, foremost of the paladins who secured her high keep and led her armies into battle, captain of her colorguard. Jerais wore an underlining of pale blue silk beneath the deep azure plate of his enameled armor. The sigil on his shield was a maelstrom done in a hundred subtle hues of blue, and a sapphire large as an eagle’s eye was set in the hilt of his sword. When he entered Gray Alys’ presence and removed his helmet, his eyes were a perfect match for the jewel in his sword, though his hair was a startling and inappropriate red.
Gray Alys received him in the small, ancient stone house she kept in the dim heart of the town beneath the mountain. She waited for him in a windowless room full of dust and the smell of mold, seated in an old high-backed chair that seemed to dwarf her small, thin body. In her lap was a gray rat the size of a small dog. She stroked it languidly as Jerais entered and took off his helmet and let his bright blue eyes adjust to the dimness.
“Yes?” Gray Alys said at last.
“You are the one they call Gray Alys,” Jerais said.
“I am.”
“I am Jerais. I come at the behest of the Lady Melange.”
“The wise and beautiful Lady Melange,” said Gray Alys. The rat’s fur was soft as velvet beneath her long, pale fingers. “Why does the Lady send her champion to one as poor and plain as I?”
“Even in the keep, we hear tales of you,” said Jerais.
“Yes.”
“It is said, for a price, you will sell things strange and wonderful.”
Fantasy For Good: A Charitable Anthology Page 7