The Wrong Sword Page 7

  “I am the Ogre Marhault,” it said, in a voice like a toad crossed with an avalanche.

  Henry blinked. “Okay.”

  “None may pass the crossroads, save they defeat me. Many have tried! Many have died!”

  Have no fear. We can defeat him.

  And now he heard from Excalibur. Terrific.

  “Of course we can. Um…so…” Henry faced the ogre. “You must be quite the menace to travelers.”

  “I have slaughtered thousands!”

  “Odd. I’d have thought the monks would have mentioned you.”

  “Monks?” Underneath its warts and boils, the ogre’s brow furrowed.

  “Yeah. They know this neighborhood pretty well, they knew I was heading this way…So, you’d think they’d have mentioned an obstacle as formidable…and, frankly, as supernatural…as yourself.”

  “I will smash you!”

  “Right. Could you wait a moment?” Henry glanced at the crossroads. The snow was unbroken.

  Prepare yourself, said Excalibur. I know you do not crave battle, but there is no reason to fear it.

  “No worries.” Henry edged to the side of the road.

  What are you doing?

  “WHERE ARE YOU GOING, LITTLE MAN?”

  “Well, see, I don’t really need the crossroads that much. It’s all yours. Au revoir.” And he stepped off the road into the field, leaving a track behind him in the unbroken snow.

  Where are you going? Are you fleeing the scene of battle!? Turn back, you—

  And then Henry woke up. There was no crossroads, no ogre. His horse still dozed by the embers of the campfire, but the sound of hoof beats filled the clearing where they were camped. Henry crouched and peeked around the side of the boulder that shielded them from the road.

  The air was freezing dry, and starlight coated the ground. Galloping past, not fifty yards from where he hid, came a troop of men on horseback. Ice crackled on their armor, and the stars shone on the lions of England.

  Who are they?

  “John’s men,” whispered Henry. “He’s regent, and brother to Geoffrey.”

  “Regent?” No good king ever started as regent.

  “He’s slightly evil, yeah.” Henry squinted, trying to get a better read on the men. Were they knights? Frisian mercenaries? “Oh, sweet Jesu.”

  There he was, gaunt and bringing up the rear, but still going like grim death—Brissac. “That tears it.”

  Why?

  “John and Geoffrey hate each other. If Brissac is traveling with John’s men, they’ve joined forces to hunt us down.”

  Fear not. Now that I am awake, you need but lay your hand on my pommel, and we shall make short work of them.

  “Thanks for the offer. Just for now, let’s see what we can do about escaping quietly instead.” Henry wasn’t about to admit that the only thing that scared him worse than Geoffrey was the thought of the sword in his head again, twitching his limbs like a puppeteer, thinking thoughts like razors. Instead, he woke his horse gently, making sure it made no noise, and stamped out the last of the fire. When the hoof beats finally receded into the north, he pointed the horse south and hoped for the best.

  The next day, riding through a nameless hamlet, Henry got odd looks from the peasants. Maybe they’d never seen a horse before, or maybe they’d been told to keep watch, and offered a reward. He didn’t stick around to find out.

  Twice that afternoon, he plunged deep into the barren winter forest. The first time was purely out of fear. The second time wasn’t. He just barely avoided a troop of fast, serious-looking knights wearing the gold lions.

  Take me in hand! Use me!

  “I’m not worthy.”

  You could be.

  “Let’s save you for your true bearer.”

  Someone was in his room.

  Moonlight poured through the window, coating everything a ghostly silver. A figure moved toward the bed, a woman in white, her dark hair loose about her shoulders. Wild thoughts raced through Henry’s mind. He was rigid with fear and anticipation—

  The woman clasped her hands in front of her and kneeled by the side of the bed. With a mixture of disappointment and relief, Henry realized this was a plea for help, not a midnight assignation.

  “I am Maryamne. My father was captured by bandits. I need a brave knight to rescue him!”

  “Uh, uh—Let me make some light.” The wick in the oil lamp was still smoldering; after a moment, he was able to coax it back to life. In the lamplight, Henry saw a beautiful woman, dressed modestly (too modestly, darn it) and well in silk and fur. She had a big ring, and a cap with a gold brim. Her eyes were damp with tears. Henry hauled himself upright in the bed and tried to gather his scrambled thoughts.

  “Okay. Right. Well, don’t worry.”

  “Yes?” Maryamne’s eyes shone.

  “It’s not a problem. This county is crawling with Prince John’s men. I’ll help you find them.” It was a risk, of course—the knights he found might be the ones looking for him. But they wouldn’t be expecting him to travel with a woman, his horse was pretty fast, and he wasn’t weighed down with armor…Yeah, he might be able to get away with it. He felt a little glow of virtue. “Inappropriate young man,” eh? “Weakling?” He’d show Miss High and Pointy what was what.

  “But, but—will not you help me?” Maryamne’s eyes filled with tears again.

  “I am helping you. Wait…you mean, you want me to fight a gang of bandits single-handed?”

  “Of course.”

  “But I’m taking you to trained knights. This is their job. It’s what they do.”

  “But do you not wield the sacred sword Ex—I mean, I saw your sword! You are a noble knight, surely?”

  Suddenly, things were a little clearer. Henry studied Maryamne more closely. “How much ransom are they asking, these brigands?”

  “What? Oh…a…a hundred marks of silver.”

  “Is that a real ruby on your bonnet? That’s at least sixty marks right there.”

  “Are you suggesting I pay the ransom? Infamous!”

  “Why? Don’t you care about your father? Wouldn’t you do anything to save him?”

  “Of course—”

  “And here I present you with two perfectly safe ways to rescue him, and they’re not good enough for you? Why is that?”

  “I—I—” Maryamne stood, furious. “You are beneath contempt!” And she stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Henry turned toward Excalibur, which was leaning in its scabbard next to the bed. “Well? Any comments from the court jester?”

  What does it matter? You could have proved yourself worthy of me, and you failed.

  “‘Proved myself’? You mean, by drawing you in battle again? By letting you crawl up inside my skull?”

  Of course.

  “Not going to happen.”

  Excalibur paused for a moment. This isn’t over.

  “Yeah, well, we can bicker tomorrow.” He pulled the quilt over his head—and woke up.

  There was no bedroom. No quilt, no window, no oil lamp. He was in the stables, and his horse stamped and whinnied in its sleep. Henry readjusted the pile of straw he’d been using as a bed, and glared at Excalibur, strapped to the horse’s saddle. The sword stayed quiet.

  The next day, Henry rode out before the sun broke the horizon. As the sun rose higher, patrols became more frequent, and places to hide became more scarce. Once they reached Salisbury, Henry knew, things would get even worse—the long stretches of open, coverless road south of the Sarum plain would be a special terror. With each mile, the sword became more insistent, more demanding. Excalibur’s idea of an escape plan was apparently a countywide killing spree.

  Nonsense. Light exercise, nothing more.

  And then things got really bad.

  12. The Knight of Fashion

  They were two hours south of Salisbury, just at the crossroads, when Henry heard the hoof beats behind him. Dismounting, he led the horse off the road
.

  No. Not this time! Stay and fight, you coward!

  “No, thank you.”

  There are only three of them! You can tell by the hoof beats!

  “Well, that’s two more than me, and three more than I want to face. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  No. By God and Arthur, you shall stand and fight!

  Excalibur froze, sending Henry sprawling. The sword and his leg were rooted to the ground.

  “What…are…you…DOING!?”

  Those are knights. We’re at a crossroads. Their leader shall challenge us to single combat, and I shall be able to judge his worth. And it will be good training for you. Hmm. Simple. Traditional. I like it.

  “Of course you do! I’ll be dead!”

  Oh, honestly. You wield Excalibur. What could possibly go wrong?

  Henry heaved at the sword, which lurched from the air with a frozen “pop,” so that he stumbled back across the road, and then froze up again. He tried to pry the sword from his belt, and then to pull it from the scabbard and throw it away, and heaved himself to the ground instead.

  Then the knights appeared around the bend.

  Thirty of them.

  “That’s not three knights.”

  It sounded like three knights.

  “That’s not three knights!”

  It’s this cursed snow. It muffles sound.

  “SEIZE THEM!” This from the knights’ leader, a fashion plate in blue and red.

  “IT’S NOT THREE KNIGHTS!”

  I know, I know, sighed Excalibur. Very well, you may advance to the rear.

  It took Henry a split-second to recognize that this was “retreat” in Excalibur-ese. Then he sprinted for the trees.

  “KILL HIM!” yelled the Knight of Fashion. The knights charged off the road, but the ground was rough and still covered in snow. First one, then a second horse went down, and the knights dismounted and started to run instead.

  This was what Henry had been counting on. Horseback on a road, he was a dead man. On foot, in a forest, chased by men in armor, he had a chance.

  “Do you know this country? Did you study it while you were with Arthur? Or did you just spend all your time dreaming about murder?”

  I know this land.

  “I’m looking for something to break their line of sight. A place to hide, a cave—or hills and a river would be perfect.”

  Half a mile southeast you shall find a stone castle, strong and fortified, with plenty of…of hiding places. Beyond is the river Arduinus, that the Brythons call Ardwyn. It does not freeze in winter, and there is a ford nearby.

  “Right.” Henry had spent years in the open. He didn’t make the mistake of charging ahead. Snow in the woods hid pits and roots that could sprain ankles and break bones. Instead, he hopped from bare root to clear rock, despite the sound of the knights getting closer and closer behind him.

  Then he heard it—the first thud, and the muffled groan of someone who’d just put ten stone’s worth of weight on a foot in a hole. Another man down. The rest would be slower now, slower than he was. Henry tightened his lips and kept going.

  An hour later, the sounds of pursuit hadn’t died away, but they hadn’t gotten closer, either. Henry scrambled up a slope and arrived on a wide ridge covered in shattered rock, blocks of gray stone two or three times the length of a man.

  Henry looked around. “This is your castle?”

  Excalibur was silent for a moment. When it spoke, its voice was thin and distant. It was. In the days of Arthur, it was…This was Caer Allawn, the keep of legions. It was a mighty…Then the weapon seemed to collect itself. Go to the right, past the granite boulder and the white standing stone.

  Henry scrambled past the boulder, and shuffled down into a dark wood, with twisted trees crowding close to the path. The path wound past a hill, then a ruined barrow, then through a broken archway that might have been part of a bridge, once. On the other side was a clearing. It was moderately eerie…but with Excalibur on your belt, eeriness was practically guaranteed wherever you went.

  As I promised.

  Henry slumped to the ground. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of the knights getting fainter.

  You could still oppose them. They are divided now. You could emerge from hiding, challenging them to single combat one by one—

  Henry tossed Excalibur against a boulder and unslung his bedroll. Spare clothes, flint and steel, a quilt. Nothing else. The food had all been in the horse’s saddlebags.

  “How far is it to Southampton on foot?”

  Southampton? I know it not.

  Henry racked his brains. Did the town have a Latin name? Had Southampton even existed in Excalibur’s time? “Um…Clausenium. How far to Clausenium, or to Isla Vectis?”

  Five days. A week, perhaps. Why?

  “No reason.” A week without food.

  He set up camp in a small cave and gathered firewood. As night fell, he stacked the wood to give him a long-burning fire, and sat staring into the flames.

  This time, he was expecting it. He heard the wind rise. He turned, and there were three women of supernal beauty in the clearing. They were dressed in white and untouched by the cold.

  “We are the Sisters of the Wyrd.” The first one stepped forward, her blue eyes glowing, her black hair floating around her body. “We offer you the choice of heroes.”

  “Yeah?” Henry’s voice was hoarse, but it wasn’t fear that was making it hard for him to speak. He was close enough to smell their perfume, a combination of myrrh and sandalwood. He couldn’t think straight. Was that the second Sister’s hair, brushing his cheek?

  “If you wish to retain your honor, you must face the dragon; turn and flee, and you shall submit to us, and be lost forever—”

  “Hmm. Dragon…or girls. Dragon…girls.” Henry shrugged off his cloak. “Okay.” He stepped forward—

  STOP IT. STOP IT.

  Excalibur’s voice rang through the clearing. The Sisters seemed to hear it, and stepped away from Henry.

  My apologies, Daughters of Themis. I should have known this would be pointless.

  Silently, the Sisters drifted out of the clearing. Henry sat on a boulder, breathing hard, too worked up to even notice that his cloak was still in the snow.

  Was that display just for my benefit, or would you truly have embraced them?

  “I don’t know.”

  Arthur knew better than to approach the Sisters. It would have meant your destruction.

  “SHUT UP!” Henry snatched up Excalibur by the scabbard and hurled it into the clearing. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted privacy, he wanted to be alone, he wanted women and wine and red meat, and none of that was going to happen. He grabbed a branch from a tree and started whacking everything in reach—the trees, the ground, the boulder, the cave walls—until he was exhausted.

  He leaned against the tree, sweating and shivering, and caught his breath. Finally, he put his cloak back on and sat by the fire. He left Excalibur lying against the stone.

  When did you guess?

  “That you were responsible? Pretty fast.” Henry’s stomach was already starting to gripe; he chewed on a twig to still the pangs. “You go your whole life without even a spooky feeling, then you get one magic sword and it’s all ogres, enchantresses, and midnight apparitions. It wasn’t hard to figure out.” He warmed his hands at the fire. “Plus, there was that whole focus on taking pointless risks—that’s kind of your hallmark.”

  Every bearer of the sword must undergo three trials to prove his worth.

  “I figured out the riddle of the Chapel! No one else did that!”

  Congratulations. That proved your wit. But a king must also have bravery, compassion, purity…you failed them all.

  “Are we going to have any more of this?”

  No. You win. Any monsters you meet from here on are your problem alone. I had thought to awaken the qualities of knighthood in you. I’m sorry I wasted your time.

  “Right, then.” Despite eve
rything, Henry felt a sneaking sense of…guilt. It was ridiculous. What did he have to feel guilty about? And what did it matter? Thanks to Excalibur, he would starve to death in the wild, if John’s men didn’t catch him first.

  He shook it off and unrolled his blanket. “I’ll see you in the morning. If any dragons stop by, don’t wake me.”

  I shan’t.

  13. The Pardoner’s Tale

  One step, two step. One step, two step. Ta gauche, ta gauche, ton droit, gauche, droit.

  You sang songs to keep yourself moving. For a while, the hunger had kept him alert. He had even caught a fish. But that had been two days ago, and he was drifting. Once you got sleepy, really sleepy, that was the end of things—and he was already far enough gone that he couldn’t worry about it the way he would have a day ago.

  Another step, another, and yet one more…

  Wake up, Henry. Wake up! Wake up!

  Henry’s eyes snapped open. He was on a path between two snow-covered hills. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

  He shook his head, trying to clear the clouds. “Where…”

  Half a day west of Sorbiodunum.

  Henry mentally translated the place names. “But…but that’s Salisbury! We needed Southampton…”

  I have tried to wake you for hours now.

  Henry slumped against a tree. They were deep in the empty south and west of the country, with no food and no horse, and there were no large towns—just a few tiny hamlets and country fiefs, where food was locked tight and strangers were guilty until proven innocent.

  He rubbed his fingertips together. They were numb and pale. He stood up and walked a few yards. A few more. Then his knees buckled and he fell, face down in the snow. He was going to die.

  Henry.

  “Go away.”

  Henry, I can help.

  “Too late.”

  No. There is a road nearby. A road of the legions. It had outlasted the Romans by Arthur’s day, and it should be there still. It will take us straight to Clausenium or Portus Magnus or wherever we need to go, without break or hindrance.

  “Can’t stand.”

  Henry, I can sustain you until we find food. But you must let me in.