Chapter
I
The
Northlands
Once
upon a time, long, long ago, in the old days of merry England when
dragons and giants roamed the land, there existed a class of knights
dedicated to defending widows and orphans and protecting the poor.
These noble knights were the heroes of the land, loved by all the
honest peasant folk. In the old tales they are called knights errant.
But we know them by a different name: that of dragon-slayers.
There was one among
all these knights who lived nineteen years after the death of King
Arthur and the end of his glorious kingdom of Logres. He was born on
the very day that Sir Mordred’s sword clove King Arthur’s
noble head and the three enchantresses took the king away on the Lady
of the Lake’s barge to the elfin city of Avalon to be healed of
his great wound. The old minstrels told that in England’s time
of trouble, King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table would
awake and come to her aid. But it was not to be, for England’s
time of trouble had come, and King Arthur had not arisen. With no
king to claim the throne, nobles squabbled over land and money, and
the knights errant who had been so numerous in the days of the
Knights of the Round Table were all but extinct.
The knight’s
title was Sir Corin. No bright coat-of-arms was painted on his
battle-worn shield, for he was a disinherited knight. His father
Baron Atwood had been murdered and usurped by Count Nevin. Ever since
Sir Corin had roamed the land alone, with naught but his arms and his
horse to his name.
One day, Sir Corin
rode north on his palfrey. The sun of the late afternoon washed red
over his steel, alwite armor. At his side was his sword, on his back
was his shield, and he carried his lance leaned against his shoulder.
His old, battered helm dangled from the brass guard-chain, which was
fastened to his saddlebags. Corin was riding north towards the cold
mountains. The pain of his father’s death had not yet left him,
and his mood was fey and grim. In the North were dangers which even
the minstrels, who were so learned in the lore of terrible monsters,
knew little of. Sometimes, Corin told himself he was going there to
find greater challenges. Other times he said to himself that it was
only to fulfill his curiosity of the dangers of the northern
mountains that he was on his way there; but in his heart he knew that
all the tales he told himself were bitter ironies––Corin
was going there to find one thing: death. Yes, death, an end to his
sad career and rest from his labors: eternal rest.
The last castle
Corin had stayed at had been four days’ journey south. Here in
these God-forsaken Northlands there were no rustic villages or
bustling cities, no tall keeps with high, welcomingly glowing
windows. Corin was riding across a wind-swept plain. Ahead, in the
distance, he could see the cold, bleak mountains, framed black
against the pale autumn sky, and to the west the sun sunk red behind
the hills. Now, his shadow disappeared and his entire world became
shadow. He had crossed the windy plain and entered the Black Forest.
There was no hint of the beautiful hues of autumn in this
forest––dead, charred trees were being replaced by dark,
scraggly conifers.
The stillness was
not even broken by the harsh caw of a crow––dead, cold
silence reigned over all. Corin was sure, judging by the old, burnt
trees, that dragons had once inhabited the Northlands, but what
mysterious danger resided there now was anyone’s guess.
Corin could see
nothing or very little in the darkness, but he intuitively knew that
it was almost time to make camp. The silence, though eerie, assured
him that he had nothing to fear in this forest. Corin was tired, and
very cold. At last he reined in his palfrey, which was already going
so slow that it was almost at a halt, and dismounted. First he
un-strapped his shield and sword and leaned his lance against a tree.
Corin knew from horribly painful experience what it was like to sleep
in his armor, and tired and numb as he was he set to unbuckling every
last steel plate. At last he slipped out of his ring mail suit and,
piling up his armor and ring mail at the base of what appeared to be
a dead oak tree, slid the haft of his battleaxe out of the loop in
his belt, which lay coiled up like a flattened snake in the pile of
armor. With a choice between dead, burnt wood and fresh, though
sticky pinewood, Corin chose the pinewood and began chopping it
awkwardly with the battleaxe. Soon enough he had a small fire
burning, over which he cooked the last of his provisions.
It was not that
Corin had never slept in the wild before––he had done it
several times––but it was different in the Black Forest.
The ground was hard and stony, the silence creepy, and the air
frigid. Corin had half a mind to actually put his armor back on, as
it was still hot from the glaring sun of the plains, but at last,
having eaten, he was lulled to sleep by the steady breathing of his
palfrey and fell asleep as near the fire as he dared.
Sometime in the
middle of the night, Corin suddenly awoke. It was only a few moments
before he became aware of another person near his campfire, standing
across from him, looming out of the shadows. The young knight jumped
up, grabbing his battleaxe and shield. His shield raised to his
chest, he held the axe ready and challenged the stranger, “Show
thyself!”
Out of the shadows
and into the light of the fire stepped the most beautiful creature
Corin had ever seen. It was a woman, and yet strangely not human. The
eyes were too beautiful, the features too graceful, and the ears long
and pointed. A thin dress of pale blue covered the slender form. But
strangest of all was the hair, which was the same glittering color as
the dress, and the pale, almost white skin. Her entire body was
covered with beads of water. Corin had barely taken in all her
features when she spoke, in the softest, lightest voice he had ever
heard, “Where art thou going, Corin?”
The question was so
simple that Corin returned to his fey mood. “To die,” he
said bitterly with downcast eyes.
“Why?”
said the beautiful voice.
Corin shrugged. But
at last he said angrily when she stared questioningly at him,
“Because my father died. And my mother died. And my…Avena…”
The lady stared at
him till he returned her gaze. Then she said, calmly and
reassuringly, “She is not dead.”
“My mother?
Yes she is; I saw her die; I heard her die when the tower was
burned…” Corin said incredulously.
“No, Corin––do
not play the fool with me. Avena is not dead,” said the
blue-haired woman.
Corin looked at her
coldly.
“Yes, Corin,
it is true. Thou knew in thy heart she was not dead. Thou tried to
forget her. Avena is not dead, and she is waiting for thee,”
said the lady.
“Why art thou
telling me this?” asked Corin suspiciously.
“Because it is
not thy destiny to die, now, Corin. Thou hast a greater future than
this,” she said.
“And what is
my destiny?” he spat bitterly.
“That
thou must discover for thyself.” A cold, wet mist came into the
air, seeming to emanate from her outstretched right hand. When the
mist cleared, the lady was gone.
Corin suddenly
realised that his shield and axe were back in the pile of armor. He
shuddered and grumpily lay down again, wrapping his traveling cloak
about him. He had lain there for only a few moments before he
realised that the fire had gone out. He got up, throwing down his
cloak and taking out from his saddlebags the flint-and-tinder box
again. Using the steel blade of his dagger, he made a few sparks over
the wood, but it was soaked by the mist. Furiously he thrust the box
back into the saddlebags and threw himself down again. “Why
couldst thou not warn me of her coming, thou useless animal, that I
could drive her away before she started raving, the silver-tongued
witch!” he fumed at his palfrey. But at last, after a long
wait, he fell asleep again.
Late in the morning
Corin awoke, his muscular body rested and only slightly sore from
sleeping on the hard ground. He pushed himself off the ground to his
feet and groaned faintly. He had finished his provisions the night
before and would have to forage from the dead woods for food. In the
Black Forest particularly, it was not a task he relished. It was a
little lighter than it had been in the late afternoon of the day
before. Corin shrugged and hefted his battleaxe, setting off into the
woods to look for what he needed. An hour later he had fashioned a
fishing pole, using horsehair for a line, and a wooden hook, and
located a small brook. There was a thin mist over the water which
reminded him of the night before. He frowned and tried to drive the
thought from his mind, but he kept remembering those simple words,
“Avena is not dead.”
Before long Corin
had something to distract his mind from the blue-haired lady’s
words––he landed a big dark-scaled fish. Cleaning it with
his dagger, he gathered fresh wood and was soon roasting it on a spit
over a small fire. As he ravenously tore away at the warm meat with
his teeth, he began to think he was hearing something. Even with the
silence, it was very faint, but soon he was quite sure he could hear
an eagle screeching. It sounded like it was coming from the
mountains––in that case he had better make a bow ahead of
time if he wanted to shoot one.
Landing a few more
fish, which, after cooking, he wrapped in cloth torn from his tunic
and placed in the saddlebags, Corin cut the strongest piece of wood
he could find and began shaping it with his dagger. The knight had
been raised as a warrior since early childhood, so even with the
meager supplies available he had soon made a bow of pinewood, with a
string of multiple horsehairs as well as a few strings from his
ripped tunic. Though as a knight he did not fight in battle with a
bow, he had been trained to use it as a hunting weapon and was a
skilled archer. Stone was in large supply, as were pinewood sticks,
so he soon made a score of pinewood shafts with stone heads, bound to
the shaft with horsehair and also glued with resin. Ordinarily, for
hunting birds, he would simply have sharpened the tips with his
dagger and not gone to the trouble of fastening arrowheads, but he
felt that in the Northlands he could never be too careful. Flights
were a problem, however. Soon, Corin decided to take one of his
saddlebags, moving its contents to the other one, and slice bits of
leather with his dagger for flights. These would not be as effective
as feather flights, but until he shot a bird he would have no
feathers. The leather flights he glued in place with more resin, and
then proceeded to fashion a quiver out of what was left of the
saddlebag he had removed, lengthening it with the left sleeve of his
tunic. Finally, Corin made a carrying strap of braided horsehair and
set the full quiver and bow down on the ground. “Thanks for the
hair, old girl,” he murmured to his horse.
Corin’s
palfrey had made a meager breakfast of the sparse grass that was
sprouting up on the forest floor, so the knight buckled on his armor,
slung his shield and quiver, the latter of which had the unstrung bow
inside it, over his back, buckled his sword at his side, thrust his
axe through his belt, saddled his horse, hefted his lance, mounted,
and rode on through the forest.
All day Corin rode
through the Black Forest, growing used to the faint rattling of
pinewood shafts as his quiver bobbed against his armored back. Soon,
he heard again the babbling of a brook. Riding on, occasionally
raising a gauntleted hand to guard his face from being scratched by
scraggly tree branches, he soon came to the water. Dismounting, Corin
unfastened his water-skin from his saddlebags and refilled it with
the cold water. After emptying it once into his throat, he refilled
it again and was fastening it to his saddlebags again when suddenly a
thick mist rose abruptly but silently from the water. “’Odsblood!”
he swore under his breath. “Not again.”
But despite Corin’s
grumbling, when the mist had cleared, there she stood again, the
water reaching almost to her knees: the blue-haired woman who had
accosted him the night before. She wore the same dress and was just
as beautiful as the first time he had seen her. The part of her dress
from her knees to her feet floated on the surface of the water,
tugged at feebly by the swirling water. But one thing did look
different about her––the lady was sad, so sad that Corin
bowed his head in shame and did not speak.
“Why, Corin,
why hast thou ignored my words and gone on to thy death? This is not
thy destiny. Thou must prevail, noble Corin, and return to thy lady
Avena…and the rest of thy great future,” she said,
sobbing at first but growing calmer with each sentence.
“I am
disgraced, lady,” Corin said at last after a long silence.
“What must I do?”
“Go on, into
the mountains. There thou wilt find me again. This water is too weak.
I will travel there through the underground rivers and into the
mountain springs. I will meet thee there. Fare thee well, Corin.”
With that, the lady created another mist and had disappeared when it
cleared. Knowing she would be gone, Corin sighed and turned away
before the mist even cleared, mounting and riding on through the
brook after his horse had drunk.
As he rode on, he
thought on the blue-haired lady’s words. Was it his fault that
she had finally told him, seemingly resignedly, to go on into the
mountains? What was this great future she had spoken on of? And who
was she, too beautiful to be human, who traveled through water and
commanded the mist? Could it be that she was an elf lady like Nimue,
the Lady of the Lake? Or was she an angel sent from heaven? Corin
decided it was time for deep thought on more matters than just
surviving the Northlands.
It was late in the
day by now, but the darkness was lessened somewhat because the trees
were thinning. Several times as he rode on he caught glimpses of the
mountains ahead, and a grim sense of foreboding hung over him; and it
did not inspire fear, but a grim determination to survive whatever
dangers lurked in the mountains and find the strange woman again.
That evening Corin
ate more fish while his horse fed on the grass, which was growing
ever sparser as they neared the mountains. His sleep that night was
undisturbed and tranquil. In the morning he buckled on his armor and
broke camp. After a few hours of slow riding, he reached the foot of
the first mountain. Its peak loomed invisible above, hidden from
sight by the clouds. There was a pass which began where Corin’s
horse stood. Steeling himself and mumbling a hasty prayer, the young
knight goaded his horse on. At first, the journey up the pass was
easy, a relief from the cold, stuffy air of the forest below. But
soon, the air became too thin, and Corin’s rests became more
and more frequent. The clouds seemed to have moved lower down the
mountain, and now filled the pass. Corin worried only vaguely about
his armor rusting––his real concern was for himself, and
how difficult it was becoming to breathe.
Sometime in the
afternoon, Corin slumped off his horse and onto the stone ground,
breathing heavily. He felt as though he was being crushed and feebly
unbuckled his armor, lying flat on the ground sucking in as much air
as possible. His horse was in dire straits as well. At last his
senses mercifully went numb and he fainted. It was night when he
awoke, and despite his dangerous conditions he could not help
noticing how dazzlingly beautiful the stars were. The air seemed
thicker, or at least he could breathe more easily. When he looked
over at his palfrey he realised she was dead.
Corin got up without
much difficulty and found it even easier to breathe. He sniffed the
air for a strange scent, though he was not sure why, but smelling
nothing but the clear, cold smell of night over the mountains, he
decided to look around a bit. Slinging his quiver over his shoulder,
he took the bow out and strung it, plucking it to test it. The
mountain air preserved its strength magnificently, and it responded
with a twang which echoed off the walls of the mountain pass. Corin
buckled on his belt, with his dagger and sword attached to it still.
Drawing an arrow in preparation, the knight set out ahead on the
mountain pass. Seeing neither plant nor animal, he wondered how
dangerous the creatures here could really be if there was nothing for
them to eat.
Suddenly, Corin
stopped. High ahead, on a stony crag jutting out from the side of the
pass, he thought he could see something. It looked like a huge nest.
Perhaps it was an eagle’s nest; or perhaps it was a monster’s
nest. Either way there was only one way to find out. Corin slipped
the bow over his shoulder, covered his hands with powdery dirt from a
crack in the rocks, and began the climb. At first it was hard to find
handholds, but gradually there were more cracks and crevices, and
Corin was soon reaching a hand up to grab a hold on the nest. As he
pulled himself up he saw that the nest was cup-shaped, made of huge
pine branches and lined with fluffy white feathers as long as his
forearm. It was more than large enough to hold its inhabitants: five
creatures, each the size of a large dog. For the most part they were
like cats, but their heads, necks, and shoulders were feathered, with
curved, vicious beaks and golden eyes on the sides of their heads,
and feathery wings the size of swans’ sprouted from their
shoulders. Their front legs ended in claws and were covered in
scales.
“Griffons,”
Corin muttered under his breath, “Griffon nestlings.” He
sighed. “They’d make good eating, but so will I if I’m
not careful; and when will their mother be back?” Slowly and
quietly, the knight drew his sword and drove its point into the nest
beside him, its handle sticking up near his hand. Then,
un-shouldering his bow, he drew and arrow, nocked it on the string,
and took careful aim at the nearest nestling, which, like the rest,
was cocking its head to stare at him dumbly. With a twang, he fired,
and the arrow struck the feathered throat. The others did not
instantly spring at him as he had expected––rather, they
only inched towards him slightly.
Panting and
sweating, Corin drew a second arrow and took aim at the next griffon
nestling. He released it, and without even checking if it had struck,
dropped the bow and snatched his sword. His judgment was correct––as
soon as he had fired, another nestling had fallen, and one lunged at
him. His blade caught it in midair, slashing the feathered breast and
knocking it aside. It screamed and jumped again at him again, going
for his left side. This time he swung hard at the head, knocking it
back where it lay twitching, its head cloven. He had barely time to
turn back to the others when one of the two remaining jumped at his
right side. He swung the sword, hewing the neck and killing it
instantly. The remaining griffon backed off. He stuck his sword in
the nest again and picked up his bow, shooting the creature in the
eye.
Corin sighed with
relief and unstrung his bow, thrusting it into his quiver. After
wiping his bloodied sword blade off on a branch, he sheathed it and
looked the griffons over. There was no way he could bring them all
down; even one would be difficult. If he simply dropped them out of
the nest, they would splatter and perhaps make enough noise to
attract their mother. What if there was another way down? Corin
looked over at the shelf that the crag jutted out of. Was he
imagining it? Or was there a hole in the mountainside, large enough
for him to crawl through? Though deeply suspicious of a hole in such
a strange place, Corin shrugged and cast about for a means to carry
the dead nestlings. Soon he had pulled a large, broad branch out of
the nest and lay two griffons on it, and carefully began dragging
them out of the nest and across to the hole.
The ground was
smooth, and soon Corin had reached the hole. He inspected it, and
realised that it was completely round. Ducking inside, though, he
found that not only was the tunnel it led to completely circular, it
was the same height as the hole and the ceiling did not get higher
further in. Corin frowned, but suddenly had an idea. Stringing his
bow, he drew an arrow and shot it into the tunnel. He could hear it
sliding along the ground for a long time after it hit the ground,
when suddenly, he heard a voice, faint and whimpering. It said, “Oh,
no! What have I done? Elves! I’ve-I’ve got to warn
somebody. Um, heeelp! Heeelp! We’re under attack! Heeelp!”
Then Corin heard
another voice, gruffer and deeper but still similar in a way, say,
“What? What’s happened? I’ll tell thee
what’s happened, master Alvis: thou left the tunnel open! How
many times must we tell thee? Now go warn everyone! I shall
hold them off!”
Corin heard heavy
footsteps coming up the tunnel towards him and had more than enough
time to unstring his bow, draw his sword, and back off from the hole.
On a second thought, he pulled the dead griffons aside and stood just
beside the hole so that whoever was coming out would not see him
right away.
Out of the hole and
into the light of the stars walked a man who stood only a little
taller than Corin’s knees. He held a lantern in his left hand
and a pickaxe in his right. A gray beard fell to his waist, and he
had a very bushy mustache and eyebrows. The little man wore heavy
miner’s clothes, and was very dirty. “All right, elves,
come an’ meet thy doom!” he roared.
Corin quickly
sidestepped behind the midget and laid the flat of his sword blade on
the little man’s shoulder. “I come in peace, and I am not
an elf,” he said calmly.
The tiny miner
whirled around, knocking the blade off his shoulder, and held up the
lantern. After briefly examining Corin’s features, he said
abruptly, “No, thou’rt not; thou’rt a human, and
that’s nearly as bad! Get in the tunnel an’ don’t
make any funny moves!”
“I think,”
said Corin coolly, “that as I am the one between the two of us
with the longer weapon, I shall be making the orders. Who art thou?
What’s in that tunnel? Answer me quick, or I’ll knock thy
head off thy shoulders!”
The little man
looked exceedingly grumpy. Lowering his lantern and pickaxe, he
stared at his toes and muttered, “I’m Finn.” He
looked back up angrily, a fire in his eyes. “But I’ll
never betray my people! An’ they’re comin’ for thee
now, human, so watch thy back!” he threatened.
“If the rest
of thy people are as short as thee, I think I need not fear from
them,” Corin said with a smug look. “I’m not here
to fight. I need provisions and shelter––the griffons
will be coming back soon.”
Finn growled but
walked into the tunnel. “Come on then, if you can crawl through
our tunnels comfortably,” he said maliciously.
Corin realised he
would have to. Sheathing his sword and drawing his dagger instead, he
crawled in, leaving the dead nestlings behind. Ahead he saw Finn
walking casually along by the light of his lantern, and he could hear
him whistling merrily. No tunnels branched off of the one they were
on. Suddenly Finn turned about. “Thou didst not block the
tunnel!” he accused.
“There’s
nothing to block it with, and I wouldn’t take the trouble
anyway,” Corin shot back, “Keep walking.”
Finn scowled but
complied.
Corin wondered what
they did block it with. There were no loose boulders near the hole.
At last they came out into a larger tunnel big enough for three
people Finn’s size to walk abreast. Corin sighed with relief,
for he had been worried by Finn’s cheerful mood that he was
about to do something dreadful. Now there were several other little
men bustling about with lanterns and digging tools, and the ringing
he had heard faintly echoing was loud and clear. Though Corin caused
a few traffic jams, he and Finn eventually reached an enormous open
space. Finn stopped walking suddenly. It was then Corin realised that
they were on the edge of an enormous chasm. A railroad bridge went
across it. Corin felt he was about to be sick––Finn had
just climbed into a mining cart and was beckoning to him. The track
went diagonally down towards the other side of the chasm. Corin
gulped, telling himself he could do anything these little midgets
could do, and got into the cart. Finn pulled a lever; there was a
metallic click, and then they whooshed away down the track, the
enormous drop yawning below. Finn looked quite bored the whole time.
At last, there was a
sudden stop which nearly sent Corin flying, and they climbed out into
a short tunnel which led uphill. The tunnel led to another tunnel
which was reasonably level and two midgets wide. This led them to the
greatest relief of the trip. It was a huge cavern, lit by many
torches on the walls plus hundreds of glowing mushrooms all over. A
dozen midget soldiers stood at attention on either side of a solid
gold pathway leading to a great golden throne, on which sat a rather
rotund midget who looked outrageous in an enormous robe and crown,
his white beard reaching far past his little feet.
Corin looked smugly
at the stiff soldiers as he walked along. They were clad in gilded
armor worked with incredible skill and set with rubies and armed with
short, heavy spears. Their beards, white like the king’s, hung
to their knees. Finn bowed before the plump little king and Corin
felt it wise to do the same. When he rose, the king was frowning
angrily.
“Who art
thou?” the king said grumpily.
“I am Sir
Corin, your majesty, a knight errant and son of the late––”
The king cut him
off, “Enough, enough. Thou art a human––that is
correct?”
“Yes, my
lord,” Corin said hesitantly.
“And what,
pray, art thou doing in my realm, the kingdom of the dwarves?”
asked the king in a bored voice.
“Trying to get
away from a griffon, my lord,” the knight answered truthfully.
“And dost thou
know what happens to humans who enter my realm uninvited?”
droned the king.
“No, my lord,”
said Corin.
“They die;
slow, painful deaths, ripped apart by griffons!” the king
shouted, “So thou hast done thyself no favor in coming here!
Take him away!”
Two guards lowered
their spears and advanced towards Corin. He thought of drawing his
sword and resisting them, but decided it was better to wait. They
drove him ahead of them, back they way he had come, going don a
different railway which led downhill to another short tunnel, leading
up to the three-dwarves-wide tunnel, and then to the first tunnel he
had entered, and out onto the crag. They covered their eyes against
the sunlight, groaning, and Corin took the initiative, drawing his
sword and dashing ahead. But suddenly, he stopped. There, in the
nest, was a full-grown griffon, three times the size of a horse, its
eyes burning and its talons gleaming. With disgust Corin saw that it
had just finished eating its dead young. The knight cautiously backed
off, and heard a loud clunk behind him. Turning, he saw that the
tunnel had vanished completely. Throwing caution to the winds, he ran
over to it and ran his hands over it. There was only a tiny,
hair’s-breadth crack.
Corin turned back to
the griffon. It was lying still in its nest, observing him with a
bird’s sly grin. The knight slowly sheathed his sword.
“I…mean…no…harm,” he said slowly.
The griffon’s expression did not change. “What am I
doing? It’s a dumb animal,” Corin berated himself.
“Think…think…it’s probably full from eating
the nestlings…it won’t eat me…uhhh…what
does it want?” Corin looked over at the two dead nestlings
lying on the pine branch. He drew his sword and prodded them. Then,
he slashed at them, spattering red on the stone ground. The griffon
made a growling noise. The knight slashed at them again, and the
griffon looked eager, placing its talons on the stony ground.
Glancing over and making sure he knew which way to run back to his
armor, he suddenly shoved the two corpses over the edge, on the
opposite side of the crag to where his armor was. “All right,
sick animal, go get it!” he shouted as he stuffed his sword
blade through his belt and grabbed a handful of dirt, rubbing it on
his sweaty hands quickly and climbing over the edge. The griffon had
instantly spread its massive wings and dived for the falling
carcasses.
It was an
agonisingly slow climb, shaking all over as Corin was, but the there
was no more sign of the griffon and he made it to the bottom and ran,
drawing his sword, wiping it off on his tunic, and sheathing it as he
ran. At last he came to the place in the dead pass where his horse
lay. But she was gone, and there were griffon footprints in the dust.
His armor, however, was still there, as well as his weapons. Corin
sighed. Now there would be nothing to eat, neither fish nor griffon
nor horse. The knight stopped to catch his breath and realised he was
parched.
At that awful
moment, he felt cold water trickling into his hair. He was leaning
against the side of the mountain, panting and moaning. Looking up, he
saw a tiny stream of water pouring down the rock, which over the
years had begun to form a slight groove. Gratefully, he licked up the
water and soiled his hands again for the climb. His thirst quenched
and his fear of the griffons gone, he climbed quickly, leaving his
armor, lance, and battleaxe behind once more, and soon reached a pool
of water in a shallow trough the mountain spring had formed. Standing
there was the blue-haired lady, tears of joy trickling down her pale
face. “Thou hast prevailed, noble Sir Corin,” she said.
Beside her was a beautiful white horse, strong and eager, its tack
and saddlebags made of black leather and studded with a strange,
gleaming, silvery metal, and in her outstretched hands was a belt
matching the horse’s tack with a matching scabbard holding a
beautiful sword, its hilt made of the same bright metal and studded
with diamonds, with a handle of black leather.
Sir Corin smiled
weakly. “Thou hast never called me Sir Corin ere now.”
“Because ere
this day thou hadst forgotten thy calling, and thy nobility and
kindness were being overwhelmed by thy great grief. But thou art
forgiven. And now, Sir Corin, thou art a true knight once more. What
has passed since we last met?” the woman asked.
“I was nearly
eaten by griffons, and I was executed by the dwarven king,”
grinned Sir Corin.
“Thou art
looking well for having been executed, Sir Corin,” she smiled
back at him.
“Indeed, my
lady. And now, tell me, what must I do and where must I go? What is
this future thou told me of?” Sir Corin asked.
“This stallion
is of elfin breed, strong and not easily tired. I have commanded him
to obey thee. His name in the elfin tongue is Hinon, which means fair
weather. In his saddlebags are elfin food and wine, which will last
longer than that of mortals and take thee at least a week’s
journey south. This sword, too, is of elfin metal and can never be
broken. Thou must take these gifts and return to thy father’s
old land, and take back what is rightfully thine. Then thou wilt see
what a great future is thine, and who thou truly art,” she
said, and vanished once more into the mist after the knight had
reverently taken the sword from her hands.
Sir Corin smiled and
buckled the sword on. It fit him perfectly. The suspension system
allowed him to draw it quickly and easily, and with his fingers
clutching its handle he felt as though he could face any danger and
prove the victor. Sheathing it, he mounted the elfin horse carefully.
The saddle, too, was perfectly comfortable, and the horse obeyed the
slightest tug on the reins. “Let’s go, Hinon,” Sir
Corin whispered, and rode down a narrow path which led back into the
mountain pass. “Home.”
Chapter
II
The
Journey Home
Sir
Corin rode south hard, down the mountain pass, and not until midday
did he stop to rest. After being up in the thin air of the mountains,
he felt as though he could run for miles without stopping. When at
noon he did stop, he ate a little of the elfin food, which filled him
completely, and rode on, south through the trees, his swords at his
side and his lance against his shoulder. At moonrise he reached the
plain, and rested there under the stars after eating a little of the
elfin food and unbuckling his armor.
Rising early, Sir
Corin ate, drank, and rode on, across the plains. The day after that,
he made the longest stop he had for a while. Early in the day he had
seen it looming in the distance, and now, in the late afternoon, he
reined in his elfin steed before the tall barbican. “Hail,
gatekeeper!” Sir Corin called, “Hast thou not room for a
lone knight and his horse?”
A sour,
bored-looking man opened a small window in one of the massive, oaken,
double doors and peered out. “’T’s too late. Don’t
let folks in after dark,” he mumbled.
“Why hast thou
changed thy customs? It is not yet so dark, and I came here last in
the dead of night. Dost thou not recall my visit?” Sir Corin
questioned.
“I remembers a
knight comin’ a li’le o’er a week ago, ay. But
‘twasn’t thou––‘e ‘ad one sword,
an’ a palfrey. Go ‘way, ‘t’s no use. We don’t
let folks in this late, no’ arfter what’s been ‘appenin’
as of late,” the gatekeeper snarled.
“And what has
been happening as of late?” asked Sir Corin.
With a slam, the
window closed.
Sir Corin sighed,
shrugged his armored shoulders, and dismounted, sleeping in the
shadow of the barbican after feasting on his elfin victuals. Sometime
in the middle of the night, he awoke. Thinking it was the elf lady,
as he was sure she was, he walked around the barbican and peered into
the moat separating it from the castle. There was no one there. The
knight listened attentively, and then heard again the sound that had
awoken him. It was a scratching sound on the walls. At times, Sir
Corin hated being such a light sleeper, but at least if there was
danger he could warn the gatekeeper. Drawing his sword quietly, he
crept slowly around the barbican. Hinon’s keen ears had
detected the sound as well, but he stayed there and waited for his
master’s command.
The barbican was in
front of the north wall, and the noise had come from the east wall,
so it was there Sir Corin went, his gleaming elfin blade at the
ready. Scaling the east wall when he got there were three men,
strangely deformed. Long, thick ropes came from under their cloaks,
smooth and pink. Sir Corin frowned confusedly, but shouted, “Hoy!
Stop there!”
The one nearest him
halted and its head snapped around to stare at him. Sir Corin froze
in terror. The ugly, scarred face of a giant rat was facing him.
There was a strange fire in the eyes. “I’ll take care of
this one, boys,” he snarled to the others, jumping back and
landing on all fours on the muddy bank. He rose, snatching out a
short, broad sword, and sprang at Sir Corin.
The young knight
shouted, “Gatekeepeeer! Thou’rt under attaaack! Sound the
alarm!” and charged, sword held before him in both hands. Their
blades met with a clash. The elfin steel would have cleaved any
ordinary sword in two, but the giant rat’s blade withstood the
blow and thrust low, punching through Sir Corin’s steel
breastplate like wood. He gasped in pain and swung a mighty blow,
hacking open the ugly creature’s head and smashing it to the
ground. One of the rats had made it to the top and was drawing an
arrow. Sir Corin dropped his sword and ducked, but the arrow was not
meant for him. Two guards toppled over the wall tops to splash in the
moat, arrows sticking out of them. “Gatekeepeeer!” the
knight shouted again. Blood was streaming over the edge of the hole
in his breastplate. What were these creatures? Sir Corin plunged into
blackness.
When the young
knight awoke, he was lying on a cot in a small cell. Standing over
him was a huge man in a brown habit. His head was shaved so that
there was only a band of hair around his head––the sign
of a monk. “Lie still, my son; thou hast taken an injury.”
Sir Corin looked
down over his chest. He was wearing only his trousers, and there was
a bandage going around his middle, blotched red where he was wounded.
