The Knight's Tale (5 page)

“Father,” said Thomas, “remain in the church.
You…”

“No!” roared the old man. “These are my people, and I
will defend them.”

Thomas gritted his teeth. “A fine job you’ve done so
far, ignoring the missing children while cavorting with that…”

“Enough!” said Ulacht. “Our folk are in danger! You
may berate each other after we win the battle.”

Both knights managed to nod, and Ridmark strode for
the rocky hill and the pale pillar of green flame.

Soon Ridmark came to the base of the hill and the
entrance to the tombs. A rocky cavern mouth yawned in the side of
the hill, and a few new corpses shuffled from the entrance. A
sorcerous circle had been drawn upon the ground outside the cave,
and the pillar of green fire erupted from its center.

There was no sign of any sorcerer.

Ulacht looked around. “Where…”

The air rippled, and Lady Gwenaelle appeared before
the pillar of fire, magical power crackling around her fingers.
Eight emerald eyes gleamed in her face, a pair of serrated pincers
distorted her mouth, and crimson talons rose from the tips of her
fingers.

Ridmark found her rather less attractive now. Looking
at her pincers, he was suddenly very glad he had not kissed her
earlier.

“Ah,” said Gwenaelle, her lovely voice a contrast
with her half-human features, “Mother thought you might figure it
out. No matter. If this herd must be culled, you can die with the
rest of them.”

“Wife,” said Hamus, staggering towards her. “I am
glad you are safe! Come with me to the church where it’s safe.”

Ridmark stared at him, incredulous. Could he not see
the truth of the spiderling before him?

Gwenaelle’s pincer-lined mouth twitched into a
hideous grin. “Husband! Behind you! Your son and that filthy orc
have betrayed you! They brought the Swordbearer to murder me! Save
me, husband!” Terror filled her voice. “Save me!”

Hamus turned with a roar. “You miserable traitors! I
curse that I ever called you son!”

He charged at Ridmark, screaming, his axe raised for
a massive two-handed blow. Both Thomas and Ulacht raised their
weapons. How could Hamus not see the truth?

Unless…

Spiderling poison had made Sempronius
hallucinate.

Perhaps spiderling poison tainted Hamus’s veins, made
him see Gwenaelle has a beautiful woman, even after her true nature
had been revealed.

Ridmark gripped Heartwarden, drawing upon the
soulblade’s power. Sir Hamus lumbered at him, axe raised for a
two-handed blow. He was strong, but he was old and fat and Ridmark
was not. He dodged around the massive blow, summoning Heartwarden’s
strength, and slammed his left palm against the knight’s temple.
White light flared from Ridmark’s fingers and sank into the old
man.

Hamus flinched, his eyes bulging, his face going even
redder. And as he did, Ridmark felt something…leave him, some
taint, some corruption.

Hamus did indeed have spiderling poison in his
blood.

The old knight staggered back, and Gwenaelle peered
at him, all eight of her eyes fixed on him.

“Husband!” she said. “Save me! Oh, save me!”

Hamus shook his head. “I…wife? No, my wife is dead,
my wife has been dead for years. I…had the most peculiar dream. I
dreamed I remarried, that…that…”

“Husband!” said Gwenaelle.

Hamus’s mouth fell open, and he turned to look at
Gwenaelle.

“God have mercy,” said Hamus. “It wasn’t a dream.
And…God, what a fool I’ve been, I…”

Gwenaelle sighed. “Vexing. You would have been useful
in culling the herd as Mother wished. But I suppose we’ll have to
do all the work ourselves.”

“You took the children!” roared Hamus. “You deceived
me!”

“Has that just now occurred to you?” said Gwenaelle.
“Mother was right about the feeble intelligence of the herd
animals.”

“Where are the children?” said Hamus.

“In Mother’s larder, of course,” said Gwenaelle. “For
our sustenance, once we have killed everyone who is aware of our
presence here. Mother does prefer her privacy.”

“Return them, now,” said Hamus, “or I’ll…”

“Threats,” said Gwenaelle, “are of no
consequence.”

She beckoned, green fire flaring around her fingers,
and the pillar of fire rising from the circle brightened. In the
darkness of the cave mouth behind her more undead creatures came
forth, yellowed bones rattling together, green fire shining in
their empty eye sockets.

Gwenaelle began casting another spell, her pincers
clicking, and Hamus and Ulacht and Thomas stared at her in horror.
Ridmark realized the other men had never seen dark magic before.
Not that Ridmark had much experience with it himself.

But the other men were not Swordbearers. He was.

Ridmark drew on Heartwarden’s power and raced at the
sorcerous circle, raking the soulblade across its boundaries. There
was a flash of white light, a thrumming noise, and the pillar of
green fire winked out.

The undead emerging from the caverns dropped
motionless to the ground like puppets with cut strings.

Gwenaelle turned to look at the broken circle,
surprised.

“Take her!” Ridmark shouted, surging forward with
Heartwarden’s power lending him speed.

But the spiderling was even faster. She whirled, her
clawed hand gesturing in a spell, and disappeared, much as the
spiderling in the dark elven ruin had done. Again Ridmark drew on
the power of his bond with Heartwarden, and white light flashed as
he tried to dispel Gwenaelle’s spell. He was successful…and she
reappeared just as she smashed with terrific speed into Sir Thomas,
knocking the knight to the ground as her red gown billowed around
her. Ulacht swung his club, but Gwenaelle wheeled and drove her
right foot into his stomach. The breath exploded from his lungs,
and the old orc stumbled to his knees.

Gwenaelle spun to face Ridmark, all eight of her
green eyes locked on him, her pincers twitching.

Hamus stared open-mouthed at her, stunned by her
speed. Gwenaelle stalked towards Ridmark, head swaying back and
forth like a serpent about to strike, her pincers opening and
closing.

“A Swordbearer,” she hissed. “Mother used to collect
the soulblades of your order as trophies.”

“Then take this one,” Ridmark said, “and add it to
your collection. If you can.”

Gwenaelle laughed. “It is amusing to see a herd
animal with spirit. Perhaps you would feel the same way if you saw
a pig that wore shoes and tried to talk as a man.”

Hamus growled and stalked towards her, two-handed axe
raised for a blow, but Gwenaelle paid him no mind. Perhaps she
hadn’t seen him yet.

Or perhaps she could still control him. Or maybe
Gwenaelle only thought she could still control him…

Gwenaelle tensed, preparing to strike.

Ridmark decided to distract Gwenaelle, hoping that
Hamus was indeed free of her control.

“Then stand fast and fight, vile creature of
darkness!” Ridmark shouted, his mind digging up old challenges from
the ancient poetry of Old Earth. “In the name of my father, the
High King, and the Most High God I cast my despite your teeth. Draw
weapons, you wicked spawn of hell, or slink back into the shadows
and let all men know you as the craven that you are.”

Gwenaelle laughed merrily, and she would have sounded
exactly likely an amused girl if not for the clicking of her
pincers. “Oh, how funny! How Mother shall laugh when I tell her.”
She stepped closer with the sinuous grace of a hunting serpent, her
talon-tipped fingers flexing. “Perhaps I shall turn your head into
a puppet, and make it repeat that silly little speech over
and…”

Hamus brought his axe whistling down for her back.
Gwenaelle whirled with a hiss, her foot slamming into his gut, and
Hamus fell with a wheeze. Ridmark lunged, and Heartwarden drew a
bloody line across Gwenaelle’s hip. She snarled in fury and
backhanded him, and the sheer power in her thin arm knocked Ridmark
back. The spiderling stalked after Ridmark, raising her clawed
hands for a killing blow.

Hamus roared again, his face the color of old wine,
and swept his axe before him.

Gwenaelle’s head jumped off her shoulders in a spray
of black ichor and hit the ground, the pincers sinking into the
dirt. The body jerked forward a few more steps and collapsed, the
black slime pooling at Ridmark’s feet.

Hamus might have been old and fat, but he wasn’t
weak…and Gwenaelle hadn’t been able to control him after all.

Ulacht and Sir Thomas staggered to their feet,
coughing, and Hamus looked at his son and sighed.

“What a blind fool I have been,” Hamus said,
gesturing with the axe. “I have been acting like a besotted boy,
all while this…this creature preys upon my folk.”

“You may not have had any choice in the matter,”
Ridmark said. “The venom of a spiderling can induce…odd effects, to
be sure.”

“Forgive me, my son,” said Hamus. “For too long I
neglected your counsel. And I beg your forgiveness as well,
headman. The villages of Victrix and Rzoldur have dwelled in peace
since the defeat of the Frostborn, and my folly almost destroyed
that.”

Ulacht growled. “The spawn of the urdmordar almost
destroyed us, knight. They were long our masters, long before the
High King ever came from Old Earth. And now that we are free, they
will try to slay us.”

“Ulacht is right, father,” said Thomas.

“Regardless,” said Hamus, “the fault is mine…”

“I suggest, sir knight,” Ridmark said, “that you shut
up, and we proceed back into Victrix. The villagers need our
help.”

Hamus blinked and sighed. “You are an impudent young
fellow, but I deserve worse. And without you, this would have been
far bloodier. Lead on.”

Ridmark led Hamus, Ulacht, and Thomas back to the
square before the church.

Silence had fallen over the square with the defeat of
the undead, yet the tension had not left the men defending the
church. Father Linus and Magistrius Sempronius stood before the
doors along with a guard of militia archers. More archers waited on
the church’s roof, their bows ready. All of them stared at a
slight, gaunt figure in a loose black dress in the center of the
square.

Gotha, Gwenaelle’s mother.

Something like an aura of terror rolled off her, like
smoke rising from a fire, and for a moment Ridmark felt like a
mouse confronting an amused cat.

Gotha stared at Ridmark with a gentle smile on her
lined face.

Ridmark strode forward, Heartwarden glimmering with
white fire in his right hand, and the others hung back, weapons in
hand.

“You are an urdmordar,” Ridmark said, “aren’t
you?”

“Ah,” said Gotha in her quavering voice. She tottered
forward a step, her cane tapping against the ground. “So clever for
one so young. Of course, your kindred usually isn’t.” Her pale
green eyes blinked. “I remember the first time I saw a human. A
thousand years ago, I think it was. At first I thought the dark
elves had shaved an ape. Though for overgrown apes, I admit that
you have overgrown brains. Just as well that you so rarely use
them.”

“That did not,” Ridmark said, pointing Heartwarden at
her, “answer my question.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Gotha. “Very good. How difficult
it must be to think with all those…elixirs…soaking into your
primitive little brain, every nerve and drop of blood screaming for
you to run, run now, run while you still can.” She giggled. “How
you herd animals fear being eaten.”

She was right about that, but Ridmark refused to let
the fear show on his face. He was a Swordbearer of the Order of the
Soulblade, and he would die like a Swordbearer if his time had
come.

Which, if Ridmark was truly facing an urdmordar,
seemed likely.

“Leave Victrix, now,” Ridmark said, “and you may yet
keep your life.”

“I will keep it regardless of your choices,” said
Gotha, “and I shall still have it for long millennia after the last
human has died sobbing upon his knees.”

“Then you leave me with no choice but to kill you,”
Ridmark said.

“Oh?” said Gotha, amused. “You will strike me down in
the name of your High King? Or in the name of your god of sheep?”
Her smile widened. “I have heard hundreds of your kindred beg for
your God to save them. And I am still here and they are not. But
fear not. You are cleverer than most, and that sword you carry is
actually dangerous. You have impressed me, boy…and earned the gift
of a quick death.”

She raised her voice, and Ridmark heard the power of
magic in her words.

“The Swordbearer!” she shouted, her voice echoing
through the burning village. “The Swordbearer! He took the
children. He is a dark elven wizard disguised as a Swordbearer!
Stop him, stop him now, or he will murder your children as you
weep!”

A ripple went through the watching militiamen…and
Ridmark saw the hatred bloom on their faces.

He heard the creak as they took aim with their
bows.

Ulacht, Thomas, and Hamus stalked towards him, fury
in their eyes.

“Farewell, Swordbearer,” crooned Gotha. “This will be
so much less painful if you lie down and surrender.”

Ridmark gripped Heartwarden, his mind racing. Gotha
had clearly used a spell to influence the villagers.

But what kind of spell?

She must have cast a spell upon herself to charge her
voice with dark magic, and Ridmark lifted Heartwarden and drew upon
the sword’s magic, calling on its power to break any spells upon
Gotha. There was a flash of white light, Gotha blinked in
surprise…and the villagers came to a stop. Hamus, Thomas, Ulacht,
Linus, and Sempronius looked at each other in confusion, and then
the confusion changed to fear as they realized what had
happened.

As they realized they faced an urdmordar.

“Oh, very good,” said Gotha, taking a tottering step
towards Ridmark, the tip of her cane rasping against the earth.
“Very clever, indeed. Though you should have let them kill you. It
will be far less painful than what is to come.”