The Plague Knight and Other Stories Read online

  As he galloped at me, his image wavered in and out of focus, till all I could see was a bubble of silver glow. Guided mostly by instinct, I tried to aim at its core.

  His point struck my shield, jamming my arm against my chest, then glanced screeching away. Even though it hadn't been a solid hit, it nearly knocked me out of the saddle, but I clamped my thighs and somehow kept my seat. My sapling-spear jabbed his breastplate a split second later, another glancing blow that didn't unhorse him either.

  Then we were past one another. Remembering his schooling, Ebony wheeled without any urging from me. That's one course, I thought. I wonder if we're good for two.

  Enguerrand charged again and so did I; my vision swam back into focus. Now able to spot particular targets, I pointed my lance at the smooth, blank mask of his helm.

  The destriers' hooves pounded the earth, and the ghost knight's aura of cold and fear swept over me. Another spasm wrung my guts, and I needed every bit of strength I had left to keep my aim from wavering. Then we slammed together.

  The ivory spear crashed into my shield, caught, bowed, snapped. To my surprise, I kept my seat again; I think Ebony, and luck, were more responsible than I was. My lance took Enguerrand square between the eyeholes, slid up, lodged beneath his crest. It jolted him back; one foot flew out of its stirrup. I thought sure I'd break his neck, or at least tumble him to the ground, but then my weapon broke too. Dangling like a sot or a trick rider, he clutched at his horse's harness to keep from falling, and the white beast carried him out of my reach again.

  We turned, reestablished ourselves in our saddles. He hastily threw away his broken spear and seized his hammer; I cast away mine and grabbed a cudgel. Mindless reflex, on my part; one stick would have served as well as the other.

  "Who are you?" he shouted, his voice squeaking in the middle; apparently, I'd rattled him.

  "Simone sent me!" I called back. Perhaps that would unman him a little more.

  We rode at each other a third time. I feinted a stroke at his face, then clubbed at the white mount's head. The blow cracked, and the creature began to fall. But at the same instant, Enguerrand swung at my side. I saw the blow coming, but my weakened body betrayed me; I just couldn't bring my shield around in time. Agony exploded through my torso. Hurled at last from the saddle, I crashed to the ground.

  Dazed, I couldn't tell if he'd breached my armor, if he'd cut me. Even if he hadn't, I might have broken ribs. But it didn't matter anyway, wouldn't matter unless I survived the battle, and to accomplish that, I'd have to gain my feet.

  But I couldn't. My limbs wouldn't obey me, and I couldn't catch my breath. A few feet away, Enguerrand dragged himself out from under his steed, picked his hammer up off the grass, and stalked toward me. Groaning with effort, I finally managed to swing my left arm up, then realized I'd lost both my shield and my club when I'd fallen.

  I was sure I was finished, but I'd forgotten Ebony. Faithful to his training once again, he interposed himself between the specter and me, reared and lashed out with his hooves.

  Enguerrand's shield clattered with the blows; he reeled back several paces, almost tripped over a hump in the ground. For a second, I thought the stallion might actually batter him down, but then the lych sidestepped and struck him beneath the ear. Blood splashed, black in the moonlight. Ebony collapsed.

  Somewhat in control of my body again, I finally stumbled erect. The ground seemed to rock like the deck of a ship.

  Enguerrand charged. Jerking my second cudgel out of my belt, I barely managed to parry his first attack. The impact flashed pain up my arm all the way to my shoulder, nearly tore my weapon from my grasp.

  The milk-white hammer lashed out again, and again and again and again. I staggered backward, eyes blurring, ducking when I could and blocking when necessary. Then Enguerrand swung a bit too hard, and didn't recover well; he lost his stance, his shield dropped, and his arm didn't quite cock for another blow. I lunged in and bashed at his helm. The blows rang, dashed his head back and forth. On the third stroke, my cudgel snapped.

  Enguerrand shoved me away with his shield, then struck again with the hammer. But it swung wide, in a wobbling arc, the blow of a warrior who'd been stunned.

  I dove at him, smashed into him, bore him to the ground beneath me. Ripped his helm off and saw his face for the first time.

  He wore the visage of the dead thing he truly was, with gray, moldering skin, shriveled black lips pulled back from his yellow teeth, and naught but maggoty pits where his eyes had been. For an instant, I froze in revulsion, then started pounding with my fists.

  When I did, my dizziness intensified. My eyesight all but failed entirely, my joints and guts throbbed, and my arms began to tremble. Groggy though he was, Enguerrand still managed to lash his head back and forth, and try as I might, I simply couldn't hit him.

  And then he began to recover. He bucked and squirmed beneath me, stronger every second. Releasing his hammer, useless in such close quarters, he fumbled a dagger out of his belt and stabbed me repeatedly in the side. Even the first blows blasted pain through my battered ribs; in another moment, he'd ram home through my armor.

  I started sobbing. Why couldn't I land a single punch?

  Then I raised my fists again, noticed them glint in the moonlight, and knew why: the steel gauntlets that hardened and weighted them classified as made weapons too.

  I grabbed the glove on my right hand, tried to snatch it off. It was designed to fit snug, and perhaps I was swollen from the pest or the beating I'd taken; whatever the reason, it stuck. Enguerrand reared up, half tumbled me off his chest. His dagger pierced my cuirass and plunged into my shoulder.

  The gauntlet wrenched free. I clenched my fist and drove it into his face.

  And his corrupt ruin of a skull simply burst, into slime and scraps of bone like particles of eggshell. His now headless body flopped back on the grass.

  Once I was sure he was truly dead, I just knelt there staring at him. It occurred to me that I ought to feel triumphant, but I was too dazed, nauseous, and sore to feel much of anything. I just wondered, in a dim, dispassionate way, how much longer it would take me to die. I didn't wonder long before I toppled into unconsciousness.

  But I awoke at dawn to find Geoff bandaging my wound. Behind him, seemingly supervising the procedure, stood Ebony, alive as me, though he'd always bear an ugly dent of a scar.

  Evidently the plague had passed from the land, and from the bodies of Geoff, me, and everyone else infected but still breathing, at the moment I'd killed Enguerrand. Which meant that I'd saved quite a number of lives.

  Unfortunately, no one had seen me do it, and with Ulrich dead and his surviving defenders fled, there was no one to tell, no one who'd understand or believe, let alone reward, what I'd done. That rankled for a while, then I decided I was so grateful simply to have survived myself that I didn't really mind.

  At least, not too much.

  We rode back into town and appropriated the purse of a dead pardoner, then traveled toward Strasburg at a leisurely convalescent's pace. Someone was holding a tourney there next month, and with luck, I'd be fit enough to fight.

  Kingsfire

  The elf--or so I judged him to be--knelt beside a creek, his snow-white hair blowing in the chill November wind and a huge sword, dull black like an iron kettle, clasped in his pallid hands. He struggled to lift it, then sobbed when its point fell back to the ground. The five ragged brigands surrounding him hooted and closed in.

  That particular morning I felt so bitter, so angry at myself and the world both, that for a heartbeat I told myself it was none of my affair, that I ought to simply turn and ride away. Then I couched my lance and kicked Ebony into a gallop. My tattered cloak flapped and the destrier's hooves threw up brown leaves as we hurtled down the slope. One of the rogues, a stocky, black-bearded man with scars on both cheeks, spun around and started to shout. My spear punched into his breast and out the other side of his body.

  Now ignoring their intended
prey, whom they no doubt deemed too decrepit to pose a threat, the remaining outlaws snarled and ran at me. I frantically dropped my lance and snatched for my sword, drew it just in time to receive their attack.

  Ebony kicked at someone who'd circled behind us. A brigand with a ruddy, swollen-looking nose swung an axe at my thigh. I caught the blow on my shield, then slashed at him. He jumped away, slipped, and stumbled further backward toward the pale man.

  Trembling, teeth gritted, the elf finally managed to raise his blade. The bandit fell on it, spitting himself. A ghastly keening, a shrill screech one moment and a bone-shaking basso roar the next, filled the air.

  As the outlaws whirled to see what was howling, the ivory-skinned man sprang up and pounced at them, wielding his ponderous weapon one-handed. Its raven blade now shone like polished obsidian, and runes glowed like embers down its length.

  Fearless as ever, even in the face of something unnatural, Ebony bore me forward into the fray, but he might as well not have bothered. The elf hacked one knave open from throat to groin and beheaded the other two, all before I could strike another blow.

  The black sword slashed and thrust aimlessly for another moment, reminding me strangely of a mastiff tugging at its leash. Then the pale man grimaced, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched. The keening died, and the blade grew still. Its owner flicked his wrist, a motion which threw every speck of gore off his weapon, then rammed it back into its scabbard.

  I felt my heart thumping like a drum beating quick time, realized I was as unnerved by the elf's unearthly appearance and demeanor as by the fact that I'd just risked my life. I swallowed away the dryness in my mouth. "I wish I could clean my arms that easily," I said. "Are you all right? You looked weak when I first saw you."

  “I’d traveled a long way without sustenance,” he answered in a cultured baritone voice. "I'm fine now, and I thank you for saving my life. My name is Elric."

  I wondered how, if he'd been starving before, he could have recovered without eating, but I was afraid he'd think me discourteous if I probed any further. And I didn't want to offend him. I saw now that his garments, though worn and grimy as my own, were made of dyed, intricately tooled leather and brocade, and I hoped that he might be in a position to reward me. I sheathed my sword, dismounted, pulled off my gauntlet, and offered my hand. “Martin Rivers, knight bachelor, my lord."

  His grip was firm, and his hand felt like anyone else’s. The contact was reassuring in that it demonstrated that no matter how uncanny he seemed, a least he was made of flesh and blood. "What place is this?" he asked.

  "We're not far east of Augsburg," I answered in surprise. If he was so confused that he didn't know that, perhaps he hadn't recovered after all. "Where"--I faltered, groping for words--"where do you want to be? Where are you going?"

  His crimson eyes glittered in his lean, patrician face. “Oh, I’m on another quest,” he said sardonically. "A virtuous queen and her virtuous realm require deliverance from the fiendish hordes of Chaos, and I seek the magic that will hurl the abominations back. Unfortunately, I suspect that the saintly damsel-monarch and a goodly portion of her court will perish in the course of invoking its power, but that isn't my problem, is it? Certainly it can't blacken my reputation any further. And what's your quest?"

  I blinked, bemused. I hadn't thought of my errand in those terms. Quests were for fey creatures like himself, or heroes who lived in another age, not ordinary fellows like me, and yet the word fit. “I’m looking for something magical, too,” I told him. “Kingsfire.” He arched an eyebrow in inquiry, and foolishly, I felt a bit deflated. But perhaps he'd never ventured out of Faerie before, and so knew nothing of mortal history. "Richard Lionheart's lost sword."

  His eyes narrowed. "Ah," he replied, and looked at the corpses scattered at our feet. "Was this rabble seeking it too?" He touched the black sword's hilt. "Did they think this was it?

  Reminded of the bodies' presence, I stooped and began to loot their purses, discovering without surprise, but to my disgust nonetheless, that they only had a few clipped coins among them. "Possibly," I said, "though supposedly Kingsfire shines red from point to guard."

  "Or perhaps they merely took me for something loathly," he said. "One called me a devil, and another accused me of lacking a soul." From his contemptuous tone, I gathered he was used to it.

  "I imagine they took you for an elf," I said uncertainly. "I did myself."

  "But you helped me."

  I shrugged. "I've known folk with a trace of Faerie blood. They were no wickeder than anyone else. Besides, it was five hale against one who seemed infirm."

  "Well, as it happens, I'm not an elf." He smiled unpleasantly. "I'm a Melnibonean, and I'll hazard that that's something considerably fouler. Nevertheless, I recognize my debts." My heart leaped up. "I've no money"--my spirits sank again--"but I'd gladly aid you on your quest. If you care to throw in with one called Betrayer and Kinslayer.”

  I sensed that he might truly be mad or evil, was certainly perilous to know. But the way he flaunted it, as though with perverse, self-pitying pride, irked and amused me, made me want to keep him at my side out of sheer contrariness. Besides, whether he was an elf, some other sort of Faerie creature, or merely a traveler from some distant kingdom, where, perhaps, everyone had ashen skin and scarlet eyes, he clearly carried an enchanted glaive, and might well possess skills that could help me greatly. "What of your own task?"

  "I seem to be stranded for the moment," he said, and once again I wondered what he meant. "I might as well keep busy until I find passage."

  "In that case, I'm honored to accept you as my comrade."

  I then offered him half my meager plunder, which he declined with a wave of his slender hand. When I dragged my lance out of the scarred bandit's corpse, I discovered that the oaken shaft had split. If my fortunes improved I could purchase another, but for now I'd have to do without. Muttering an oath, I snapped the head off, wiped it clean, and stowed it in one of Ebony's saddlebags. Then we set off down the creek bed. I led the horse, to rest him and to facilitate discourse with my new companion.

  The brook gurgled, my mail clinked, and pebbles crunched under our feet. Elric kept looking from side to side, smiling, his nostrils flaring, evidently savoring the sight of the squirrels bounding along the bare branches and the scent of the moldering leaves. He was lightly dressed, but the cold didn't seem to trouble him. "Do you have some reason to think the sword nearby," he asked after a while, "or are you simply seeking at random?"

  I bristled, thinking he was implying I was a fool, then remembered that he seemed to be more or less seeking at random himself. "Kingsfire vanished mysteriously a century and a half ago," I told him, "when Richard was imprisoned in Durrenstein Castle, not all that far from here. Allegedly, the sword possessed miraculous powers, and adventurers have sought it fruitlessly ever since. Well, three weeks ago, an angel of the Lord appeared in front of Augsburg Cathedral and announced that the blade abided in the lands to the east, inside a fortress made of wood, and that the man who found it would become the greatest knight of the age. The forest was full of treasure hunters an hour later. Could you"--I hesitated, for most men, if they didn't bear a drop of Faerie blood, would take the suggestion I was about to make as an accusation that they'd sold their souls to Satan—“could you cast a spell to guide us to the blade ahead of them?"

  Elric nodded as if my request was wholly unremarkable. "My sorcery is weak here, but perhaps I can manage. Stand back a few paces, and don't speak till I finish."

  I led Ebony away, sat down with my back against a rowan. The Melnibonean grasped his sword hilt, then swayed. His eyelids drooped and his features slackened, till he seemed asleep on his feet. A babble of grating syllables, as hideous and inhuman as the shrieking of his weapon, erupted from his throat. A moment later, a curl of blue-green vapor coalesced before him.

  His eyes opened. He whispered to the mist, and it stretched and squirmed, reminding me of a kitten having it
s belly scratched. Then it floated off between two trees. "Come on," Elric said, "we have to follow. If it loses sight of us, it's likely to forget its errand."

  I jumped up, grabbed my shield and Ebony's lead line, and trotted to catch up with him. "What is it?"

  "A sylph," he replied, "a minor spirit of the air." "Does it know where Kingsfire is?"

  ”No, but it has senses we lack, and with luck, it will detect the weapon's emanations."

  We trailed the sylph for an hour, then stumbled onto a glade that reeked of blood. The bodies of three men-at-arms lay scattered about the sward, all beheaded and thoroughly dismembered, slashed apart with long cuts from a heavy sword or pole arm. Evidently their slayer so relished butchery that he'd hacked them into pieces after they fell.

  Elric said, "Lord of the Seven Darks! Is someone waging a war you neglected to mention?" My stomach churning, I shook my head. "Then even by my exacting standards, this realm of yours is a dangerous place."

  "Not my realm. I'm English. I think some treasure hunter's murdering his rivals."

  "Or Kingsfire has a guardian. The object of a quest frequently does. I don't mean to impugn your courage, but if you aren't accustomed to this kind of thing, you may want to reassess how keenly you covet the sword."

  "Keenly enough," I said, for all that I suspected my resolution branded me a dunce. I stooped to rob the corpses, swearing when a dozen ants swarmed up my fingers. Despite his avowed poverty, Elric once again declined to participate, less, I sensed, out of respect for the fallen, a sentiment which, in better times, I might have permitted myself, than because he was too fastidious to paw through gore.

  My pilferage accomplished, we set out after the sylph again. After a while Elric asked if "the Lionheart" was a great man.

  I started to say yes, of course, as almost any knight would, then paused, recalling the history my mother and tutors had taught me. Richard's rebellion against his father and thus his own people, and his negligent, ruinous governance. His legendary rages, and the massacre of the prisoners at Acre. "He was a superb fighter and a skilled commander," I said at last. "He spent his whole reign winning victories against the Saracens and French."